Secrets (47 page)

She glared. “Maybe. A long time ago.”

“Brad?”

How did he do that? If he wasn’t a figment of her mind, how did he get inside and know her thoughts? She tried to break his gaze, but he wouldn’t let her go.

“Does he know?”

“No!”

“How old were you? Twelve? Thirteen?”

“None of your business.”

He let go of her chin and nudged the glass toward her. “Drink your egg cream. It’s a masterpiece.” He got up and went out the back door. She followed him with her eyes. When had it grown dark? The scent of frothy chocolate rose up, and she sipped the drink. It was tasty, even if she didn’t understand the fuss. But that was Lance, all worked up over things she didn’t get. Were men so different?

She sighed. Halfway between her age and Dad’s, Brad had been her primary competition and number one annoyance. She could well imagine Dad telling him the things he’d kept from her. If not the son he never had, Brad was at least the friend and partner Dad wanted. She worked her tail off just to measure up, to prove that she could do anything better than Brad. And somewhere in that effort, she’d worked up a school-girl crush.

As she was now? Didn’t Lance annoy her every bit as much? More. But that was where the similarities ended. She could never have imagined him—

if it worked that way. But would Mom have come up with Walter if she had a choice? Rese pressed her fingers to her temple. How was she ever going to figure this out?

Lance returned, guitar in hand. He glanced into her glass, set the guitar against the wall and waited. She drank it dutifully, then carried the empty glass to the sink, soaped and rinsed it, and overturned it to dry.

Lance nodded toward her door. “Go get ready for bed.”

“I won’t sleep.”

“Yes, you will.”

She didn’t argue. Arguing with Lance was like telling the sky not to rain. She left him in the kitchen, dressed in her jersey pajamas, brushed her teeth automatically, and washed her face. As she started down the narrow hall, Lance poked his head through the doorway. “Can I pass?”

She glared. “Like you need permission.” He’d used the computer in her office, even had her password. That door had never been a barrier, in his mind anyway.

He came through. “Well, I haven’t gone into your bedroom, but I promise I’ll be appropriate.”

She sighed. “I’m not even sure what is appropriate.” And in her current mood, she didn’t care. She was overwhelmed and too shaken to even cry like a “normal” woman.

He motioned her into the bedroom and pointed to her bed. “In you go.”

Exactly when had he appointed himself her keeper? But she climbed under the comforter as he took the overstuffed chair and placed his guitar across his knee. “You’re singing me to sleep?”

“That’s right. And the sooner you drop off the better—no reflection on my talent.”

She settled into the down. “It’ll be talent, all right, if you can put me to sleep after … everything.”

“No thinking. Close your eyes.”

“I’d rather watch you.” But she obeyed.

He started a melodious picking and Rese rocked her head into the pillow. “Sing me your songs.”

“Any one in particular?”

“All of them.” Then she would pretend to sleep so he would go.

But whether it was the power of suggestion, or the memory of their last success, or just the comfort of Lance, she grew drowsy. One song ran into another, and the timbre of his voice and the tones of his guitar captured her thoughts and held them mute. She sighed as he kissed her softly, but the click of her door barely registered.

Lance set the guitar down and sat at the table with the papers before him. He’d been more focused on Rese than the information before. Now he read in closer detail, taking in the magnitude of her predicament. It was daunting. But she didn’t understand his nature if she thought he’d leave now.

The greater her need, the stronger his desire to stand with her. He had no experience with this particular scenario, but the thought of leaving her to deal with it alone was inconceivable. He’d fallen for her in his typical headlong fashion, but there was more this time, that sense of connection that had gripped him from the start. He might just see this one through to the end. The thought was sobering. It would be a first.

Rese was not a woman he’d have picked out in a crowd. Not that she wasn’t attractive; she was. Attractive, amusing, annoying, engaging … but she was daunting too. In the past, he’d avoided anyone who might ensnare him. Rese had seemed the safest thing yet. But she compelled, provoked, invigorated. And she’d managed a grip he wasn’t sure he could break. Wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Lord?
He bowed his head in prayer. Nonno Quillan lay unmarked in the cellar, and Nonna’s secrets were still undiscovered. But Rese’s fear had so filled the kitchen he’d tasted it. Her whole future had been overshadowed, and she needed him. At least for now, he would give her whatever he had.

A sense of peace came with that decision. He would walk her through this, no matter what. Nonna would understand. He could not be doubleminded right now. Whatever he found, whatever he learned he would hold until he’d done what he could for Rese. He had to make a choice, and this one seemed best.

Star was no help to her, and who else did Rese have? He gathered the papers and put them back into the folder. She might be Star’s anchor, but this current was too strong for her to stand against alone. He glanced toward her room, heard only silence. Then he went to the carriage house. The smell of the oil paint overcame the usual scent of the cellar and confirmed his decision to let that go for now.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY - ONE

Heavy.

Hands like dough. Useless.

Squeeze the ball.

Squeeze.

Useless. Useless. Useless.

S
omehow she slept like a baby and woke up early, both refreshed and strengthened. Exactly what Lance had intended no doubt. And there was a plate of fruit tarts and deviled eggs with a note folded beneath the edge at her place on the kitchen table. Rese opened the note.

Back soon, like it or not. Love, Lance
. She closed her eyes.
Love, Lance
. This was way out of hand. Rese looked down at the food and for once couldn’t think of eating it. The folder lay on the table, and she took it and sat down, then pored over the contents again.

She had decisions to make and hardly knew where to start. At some point she would probably need legal counsel. But for now she had to understand her mother’s reality. What she had experienced last night had been terrifying. Her mother had been living it for years. Rese pressed her fingers into her eyes and rubbed.

There were two business cards clipped to the pocket of the folder: the facility administrator and Dr. Wilbur A. Jonas. She should make the appointment to speak with him and learn whatever he could tell her about Mom. Then … she’d see her.

Rese released a slow breath. After reading about the differences in the brain that caused symptoms of schizophrenia, she could not blame her mother for what happened. How could she blame someone who had no gauge on reality? To Mom, Walter was as real as her child. But she’d still made a choice, hadn’t she? And that hurt;
it hurt so bad
.

Rese rode the whirlwind of anger, grief, and betrayal. She had to know it all. She couldn’t bear any more surprises. She dug out her address book and found the number, keyed it in and, when the woman answered, said, “Aunt Georgie, it’s Rese.”

“Rese. I … how are you?”

How long had it been since she heard that voice? Maybe her aunt had come to her dad’s funeral. She wasn’t sure. There hadn’t been much contact over the years, just two different lives running their course. But Aunt Georgie had been part of her life before. “I know about Mom.”

The silence spoke of secrets and lies taken to the grave. “Oh.”

“Dad’s death left her without a guardian.” Not that her aunt would have thought of that; a crazy sister-in-law was hardly her first concern after all these years.

“It broke Vernon’s heart to put her away. But after—when it wasn’t safe for you anymore, he had no choice.”

Rese hadn’t thought about it that way, and it hurt to do so. Dad’s death was still too fresh. She didn’t want to think of something being painful for him. He had done what he thought was best for her. Once he’d carried her to safety, he never stopped protecting her. Even if it was by lies.

She closed her eyes.
Oh, Dad
. Maybe that was why he worked so hard and stayed away with Brad when she was old enough to be alone. Did he blame her for losing Mom? Whatever the case, he’d found his solution and stood by it, as he had with every decision of his life.

She thanked her aunt and hung up. Her chest squeezed with sobs that would leave her empty and weak. But getting them out now when Lance wasn’t there would be better, wouldn’t it? Cry like a normal woman? If only she could.

She scraped her chair back, clenched her fists, and paced. It hurt. That had to be good. She felt pain from something that should hurt. And anger, too, secondary emotion or not. She had the feelings; she just hated to cry. Couldn’t that be normal?

She stomped her foot. Why wasn’t there a clear line, a clean cut between normal and not? She’d spent fifteen years training herself not to cry, not to show any weakness attributable to being a girl. Why should she expect to act like one now? She would drive herself crazy trying to be something she wasn’t.

Not crying didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. She missed them both. Maybe her love for Mom was irrational, but it was there. And Dad? She’d loved him fiercely. Then a senseless accident had taken him away.

Where had the presence been then? Why had the Lord saved her life, then let Dad bleed to death in her arms? Or had the Lord been there, and Dad hadn’t seen, hadn’t looked.
“There’s nothing after death.”
He’d been so sure.

But Lance was just as sure there was.
“He’ll find an open heart.”
Could God be there, waiting for a heart that never turned His way?

An ache more terrible than any before.
Oh, Dad
. But no one could tell Vernon Barrett anything he didn’t want to hear. He was fully in control down to the last detail of his work and of his life. Everything she had tried to imitate, demanding the same respect he received, the same mute obedience. Even his last words,
“Be strong,”
indicated self-sufficiency, determination.

He would never listen to voices, never obey an unseen entity. Yet she had drawn a desperate strength from the presence. She caught hold of the table edge, breathing the scent of fruit tarts, maybe, or just a sweetness in the air, like the sweetness that had blocked the poison filling her lungs.
Fight. Don’t give in
.

She remembered so clearly. Nothing else from that night was so impressed on her mind. Not that her mind was any great judge, it seemed. All this had shown her how blurred and confused perceptions could be. Just because she saw or heard or felt something didn’t make it real. Her mind could twist and change or leave her altogether. But if there was something outside what her senses perceived, wouldn’t that remain?

The sound of Lance’s Harley in the driveway sent her pulse racing. He had put her to bed like a child, and she’d let him. Amazing, if she thought about it. She should have been more resistant than ever, now that she knew what had happened the last time someone urged her to sleep. The fact that she had succumbed surprised and scared her.

He came inside, hair tousled by the wind, leather jacket open to the waist, brash and confident. He’d started his day with God, which made him better in some way he hadn’t explained. He’d grown up immersed in faith. He didn’t have to wonder if it was real.

She raised her chin. “Well?”

He slowed his approach. “Well, what?”

“What did he say?”

“Who?”

“God.”

Lance took in the set of her jaw, the line of her mouth. He’d expected a couple possible scenarios this morning, that she’d regret telling him about her mom, that she’d try to shut him out, avoid it all. But Rese was obviously going to take this thing head on.