The blocks were there, continuing under the floor. He proceeded quietly to the center of his main room and beyond, lifting more flooring than he’d wanted. He kept the stones in perfect order beside their resting places so as to replace them rightly. Near the far wall he gripped a paver and paused.
A narrow strip of dull metal was visible at the edge. Lance rubbed it with his fingers. Recessed into the floor and caked with dirt, it had gone undetected when he swept. He worked the dirt out with the knife and pressed the piece toward the stone. He felt a click. That part of the floor shifted enough to get his fingers in. He pulled and jerked until, with a squeal of wood and rusty metal, he raised the trap formed by four square pavers on a wooden frame. He gaped into the blackness below, heart hammering.
Lord, is this it?
The opening was clogged with timber. Lance sat back on his heels and considered that. There had been the layers of sand on the flooring, now this tangle. Someone didn’t want this cellar explored. Nonna?
Lance stretched out on his stomach and leaned over the opening. The wood pieces appeared old and unfinished, wedged in tightly. He gripped the end of one and tugged, but it didn’t budge. It was almost dark now, too dark to see what he was doing. With a crowbar and enough light, he could remove and dispose of the wood, but the shed was locked and Rese might fire him before he had another chance.
Why had he pushed her? He hung over the edge frustrated. He’d found something promising and wouldn’t have the chance to figure it out. Should he make his peace?
Lord?
For his purpose, he could grovel. Or was it that he wanted to make it right anyway? Not that she’d listen. It was remarkable she hadn’t come breathing fire already.
He got onto his knees. First things first. He swung the hatch shut and heard it click, the metal edge fitting back along the stone. He rubbed his hands on his jeans and surveyed the floor. Now that he had found it, the trap device jumped out at him. He scooped some dirt from beneath the other stones into the narrow slit. Better, if not perfect. What if Rese noticed it when she trimmed the wall along the floor?
There he was thinking as though they’d continue their efforts. Well, she might continue without him. In fact she’d said as much. She could rent the carriage house for two-fifty a night—with breakfast. And that was his shred of hope. She still needed his meals. She had put them on the Web site. And now they had a reservation.
She
had a reservation.
He had to stop thinking in terms of
they
. Rese had made that more than clear. He’d apologize if that’s what it took. He supposed he owed her one after that ride back. What had he been thinking? He’d lost sight of his reason for being there and started believing the role. He’d imagined himself making a go of the place that might have been his if tragedy hadn’t changed Nonna’s course.
He expelled a breath and went inside. Star was in the front room unpacking books for the shelves Rese had built. He looked for Rese, but she wasn’t there.
Star slid a book into place and said, “She went to bed.”
Lance checked his watch. Just after nine. That was early for her, but she was probably planning his departure. She’d sleep well on that thought, or be up all night with a power tool. Either way, come morning, he’d face the music. He glanced toward the kitchen through which he’d find her if he wanted to. But he would have to pass the sacrosanct door, and that wouldn’t be a good way to begin his abjection.
He was dying to get down into the cellar and check it out, but without tools that was out of his hands. He went upstairs and called home. Needing the grounding of family? Or a safe place to lick his wounds.
“Mom?”
“What kind of trouble are you in?”
He sat down on the bed. “What makes you think I’m in trouble?”
“You call at midnight, you’re in trouble.”
He looked at his watch. He’d forgotten the time difference. “I’m fine. I just wanted to know how things are going. How’s Nonna?”
“Some days better than others.”
“Is she talking yet?”
“Constantly. Only no one can understand her. She tries too hard.”
“You and Pop okay?”
“Why don’t you come home?”
“I have something important to do.” If she wasn’t half asleep she’d pursue that. Instead she murmured a prayer. Some of his important things hadn’t turned out so well.
“Rico was here.” Ricardo, the ever hopeful, recruiting the troops. “He has a new agent. He’s going to call you.”
“He already did. Bye, Mom. Get some sleep.” The call had only rekindled old issues. Looking back wasn’t going to help him out of this one. He took up his guitar and picked out a melody for lyrics he’d write if he’d added yet another screw-up to his name.
Thunder crashing.
Silence rent.
A rage of nature unleashed.
And oh, the sad and sorry grapes crushed before their time.
R
ese went to the kitchen in the morning. There were two plates on the table with puffy, bowl-shaped pastries filled with something creamy and topped with raspberries dusted with powdered sugar. No sign of Lance, but Star sat behind one pastry, breathing the aroma with a sigh. “You have to admit the man can cook.”
Bribery, that’s what it was. “Where is he?”
“He said if you wanted his head, he’d be in the garden. But you’re supposed to eat first.”
There he was giving orders again. She started for the door, then glanced once more at the pastry. No point wasting it. It wouldn’t sway her. She sat down with Star. Neither of them said a blessing. She cut into the pastry. Lance wasn’t there to notice her reaction, to expect anything from her. She could eat it in peace.
It was fabulous, of course. His best effort yet, except for the lasagna. She ate silently, disinclined to discuss the situation with Star. She wouldn’t understand anyway. The pastry was so large, Rese couldn’t finish it, but thinking it might be the last of its kind, she hated to waste it. “I doubt this will keep very well.”
“I’ll eat it.”
Rese slid it over to Star. Shaped like a preteen, Star ate as though she might never eat again, except on her down days when she didn’t eat at all. But that had nothing to do with the thoughts roiling in Rese’s mind. There was no putting it off. She drew a long breath and made for the door.
“Rese.”
She turned. “Don’t say it, Star. It’s hard enough as it is.” If she even began to harbor doubts, too many feelings would get in her way.
“He’s really nice.”
Nice didn’t make up for reckless, spiteful, and defiant. If she let it go it would escalate; she knew that from experience. Show weakness once, and become a target for every kind of defiance. She had to be steel.
Closing her eyes, she turned the knob and went out. Lance stopped digging and leaned on the shovel as she approached. He expected what she had to say; she could see it in his face. He knew it was coming, and probably that he deserved it. But suddenly she didn’t want to say it.
She clenched her hands. Feelings had no part in this. Let him think her without emotion. She tried to retrieve the fury of last night’s drive, the way he’d terrorized her. Completely out of line. Way over the edge. Instead she heard the words of his song and saw the boy still looking for himself.
Stop it!
His impulsiveness had gotten him arrested. His cop brother had told him to use his head, but he obviously hadn’t learned. He still acted and reacted strictly from his gut. She could not trust him. He read the resolve in her face and tightened up. She had expected a preemptive argument. Unfortunately, this time he waited for her to speak. “Lance…”
Just say it. You’re fired. Two words. Say them
.
He gripped the shovel handle. “It won’t happen again.”
She looked into his face. “What won’t?”
“Any of it.”
She expelled a short breath. “What specifically?”
He spread his hand. “Strictly business. You’re in charge.”
He finally got it? If he respected her authority, stopped making things personal…. His earnestness seemed forced, but he had said the right thing.
She looked from him to the carriage house. As she’d lain awake last night, she had made plans for it. Trim it out, furnish, photograph, add it to the page. She’d get a good rate. More than she’d pay a cook to bake muffins. She could still taste the pastry, custard, and berries. Steel. She had to be—
“I’m sorry for scaring you.” His voice was low and controlled.
She turned back, flushed with fresh annoyance. “I wasn’t scared. It was stupid, that’s all. I don’t allow stupid. Not where safety is concerned.”
“I had it under control.”
It hadn’t felt that way to her. “I’m sure you think so. But your behavior showed otherwise.”
He didn’t argue, and that was remarkable in itself. Maybe they’d needed this incident to reestablish order. With their first reservation already, it might be better to keep him than start over. Or was she making excuses?
She knew how she should handle it. He wasn’t the only cook in the world. She could advertise for another. But it wouldn’t be Lance. And the entertainment? She could change the Web site, burn the flyers. This wasn’t his place; it was hers. She could do it without him.
Don’t give in
. If she let him win…
He didn’t speak. He was going to make her say it. One way or the other.
You’re fired, Lance
. She’d done it before. It had always been the right decision.
She pressed her fingertips between her eyebrows. “I guess if we understand each other, I’ll keep you on.”
He didn’t respond, and it had sounded heavy-handed. His eyes showed anger and hurt. But he was controlling himself. That was an improvement. He must really want the job. That was good, wasn’t it?
She felt a gap between them. As it should be? The sinking inside her was proof of that. “All right, then.” She turned at the sound of someone in the driveway. A construction pickup, one she recognized. She stilled as the driver climbed out, then closed her eyes. One storm already, she did not need another.
But he caught sight of them and approached. Her throat filled with sand. He had new gray hairs in the brown curls at his temples, but he was in the prime of his strength. His jeans were worn and dusty, his boots as well. His tan T-shirt formed itself to his chest and a pack of cigarettes fit the square faded into the pocket. His smile was tentative, but she didn’t encourage it.
“What do you want, Brad?”
He stopped and spread his hands. “Do I look like I want something?”
Lance perched one foot on the shovel but made no other move.
She said, “You always want something.”
Brad closed the distance and looked her over. “I just came to see how you are.”
She expelled a hard breath. “How did you know where to find me?”
“Your Web site. I’ve been looking for it.”
He’d been looking? She glanced at Lance, but of course she had squelched any sign of concern from him. If Brad was a threat, Lance would now stand back and watch.
Brad surveyed the villa. “So this is it, huh? Replace the roof?” Roof work being his specialty.
“No. It’s in good shape.”
He tucked his fingers into his pockets. “Want to show me through?”
“Not until you tell me how you knew about this.”
He studied her more closely than she liked. “Still tough, aren’t you?”
She drew herself up.
“Okay, then, Ms. Barrett. Rosita told me you bought this place.”
Rese sighed. Letting Rosita go had been the hardest part of the whole transaction. She’d been the office manager for Dad since Rese was little, but the new owners had their own office staff. “Did she send you here?”
“She didn’t send me, just told me what you were up to.”
Rosita had been privy to the whole business, even helping with the paperwork. Rese hadn’t thought to ask her not to tell, hadn’t thought anyone would even want to know. Why was Brad here? He had what he wanted— her out of the way.
Brad and Lance shared a nod, and Lance went back to work. “So can I see what you’ve done or not?”
Rese brought him inside and walked him through the villa. Brad was one person who knew the quality of her work from long experience. He was suitably impressed by the staircase and banister, the bookshelves and wall patching, the tightly fitted moldings and floorboards. “Signature work, Rese.”
It felt good to hear it.
“You were always good with detail.”
She rested her hands on her hips. “It’s done except for the carving.”
He nodded slowly, knowing from experience that no project of hers would be finished without a carving. “Then what?” He ran his hand along the banister as they went back down.
“Then I hang up my saw.”
He stopped at the bottom. “No way.”
She nodded. “Why do you think I sold?”
He frowned. “Well, that’s a good question. We might at least have discussed it.”
She didn’t respond. No way was she discussing anything with him in the dark days after Dad’s death. Even now she couldn’t imagine discussing ideas and considering possibilities with Brad as she had with …
Don’t think about Lance
. That would only complicate things more.
Brad expelled a breath. “The new ownership isn’t working out so well. They undercut bids, pad materials. Lots of shortcuts, but they’re trading on your dad’s reputation, pretending it’s the same entity.”
Rese’s chest squeezed. Numb with shock and grief, she hadn’t scrutinized the buyers as she should have. But it wasn’t her problem anymore.
“Some of us are talking about breaking away. Starting our own gig.”
“You’re the top dog?”
He nodded. “As it looks right now.”
“Congratulations.” It was what he’d wanted all along.
“I’d like you on board, Rese.”
Her heart thumped like a single hammer blow. “What?”
He looked around. “This is swell, but not really your thing. What do you think of Plocken and Barrett?”
She could not believe what he was saying. Not that he’d been the worst of them. His had never been overt, just a slow simmering resentment. They almost lost him when Dad made her the second crew foreman and kept Brad as site manager. She’d had grudging respect from him at best. “You want my name.”