Secrets (14 page)
“Okay then.” Lance went out rubbing his neck. His palm came away glittery. He headed up the attic stairs, wondering how he’d landed between a stone and a manic fairy.
R
ese needed to convert the fireplace, the last big job before finishing the dining room floor and moving on to the front parlor. Alone, she had accomplished the things she’d planned each day. Then came Lance. He was shouldering a couple big projects, but since he’d come, her concentration had stunk. Now Star …
Rese sighed. She loved Star. But maintaining any sort of focus would be impossible, evidenced the moment Star came back down.
“This place is a museum!”
Rese sat back on her heels. “Not your style?”
“I love it. I truly do.” Star circled the kitchen like a firefly caught in a jar. “It’s just so old.”
Rese smiled. “That’s the idea.”
“My room is perfect.”
“The Rain Forest?”
Star giggled. “You peeked.”
“I didn’t have to. It’s the most colorful.”
“Your cook is adorable. You shouldn’t torture him.”
Torture? Rese got up, still mystified by his snit. “Lance takes things personally.”
Star’s laugh rang. “What wit resides in your fair head. You’ve no idea how you sting, but cry ‘fie!’ when they buck.”
Rese put her hands to her hips, but Star circled her neck and hugged. “Now I shall go and find me gainful employment.”
“Really?” Not that she wished to discourage her, but the thought of Star with a real job …
“Doubt not.” Star blew a kiss and left the kitchen vacant and dull, Lance’s light shining feebly.
Rese turned off the switch. Had she stung him? She frowned at the thought. His mumbling and short-tempered responses showed she might have. But how? She’d given him a room, agreed to buy his equipment. She replayed the morning’s conversation, certain again she had not insulted him. He was the one shooting barbs about the Web site.
She shook her head. Not her problem. He had his job; she had hers. As long as they didn’t share the same space they’d be fine. In Star’s absence she intended to complete her project. Lance could buck all he wanted.
The things at the back of the attic were much older and nastier than the rest. The vermin had congregated there. Every one of the traps had sprung, though one had failed to catch the beggar that stole the cheese. Lance emptied the traps and hauled out rotted blankets and old leather boots. He swept out mounds of fluff and filth. A basket of fabric strips all but disintegrated in his arms and mouse droppings littered the floor as he lifted it.
He puffed the dust away, then held his breath, waving a hand to clear the cloud. Something caught his eye, and he stooped. A flat metal box with an Alpine scene on the cover. His heart raced. Exactly the sort of thing he’d hoped to find. He dropped the fabric and picked up the box.
It looked like a woman’s stationary set. He tried to open the latch, but it was locked. He shook it. Papers by the sound and weight. It could be nothing more than writing paper, but his excitement surged.
He jerked his head around at the sound of someone on the stairs. Quickly shoving the box under the moldy fabric, he stood up and faced Rese. “Hey.” He rubbed his hands on the seat of his jeans. “Got the conversion done?”
“Yes.” She searched the space with her gaze. “And you’re almost finished here.”
“You do not want to mess with what’s left, believe me.”
She cast a disparaging glance at the pile. “I’ve handled worse. But I’m glad you volunteered.” Her hands went to her hips. “Maybe after lunch—”
“Go ahead and eat. I’m not hungry.” True enough. The smell and condition of the things he’d hauled, the incredible frustration of cooking for her, but most of all the desire to see inside that box sent any notion of food from his mind.
“Oh. All right.” She lingered another moment, then went back down.
So he hadn’t been totally forthcoming. Technically, he supposed everything in the attic belonged to her. Morally, he could make an argument otherwise—if Nonna had lost something … or everything? He stooped and retrieved the box, accidentally kicking over the button jar, the contents spilling out as it rolled across the floor.
He set down the box and stopped the jar’s rolling, then did a quick search. Nothing but buttons. He scooped them back into the jar and closed the lid tightly. He would bring it down to Rese. If she was in the kitchen getting food, he could reach his room undetected on the way. But where was Star?
Lance reached the landing and saw her door standing open and the bags exactly where he’d left them. The room was empty. He ducked into his own, slid the metal box into his drawer, then brought Rese the box of handkerchiefs and the jar of buttons. She was warming canned ravioli, which she certainly deserved.
“Where’s Star?”
“She went to find a job.”
So Rese really wasn’t hiring her. “I won’t get close since I’m filthy, but I thought you might like these.” He set them on the counter. “Hankies and buttons.”
“Oh.” Not quite the awe she’d expressed over the stone floor, but certainly more interest than she’d shown any of his meals.
He said, “Could work nicely in that white room.” Why did he feel as though he were presenting her a peace offering? It was her own stuff even.
Rese nodded. “I could put the handkerchiefs behind glass. But people might steal the buttons.”
“You mean take one as a keepsake?”
“Or more. Old buttons are quite valuable. I’d hate to lose them.”
Lance swallowed. If she felt that way about buttons … “Glue the lid shut.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Practical suggestion from a man with an earring.”
“Will you get off that?” He’d gone to the plain hoop, hoping it would draw less attention.
She laughed. “Want some ravioli?”
“That’s not ravioli. It’s cat food wrapped in soggy cardboard.”
She looked into the pot. “Oh.”
He headed for the door. “I should have the rest of the junk out in a trip or two. I’ll get it swept up, then I’ll need a serious shower.” And a look into the tin box.
Cat food in soggy cardboard. She had never thought of it in those terms, but it fit. Unfortunately. She scraped the limp squares off the bottom of the pan into her dish. She couldn’t really expect him to cook all their meals. Especially when they weren’t even open for business yet.
It didn’t matter. Eat and get back to work. Soggy cat food or not.
As soon as she’d finished eating, Rese got her digital camera from the office and went upstairs. She should have photographed the rooms before Lance and Star moved in. But then she hadn’t expected Lance to arrive in the middle of the night, or Star at all. She had learned long ago to expect nothing from her friend. There was less disappointment that way. Star was who she was.
Rese hid a smile. Lance had certainly seen it up close and personal. Not that there was anything else with dramatic, emotive Star. Like Lance? Rese sighed. Maybe she was the odd one.
“Got a concept of emotion?”
Lance’s words had stung. It wasn’t that she didn’t feel. She just wouldn’t let it show. It made her vulnerable, weak— something she’d learned never to be.
Rese didn’t know what wind had tossed Star her way this time, or how long it would last. She appeared and disappeared like a magician’s assistant, though Rese rarely glimpsed the magician. The real question was how she’d known about the inn.
“I can’t believe you bought this place.”
Who had told her? Rese frowned. Who even knew? She’d sold everything, left Sausalito, then found a place to fix up as her own after … The pang came so sharply it almost doubled her. She drew a hard breath and forced her attention onto the task before her.
She raised the camera and took shots of the four empty rooms, then tugged Star’s bags into the hall and photographed that one. As she’d said, Rese was not surprised at the room choice. Star might have been a brightly plumed jungle bird or an iridescent dragonfly. There was no other room she’d want.
Lance had chosen the one she decorated for Dad, with his appreciation for anything nautical. In another time he’d have been a shipwright. The door was closed, and she heard the shower running. She’d have to get those photos later. Lance had not made up any special dishes, so she may as well leave the Web site until tomorrow and do the carpentry in the front room today.
She had good maple and her lathe and router for building shelves into one wall. Her heart soared with the prospect. She didn’t mind the other aspects of construction, but carpentry was her passion, especially hand carving the decorative pieces.
Nothing pleased her more than shaping the wood into leaves and curls, notches and grooves, a lost art maybe, with cheap prefabricated pieces replacing the painstaking work of artisans, but not in her homes. There was at least one hand-carved piece in every place she’d renovated; mantels, decorative panels, even a newel post of lions on the spiral staircase in one San Francisco mansion. Her signature.
Lance toweled dry and dressed in his other pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt. He was going to have to do laundry, but just now there was only one thing on his mind. He made sure the door was locked, then took the metal box from his drawer. Besides the Alpine scene, it had a brass fitting at each corner and the lock was brass.
It might be nothing more than a souvenir left by someone who had lived in the house. But the Alps could be significant, given the family’s origin in the Piemonte region of Italy bordered by the Alps and Liguria, where he’d found Conchessa. The box looked European, and it was definitely old.
He took his pocketknife from the dresser and pulled out the toothpick. He didn’t want to force the clasp if he could help it. Working the toothpick into the keyhole, he moved it around while putting easy pressure on the lid.
Accumulated grit came out of the hole. Maybe it was just clogged. He worked the pointed piece all over inside the hole, then tried again to open the lid. This time it shifted but still held. Most likely locked then.
As he tipped the box, the papers shifted inside.
Lord, this has to be something. Help me open it. Let me see inside
. He opened the screwdriver attachment and tried it in the hole. It just fit, and he worked the flat edge around until it caught, then carefully turned. Holding his breath, he tried the lid, felt it give, then grate open. He looked in, excitement building like suds in a sink.
Folded newspaper clippings, yellow and brittle, but intact. He lifted them carefully out and read the top headline:
A Hero for Today
. His gaze flew over the story. An attempted train robbery on the Union Pacific, and Quillan Shepard had thwarted the attempt. Lance exulted. His great-great grandfather. Nonna had written of him to Conchessa in the letters he’d poured over with his aged cousin in the Ligurian courtyard. Nonna’s words betrayed a girl’s exhuberant fondness close to what he felt for her.
This was the place, his family home, and Quillan, it seemed, larger-than life. Even reading past the journalist’s exuberant style, the story was dramatic. Mustering a party of passengers, armed with their sporting rifles and handguns, Quillan had faced down the robbers and talked them into leaving.