Rese looked back at the ceiling, assessing the extent of the portion to be removed. She knew too well what likely lay above the sag, and it wouldn’t be good for Doria to see. Besides, she’d rather work alone now. The previous display of weakness was enough for one day. “Chaz.”
He left Doria arguing with Roman on the phone. “Yes?”
“Take her out of here,” she whispered. “This isn’t going to be pretty.”
He raised his brows suspiciously. If she was right, there’d be ratty nests full of pink babies, droppings, and more. She didn’t relish the thought, but she could handle it. It was surprises coming at her she hated, not things she prepared for and faced head on.
Doria hung up the phone and stared at Rese methodically chiseling off the paint and plaster of the next lathe. “What are you doing?”
“Taking down the ceiling.”
Doria stood mouth open for a long moment. “You’re going to fix it?”
Rese looked at the hole she’d made already. “Can’t leave it like this.”
“Roman can do it! Roman and Lance.”
Maybe they could, but Rese looked down at her and said, “You wanted a professional. You’ve got one.”
Doria drew back her shoulders and assessed her, then nodded. “Good.” She put her hands to her hips. “I’m warning the girls we’ve been invaded. And I’m calling an exterminator.” She turned and stalked out.
Chaz leaned on the broom and smiled up. “You are girt about with strength and sturdy are your arms.”
Rese looked up into the hole. “If I see one whisker, that varmint’s sausage.”
————
Lance had gone across the hall and found Nonna sitting by the window. She’d wanted him to read, but he had wooed her first with trout. When she saw the plate, she shook her head and called him Jacob, but he’d smiled and said, “I can live with that,” and proceeded to feed her.
Now he took up the pages. Rese needed to get back—they both did—but this thing with Nonna wasn’t finished. And he was part of it somehow. He looked at Nonno Marco’s handwriting on the cover page.
What are you telling her, Nonno? And why couldn’t you say it before?
If Nonno was a Fed, so deep undercover that even his family knew nothing, there had to have been a good reason. Many men were gone during the Depression and the years that followed, going where the work was or going to war. It seemed Nonno had fought a secret war, but he had been home often enough to father five children, to have the sort of love affair with Nonna that Lance recognized even as a child. Was that possible with so many secrets?
Nonna touched his hand, and Lance turned the page and read.
“Even without Vittorio’s warning that you might see through our plan, I’d already accounted for your perception and spunk. It became a challenge—could I hold your interest without enticing your heart? If you refused to see me, it would have complicated our plans. Meetings with Vittorio would be scrutinized by Arthur Tremaine Jackson, a scrutiny I intended to avoid. But no one would question my interest in you, and therefore Vittorio’s interest in me.
“I didn’t know how much time our covert efforts would take. I never went in with expectations of that sort. My knack was reading the situation as it unfolded and reacting accordingly. So, though I hadn’t planned the role of suitor, I slipped into it with no compunction whatever.
“As a special agent of the Bureau of Investigation, I used any means within the law to accomplish my ends. Out of about 650 operatives, I was one of the few who worked undercover. A natural mimic, Momma often said. And I put that to use, playing many roles to gain the trust of those I intended to bring down, spending whatever time it took to establish myself. It was what I did, what I was made for.”
————
Antonia closed her eyes.
“Roles to gain the trust of those I intended to bring down.”
Like Papa? Like her? No… . But at first maybe? Her mouth quivered. Arthur Jackson was his target, not Papa.
“Any means within the law.” “No compunction.”
Marco became her suitor to trap Arthur Jackson—and maybe Papa with him. And she had been his cover.
She moaned softly. Why was he telling her this now? Why not when her decisions were unmade?
“A natural mimic.” “Playing roles.”
She pictured his protean face, how even in those first days he’d seemed to change from one man to another, keeping her off balance yet intriguing her all the more. She wanted to think she’d seen through it, but it was only after Papa’s death that she had questioned his identity; only then had she wondered who this man was. And by then, of course, it didn’t matter.
They were on the run, Marco her only hope of safety, the man she came to trust and to love. Marco playing a role that had seemed so real… . Marco! Panic clawed inside her. What if her mind gave out from the strain?
She needed time to let his words find a place without resentment or fear. Her body had betrayed her twice, and she was afraid. Another shock might incapacitate her. She wasn’t afraid to die, but she didn’t want to live out her days like an eggplant, unable to do anything for herself.
Maybe that was pride. She would confess it.
But she knew her limits. She would not read alone, nor would she allow more to be read than she could bear. She would keep Lance beside her, not just a physical guardian, but spiritual as well. She knew what others missed, that he possessed an awareness beyond her socalled angel sight, as though God whispered directly in his ear.
Conchessa had seen it. The letter she had written after Lance found her in Liguria was filled with wonder. Not only that she, Antonia, was alive, but also that she had produced such a grandson. And it was true. The boy had found his share of trouble, but it was rooted in his need to help, to drink the cup someone else had poured. Whatever it was, she wanted him beside her as she drank this goblet of tears Marco had served her from the grave.
R
ese saved as much of the original lathe and plaster as she could. She was still gagging from the rotten material and refuse she had removed, but as soon as she reached the part that was sound, she left it intact. It went against her grain to take out more of the original construction than necessary. Anywhere a place could hold its own, she gave it the chance.
Doria blew in with her daughters and their kids and the two old men from the back, and a few more faces she didn’t recognize. They all wanted to see where the mice had come out on top of Rese. She was not interested in rehashing the experience, but Doria did it for her, with far more detail than necessary. Rese ignored them all as long as she could, then ordered them out. And why was Chaz grinning like a Cheshire cat?
With painstaking care, she’d gotten through the ceiling, and she was right; there was a corroded pipe over the sag, a cheap grade of steel, but at least it wasn’t lead. Chaz cut the water supply, and she went to work on the pipe just as Lance came up with lunch—a crispy thin-crusted pizza with some kind of dark ham, grilled peppers, and bubbling cheese. She hadn’t planned a break, but the aroma caught her right where Doria’s coffee cake had left her wanting.
She climbed down the ladder. “Giovanni’s?”
“Nah. Michelli’s.”
“Bribing isn’t fair.”
“A worker deserves her wage.” He raised a slice and slid the paperthin tip into her mouth.
Maybe there was something to partiality because it was the best pizza she’d ever tasted.
He laughed before she could say anything. “Gotcha.”
“Now I know why Baxter likes you. It’s all in the stomach.”
“The stomach could fare worse than this.” Chaz helped himself to a second slice.
“Eat up; I’ve got another one in the oven for Rico.” Lance checked his watch.
“How’s he doing?” She hadn’t had time to worry, but he had not looked good last night.
“Better when he’s incoherent on the meds. Soon as they wear off he starts growling.” Lance glanced at the ceiling. “How’s this going?”
“In spite of incessant interruptions, I’m ready to cut out the bad pipe and go buy the replacement.”
“Buy.” Lance spread his hands. “What’s to buy?” He looked up into the hole, then sent her an enigmatic smile and went out.
“We’ve done some plumbing repairs,” Chaz said.
Lance came back with copper pipe and couplings, exactly what she would have insisted on. The Michellis obviously agreed their repairs should not only address the problem, but improve the property’s condition— a thought that energized her. She crunched the last bite of crust and shooed them both out. Chaz had to get ready for work, and Lance had pizza in the oven. But most of all, she had a project to tackle.
She had all the damaged ceiling cut away, the old section of pipe removed, and was fitting the copper into place when Roman came home.
“What’s all this?”
Rese pulled her head out of the hole and looked down. Doria had told him, hadn’t she?
“What are you doing in my kitchen ceiling?”
“Restoration.” Her throat tightened. She hadn’t expected confrontation.
His mouth hung slack. “Who said?”
Then Doria flew in, hands in the air. “I told you we had mice!”
Roman turned. “What’s a girl doing in my ceiling?”
“Girl? A professional!” Doria fixed her hands to her hips. “Did you fix the sag? Did you hear the mice? Did you listen to a word I said?”
He waved a hand behind him. “You got Lance’s girlfriend in my pipes.”
“Your pipes! Whose sink you think that is?”
While they debated ownership, Rese climbed back into the hole, inserted and tightened the final coupling. A minute later she felt a hand on her ankle. She looked down into Roman’s face and understood the intimidation factor Lance had described. Her hackles rose. “You want a look?”
“Off the ladder, young lady.”
Her spine stiffened. The last guy who called her
young lady
had pulled cleanup for a week. But it was his ladder, his ceiling, his kitchen. She climbed down, and he took her place. Doria still stood with her hands to her hips, but Rese didn’t look her way. If Roman found fault with her work …
He climbed back down and eyed her. “You know how hard it is to patch this kind of ceiling?”
Nothing about her plumbing? “I’ve been repairing lathe and plaster since I was sixteen.”
“And you’re what now, eighteen?”
“Twenty-four,” she said before she realized it wasn’t his business. “And before I did the repairs I watched and learned from the best in the industry. And when I
was
eighteen I already had a reputation for excellence in carpentry. Your ceiling will be better than anything you or Lance or Chaz could do.”
She’d seen him sullen, she’d seen him playful, but until that moment she hadn’t seen him mad.
His big hands clenched as though he was ready for some physical communication. “You think so?”
“I know so.” She drew herself up. She hadn’t meant to insult him, but her kind of expertise didn’t come cheap. “Be thankful I’m not presenting a bill.”
He expelled his breath. Then stared at her as though she were an oddity in a zoo.
Doria came over and slipped her arm through his. “So before she closes it up, we get the exterminator.”
“Sure. And he won’t present a bill either.” He glared. “Why don’t you get this girl to chase away the mice?”
“I don’t like mice. I hate mice.” Rese raised her chin. “And after this morning I’ll have nightmares of mice.”
Something flickered in Roman’s eyes. Then it spread to his mouth, a sinking in of the corners. He planted his hands on his hips. “You gonna marry my son?”
She glanced at the ceiling. “Does it get me the job?”
Roman barked a laugh. “Sure. You fix this ceiling, marry Lance, and make us some tough babies. Too many whiners around here.” He looked at his wife, who slapped his chest.
Rese released a slow breath. “I need to order the timber batten. Think you can spring for that much?”
————
Patience, kindness, a soft word.
Are these driven out of people who live too close?
T
hose first days were a blessing I failed to appreciate. Then Momma Benigna came home.
Now it is Marco this and Marco that. How could I not know my husband walked on water? He’d seemed substantial enough until we moved in with Momma.
We
moved in, but Marco doesn’t live here.
Marco does important things for important people, people with jack who send him all over the country. And while he is gone, I have Momma. There is nothing benign about Momma Benigna. All the things I don’t know! How to keep house, how to sew—making too fine a work of it, when the clothes we mend are paid for by the piece. How to make meals, especially how to make meals.
“Where is the sauce?”
It must be smothered to be edible. How I long for the grateful glances I once received.
When I go out, the wolves in the street whistle. Momma thinks I invite it. Can I help it if I seem unattached? If Marco could walk on air, maybe he’d stay closer now and then. But he warned me his job would take him away. And I don’t blame him. For his sake, I do the best I can. For his sake and for the one who flutters within… .
Antonia dragged herself back. Lance had come in to read, but she couldn’t hear it yet, so she had told him about coming to New York. Her words were slow and torturous, but she described the tenement in Manhattan, Mulberry Bend, where Marco’s people had lived for fifteen years like rats because they didn’t know better. They couldn’t speak the language, couldn’t read the forms. Then after a time, they learned, but stayed there still because they’d made it their world.
“M … ine was a more gr … acious l … ife. You’ve s … een it.” She closed her eyes and pictured the vine-covered hills rolling in the golden mist of an evening sunset.
“I’ve seen it, Nonna.”
“S … uch beauty.” Tears pooled and ran down her cheeks. She didn’t know whom she cried for and it didn’t matter. Sorrow needed no explanation.
After a time, Lance squeezed her hand. “Do you want me to read?”
“N … ot yet.” A reluctance had settled on her like dread. Her former angel sight? Or simply an old woman’s desire to hold on to what she had once believed?