Secrets (45 page)

Star joined them at the bike, her gaze penetrating. Rese’s chin was raw from Lance’s, her face warm, and she had hoped to slip inside and recover. Star must see it all. But as Lance climbed off the bike, she turned to him, a fragile pride lighting her face. “It’s done.”

“Your painting?”

Star nodded. And just like that the focus shifted.

“Can I see it?” Lance’s enthusiasm didn’t sound feigned, but did he realize how important this was for Star, the risk she had taken to create again, and to show it?

Star desperately feared failure. Instead of pursuing her gift, she had lost herself in her roles at the Renaissance festivals and hidden her paintings away, those she ever finished. The recent fiasco with Maury hadn’t helped. Rese frowned. This was the quickest she’d ever finished something, and the shortest recovery, but it would take very little to destroy her confidence.

Rese tried to catch Lance’s eye, but Star had his full attention. They started toward the garden together.
Make him like it
. A prayer? Fine.
If you’re as real as Lance says, don’t let him hurt Star
. Not that he would intend to, just … he might not understand.

In the slanting evening light, the garden had a magic of its own. Lance’s doing. He’d cleaned it out and built new beds that were coming to life with pungent scents that vied with the sweet florals. He must have planted herbs. She hadn’t paid much attention, but she saw it now with Star’s eyes and agreed. It was Lance’s garden.

He stepped around to view the painting in the easel. Star stayed on the other side and studied his face. She would read every nuance, and any disapproval, even something as slight as incomprehension, would spear her. Lance’s eyes moved over the canvas. Rese saw surprise, intrigue, and pleasure. He liked it. Or at least he appeared to.

Rese stepped around and looked at the painting. In Star’s flamboyant style was a cacophony of color suggesting the flowers, leaves, and ferns, and worked into the green recesses was the profile of a face. Incredible that she could tell that with the image formed only of leafy shadows and stems.

“The elf grove,” he said, and it meant more to Star than any praise. He got it; he saw what she intended. “It’s amazing, Star.”

She threw up her arms and came to a stop beside him. “It’s you. The elf lord.”

Lance nodded. “I see that.” He turned to her. “Is it ready to hang?”

“It can dry on the wall. You’ll smell the paint though.”

“That’s okay.” He lifted the canvas and studied it again, then carried it into the carriage house as Star opened the door. He circled the main room, studying the walls. “Got a hammer and nails, Rese?”

She went to the shed, a warmth of gratitude filling her. She had come home from the mental health center numb and resistant, but Lance had broken through with tenderness. Now he’d shown Star more kindness than he might even realize. Was he real?

He was more like the being in her room that night than any real person she’d known. Could that being have taken form and—Good grief, she was crazy! Could someone invisible kiss and hold her? A cold dread washed over. Wasn’t that exactly what Mom had thought? Was Walter as real to her as Lance?

The realization struck again that Mom had tried to kill her. She gripped the hammer. How could Mom love someone, real or imagined, enough to do something so terrible? And what about the love for her daughter? Rese gritted her teeth against the pain. The raw edge of it staggered her. Had she imagined that love, projected her own?

She scattered the assortment of extra nails with her palm and chose two that matched. She had told Lance, but she hadn’t let him see how it hurt. Because she didn’t trust him? How could she?

With hammer and nails, she headed back to the carriage house. Lance had leaned the painting against the wall beneath the place he’d chosen for it. He reached for the tools, but she said, “I can do it.”

She had brought concrete nails, and with firm blows, she drove them into the wall. “For now you’ll have to hang it by the frame of the canvas. I might be able to rig a wire onto it later, but we’d have to lay it face down. Not a good idea wet.” She breathed in the potent smell of the oil paint and hoped for Lance’s sake it dried quickly.

Star stepped back as he hung the painting on the nails. “You’ll have to frame it yourself if you want one. I’m broke.”

“That’s the least I can do.” He seemed as pleased and impressed as he’d been with the bed, and for the first time, Rese considered how little he owned. What was he doing with hardly more than his bike and guitar? With his varied and competent skills he could be well established somewhere, not cooking in a bed-and-breakfast for room and board.

She stepped back beside Star. The painting added color and energy to the room, and showed how badly he needed furniture. The thought of building it for him warmed her. That was a normal sort of pleasing, of giving, though the furniture would in fact belong to the inn, she supposed. Star’s painting too? Why was she even thinking about that? Lance wasn’t going anywhere.

Star’s stomach growled. “Are you cooking?”

He cocked his head. “Let’s order Chinese.”

“Takeout?” Rese hadn’t imagined he knew the concept.

“With fortune cookies!” Star draped both their necks with her arms.

Lance laughed. “Why not?”

With Star half dangling between them and Baxter barking alongside, they headed for the house. She could feel Star’s excitement in the trembling of her arms. She was almost dangerously exuberant. But she had a right to be. She’d accomplished something wonderful. That should matter; it should somehow balance the bad. She could be happy for Star. Truly.

Lance batted Baxter’s head in a playful tussle before motioning Rese into the kitchen before him. As she passed, he caught her gaze and washed her with warmth and reassurance. She’d received the cruelest news of her life, and he’d taken away the sting.

Star called the restaurant, ordering enough for a week. “I’m buying,” she said.

With what, Rese wondered, but Lance took out his wallet. “No way. I owe you big time for that painting.”

“I’m not selling it. Money is worthless. What matters is karma. The more joy you give, the more you get—a great circle of generous thoughts.”

Lance studied her gently. “Then I’m providing the celebration. Just a little joy back at you.” He smiled. “For the pleasure I’ll have from the painting.”

Rese’s heart clutched up inside her.

“You really like it?” Star pressed her hands to her chest.

“I really do.”

She fairly quivered, the praise working in her like a drug. “It’s my own technique.” She explained how she layered the paint to give the hidden image depth and make it appear to emerge from the surface. Whether Lance understood it or not, he gave her his full attention.

Rese washed up at the sink, refusing to begrudge Star her moment. She deserved Lance’s appreciation. But did he realize what he was setting into motion?

He leaned on the counter. “It’s effective. Mind-grabbing.”

Star’s breath escaped in a rush. “Mind-grabbing.”

“I mean…”

“No, don’t explain.” Star closed her eyes and mouthed the phrase. When she opened her eyes, they sparkled with tears. “That’s what Maury couldn’t see. He said it was a cheap trick. Poster art.”

Lance frowned. “Who’s Maury?”

“My persecutor.” Star crossed her wrists as though bound. “ ‘It is an heretic that makes the fire, not she which burns in’t.’ ”

“And no one needs a heretic.” Rese tried to catch Lance’s eye, to ward him off that subject, but he kept the conversation there, drawing out details that Star had not shared before, and amazingly she responded without disintegrating.

Rese looked from one to the other. It was the same thing he’d done with her, making her voice the pain, sharing the burden of it. The twinge grew to a cynical pang. He turned and met her eyes before she could hide it. She hated that. His transparency was one thing; hers, another altogether.

Star sat down at the table, shoving a wad of spirals behind her ear, but her hair had survived the talk of Maury, and except for the red rims of her eyes, she’d survived it too. There’d been no hysterics, no talk of not making it, though her hands still shook. She reached for the folder. “What’s this?”

Jarred from her concern, Rese thrust her hand out. “It’s nothing.”

But Star had already opened it and read the facility letterhead. Her brow puckered. “Mental Health Center? Elaine Barrett?”

Rese dropped her hand. Her throat squeezed tight. She didn’t want to discuss Mom with Star, not now, not at all. Star’s mother had been irresponsible and oblivious, but she had not tried to kill her. The impact of that hit her again, but at the same time she felt fiercely protective.

Star stared up at her. “Elaine’s alive?”

Rese took the folder and clutched it to her chest. “I just found out.”

Star let out a mournful sigh. “ ‘Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, and therefore I forbid my tears.’ ”

“Star.” Lance chided softly. He didn’t understand the impact this would have; how, to Star, Mom’s miraculous death was now lessened by her resurrection. She understood Star’s shock and the thoughts behind it. If one mother could come back from the dead, how could she hope to be free of her own?

But Rese hadn’t wanted to be free of hers. She’d mourned her. “She’s been in the hospital since the night … of the accident. I don’t know much more than that.” Only that Mom wanted her dead. “I guess I’m responsible for her now.”

Star jammed her fingers to her head. “ ‘Thus hath the candle singed the moth. O, these deliberate fools!’ ”

The doorbell rang, and Lance went to pay for their food. Star stared at her, then sprang up and trailed after him, already putting it out of her mind. Rese set the folder aside, thankful for the interruption. They came back, laden, and set the wire-handled white boxes on the table. Star pulled napkins, chopsticks, packets of soy sauce, and fortune cookies from the bag.

As hungry as she had been minutes ago, Rese wasn’t sure she wanted to eat.

Lance took both their hands and blessed the food. Then he added, “And give us wisdom to know your heart and purpose, Lord.”

Chopsticks raised, Star appraised him. “Oh, for such faith, I would sell my soul.”

“That’s all it takes.” Lance smiled.

“My ill and tattered soul would buy me but a moment’s audience wherein to earn me everlasting flames.”

“That’s not how it works, Star. The more ill and tattered, the greater the grace.”

For a moment Star looked hungrier for that grace than the meal before her. But her issues were deep, and the thought of mercy incomprehensible. Rese could hardly find an instance of it in Star’s entire life. Or her own, it seemed. And suddenly she wanted there to be something more; she wanted it painfully.

A cloud of aromatic steam rose up from the first box Star opened. She plunged in with her chopsticks and pinched a wad of long brown noodles like a wig from the carton. She heaped more food onto her plate than Lance, and she’d eat it all too. Whether she’d keep it down, Rese wouldn’t hazard a guess. Her agitation was evident, but she’d always had the knack of ignoring whatever she didn’t want to face.

When they had made their dent in the tangy-hot and sweetly piquant food, Lance closed up the rest and hauled it to the refrigerator. Star watched him as she had throughout the meal, then stood with a dramatic flourish of her arms. “The night beckons. I must away.” Which meant she was going out to find comfort in whatever form it took, and there was no telling when she’d come back.

Lance watched her head for the door in swift, spirited steps, then returned to the table. “She’s really leaving?”

“Why wouldn’t she?”

He sat down. “I thought she would support you.”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

He took her hand. “Seems a little one-sided.”

Rese shrugged. “The day Star sees me as anything but her anchor, I’ll faint.”

“Strong, tough Rese.” He squeezed her hand. “Even your meltdown was momentous.”

Something she’d rather forget. “How are your sides?”

“Fine. It’s
in
side where I’m in trouble.”

“So you say.” She still didn’t buy it. Not when people she trusted had lied and tried to kill her. She was better off expecting the mouse to jump out, the whispered taunts and rough laughter. Better off keeping her face and heart hidden, especially with the way Star had looked at him.

He leaned close and kissed her, scattering her resolve like a flock of butterflies. “You taste like teriyaki.” He made even that sound endearing, but she was not giving in.

She looked into his face. “I know what you’re doing.”

“What?”

“Just what you did with Star.”

He tipped his head. “I’ve never kissed Star.”

He may as well have. “You took her pain and gave her strength.” He’d actually taken on her own role and played it better.

He caressed her knuckles with his thumb. “Have I upset you?”

“Of course not.” She reached for the folder. “I guess I should get it over with.”

He touched her earlobe. “You survived these.”

She glared. “Directly provoked by your baiting.”

He laughed. “Can I help it if you’re compulsively competitive?”

Rese couldn’t argue with that. She looked down at the folder and drew a hard breath, wishing the pain was as tangible as the stud piercing her ear. “I knew something was wrong. I heard the whispers. But I denied it. Seeing it here—”she pressed her palm to the folder—“makes it real.”

“It’s better to know, Rese. Facing the fact that Tony was gone was easier than the awful wondering.”

Maybe. But ignorance had worked for a long time. She opened the folder, took out the contents, and laid the sheets before them. Lance sat as close as their chairs would go. He rested his arm across the back of hers, and they read the first informational page together. At the second paragraph, a giant fist caught her solar plexus.

Lance sensed it and cupped her nape. “What’s the matter?”

It was the genetic connection that had socked her in the stomach. She touched the section with her finger. “I wondered. But I didn’t know I might really …”