Secrets (18 page)
Her lungs were sucking something thicker than air. “Well, don’t.”
He met her eyes. “Don’t you wonder what it’d be like?”
“Kissing a man with an earring?”
“Kissing me.”
She did not wonder and she wouldn’t. This had gotten out of hand. “I don’t kiss the cook.”
He cocked his head with a half smile. “Okay.”
“So … I hope you like your accommodations. The chef will have something … delicious for breakfast.”
He drew a breath and released it. “Good night, Rese.”
“Good night.”
He closed the door behind her. She should not have gone up there. He was obviously the sort to stake his flag on any ground she surrendered. He had caught her off guard from that first glance—the look that made her feel like a stranger in her own home. A shiver crawled her spine, and she glanced quickly behind her at the empty hall. But it was just that. Empty.
Nonna Carina
Cherished, a little spoiled, even with her hair more white
than black and her skin no longer blooming petal soft.
A jut of her chin, a swish of the skirts.
Nonno Quillan’s eyes dance. Unperturbed.
Her foot stomps.
Deep laughter.
Indignation.
He catches her into his arms. They have always been so.
Such is life. Such is love.
L
ance spent most of the night trying to forget he had almost kissed Rese. And worse, that he’d shared something personal and painful as well. Memories of Tony were hard enough. Memories of Tony cleaning up his messes, harder still.
Tony was the guy every kid wanted to be. When he went into the schools wearing his NYPD uniform, he drew people like iron to a magnet. While cops were not always popular, Tony’s mystique made him larger than life. As his kid brother, Lance had basked in the afterglow—until he got old enough to make decisions that cost him even that.
A pang of regret. Why had he chosen that song? And told her that story? Guilt? Maybe he wanted her to doubt him, to guess he was misleading her. He wouldn’t, if there was any other way. Until he found what he came for, he had to keep his business to himself. And nearly kissing her? Well, that fell into his innate weakness. Momma said he had an Achilles’ heel where his heart ought to be.
Lance couldn’t even pretend she needed him. Without that excuse, what was it? Because standing on the stairs, when she had looked into his face and said his food was marvelous, he had exulted. Now, with the morning sun spilling into the kitchen, he began to cook for the toughest critic he’d ever faced. As quietly as possible, he whipped up a crepe batter, then the ricotta filling and the berry sauce.
Rese came out of her hallway looking sleepy and disheveled and adorable. She yawned and stretched like a gangly kitten, then plunked herself down at the table.
He said, “Come here.”
She looked at him as though he’d ordered her down for twenty pushups. He had already been to church and purchased and prepared the breakfast ingredients, but she dragged herself up and padded over, barefooted and cranky. He poured a dab of batter into the too-large copper skillet. Then he closed her hand around the handle and helped her rotate it to spread the batter into a thin layer over the bottom.
“It’ll be more uniform when we get the crepe pan. But you get the idea.” He caught a hint of interest in her face, which was more than he’d expected. He handed her the spatula. “It only takes a moment for a crepe this thin. You don’t want to crisp it or it won’t roll nicely.” He motioned for her to flip it. “Loosen the edges, then just slide under it gently.”
She flipped it and glanced up.
He smiled. “Good. Now grab a plate.”
She took two from the cabinet and set them next to the stove. He slid her crepe onto the plate, then quickly spooned a strip of ricotta filling and rolled it. He ladled the berry sauce atop and handed it to her. “Enjoy.” And he meant it.
He whipped up his own in moments and sat down with her. She looked up. “Lance, this is delicious.”
His mouth pulled sideways. She had repeated it like a child reciting math facts. “You like the texture of the filling, the sweet but tangy sauce, and the light, buttery crepe?”
“Sure.” She put her face down and finished the crepe. “Let’s make another. I’m starved.”
“You shouldn’t skip meals.” He walked her back to the stove.
“I wouldn’t have if you’d been cooking.”
That was the truest compliment yet. He poured the batter and again closed her hand inside his on the handle. The motion of the pan was almost sensual, and with her arm along his, her hand warm, and the back of her neck so accessible, he had to force himself to concentrate on the task. They set the pan down, but he didn’t let go. She glanced up, and her sleepy face was so tempting.
“Should I flip it now?”
He glanced at the crepe. “Let it go a tad longer.”
“A tad?”
He jabbed her ribs lightly, but she jumped. “Ah. Ticklish.”
She warded him off with the spatula and a look that would have stopped Attila the Hun.
He nodded at the pan. “It’s ready.”
She went all around the crepe with the spatula, then tried to slide it under.
“Careful. Loosen it there.” He guided her hand.
The front door opened and Star’s voice sang out, “Ah, glorious perfume that taunts the palate.”
Rese stepped away as the zany dame interrupted them. “It’s Lance’s crepes.”
“What peril must I face, what deadly deed commit to win that rare prize?”
Lance looked at Rese who said, “Sit down. You can have this one.”
He slid it from the pan onto a fresh plate, filled and rolled it and spooned on the sauce, then set it before Star who had taken his seat. “Rese made this one.”
“All I did was fry it. You made the batter and filling and all.”
“Next time I’ll wake you up, and you can start from scratch.”
She glared. “Don’t even think about it.”
“You might enjoy it.”
She shook her head. “I’ve been cooking since I was nine. I will not enjoy
it.”
Star sighed over her first bite with drama even Lance found excessive. How on earth were these two women friends?
He said, “No offense, Rese, but you haven’t been cooking.” She opened her mouth to object, but he pointed his finger. “If I handed you particle board and said make me a cedar chest, could you?”
“Of course not.”
“It’s the same with food. You might have prepared meals, even ‘cooked’ them. But that’s not the art of it.”
“This”—Star dangled a bite of crepe from her fork—“is art.” She wore the same outfit as yesterday, and her hair was even crazier. “But then art requires the eye of the beholder, as manna begs a discerning palate.” Surprisingly astute, and his point precisely. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to be on the same page with her.
“Did you know the Benziger vineyard commissions artwork for their labels? The only stipulation is to incorporate the Parthenon.” Star took the bite. “I spent the night there.”
“In the Parthenon?” Lance and Rese said together.
“The little one on the Benziger estate where the old doctor smoked weed.”
Lance was getting the picture now. Only a chemically modified brain could function like Star’s.
“I thought you were looking for a job,” Rese said.
“I was. But I met someone and he offered me a private tour and one thing led to another and…” She waved her hand. “ … here I am for crepes.”
Lance turned to the stove and poured a crepe for Rese, assuming she still wanted another. Star had certainly broken the mood.
But as soon as she finished eating, Star stood up. “I have to change. A certain young vintner is waiting for me.”
“For an interview, I suppose,” Rese said.
“Of course.” Star flitted out.
Too many questions he could ask about that one. How did they meet; what did they talk about? He held Rese’s chair, then set down the fresh steaming crepe and said, “Art.”
She looked down at her plate. “Maybe if I’d done something like this, Dad would have noticed.”
Ah. “He didn’t appreciate you?”
She picked up her fork. “He appreciated my carpentry.” She cut into the crepe.
Lance took his seat. “So that’s where you excelled.”
“I excelled, so he complimented.”
“You don’t think it works the other way around?”
She looked puzzled. “Excellence is praised.”
“Praise inspires excellence.”
She shook her head. “No. If you praise substandard work you encourage mediocrity.”
“Even mediocrity is a step toward excellence.”
She leaned back in her chair. “But if you receive the reward before you accomplish the goal, why push on?”
“Because the goal is worth it.” He slid Star’s plate aside, turned his hand on its edge. “If I want to get from here, to here.” He slid it sideways across to hers. “I can’t always make it in one plunge. First I might get to here.” He set his hand a third of the distance. “Did I accomplish something?”
She nodded. “I guess.”
“So smile.”
She gave him a dim version.
He moved another third. “Have I come closer to the goal?”
She smiled without prompting, but not overly enthusiastic.
He slid his hand over and took hers. “Now where would I be if you had frowned at my first attempts?”
“You’d be appropriately respectful of our differing positions.”
That implacable hierarchy. He sat back. “You need a partner more than a cook.”
“No, I don’t.” She stood up and carried her plate to the sink, then turned to leave.
He said, “Wash it.”
She looked over her shoulder. “What?”
“I’m not on the clock. You can wash your own plate.”
She huffed, but did it.
“The point is, people perform according to expectations, but gratification is born of appreciation.”
She raised her brows and sighed. “Okay.” Then she added, “Thank you for the crepes. They were marvelous.” She even sounded sincere.
He quirked his mouth. “Not bad for a lunatic cook?”
“Right.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He stood up and washed his plate. “We might need a dishwasher if we have a full house most of the time.”
“Lance.” She put her hands on her hips.
“Just a thought.” He wiped his plate dry.
“Your thoughts are expensive. Every time you open your mouth I’m deeper in debt.”
He started for the kitchen door. “I’ll just feed Baxter and get to work on my quarters.” With mad Star in the house, finishing had become expedient.
“Good. I’ll be in the parlor.”
“Eating bread and honey?” He ducked out the door as the sponge sailed toward his head. She might be a tough nut, but oh, he enjoyed provoking her.
Hard as she tried, Rese could not get out of her head the things Lance had said about appreciation. It seemed disrespectful to her dad’s memory to consider the argument’s validity. Encouragement for the steps along the way? She thought she had worked to master what mattered to her. Had she, in fact, needed the reward of her father’s praise? Did she work harder in the only area she stood a chance of earning his respect?
She sighed. It had not been easy for Dad after Mom’s death. He did the best he could. And she tried to be what he needed. They had carried on in the only way they knew how. If Lance wanted appreciation, she could show it. That didn’t mean she needed it herself. Good grief.
She climbed onto the scaffolding to sand the bookshelf. This was not the most ornate house she had worked on, but it lent itself to her talent with grace. She had never renovated a place she intended to keep, not a place of her own.
A knock came on the door, but she was high on the scaffolding, so she called, “Come in.”
The front door opened and a miniature woman crept inside. She wasn’t as small as her stoop made her, but even so, her hands were bird claws, one clasped over the perch of a cane. Her hair was a peculiar shade of blue. Rese assumed it was supposed to be gray.
The woman raised her cane. “So you’re the one who took over Ralph’s place.”
Rese wasn’t sure how to answer that.
“I’d have come sooner but the pneumonia had me down flat.” She worked her way in closer. “I’ve watched you through the window, though.”
The face she’d seen from the garden? A wash of relief. Just a little old lady, curious about a new neighbor. Rese set down the sandpaper and climbed off the scaffolding. “I’m Rese Barrett.”
“Honey, can’t your nice man to do that for you?” She waved her claw toward the bookshelf.
No doubt she meant Lance, if she’d been observing them from next door.
“No. I do it myself.”
The woman did a slow turn. “Ralph wanted to fix this place up, but never got to it. He was my sweetheart.”
Rese raised her brows.
“We were very discreet. Didn’t want the others to know.”
“The others?”
“The gang.” She fixed both hands over the cane head. “We all met Wednesdays for euchre, right here in this room. Though…” She screwed up her face. “It’s bigger now.”
“I took down a wall.” Eyeing the expanse, Rese imagined a “gang” of oldsters cackling over their cards.
