————
Waking with a jolt, Antonia sat up in the cot and searched her surroundings in the eerie half glow of a nightlight in the bathroom. Strange furniture filled Nonno’s study, his writing desk gone and a computer in its place. Her cot had been tucked between that and a hodgepodge of things stored against the wall. She studied the shadowy stacks until a glint caught her eye near the corner. Something … familiar.
Drawn almost in spite of herself, she sat up and slid her feet into her shoes, then braced herself up and stood a moment to find balance. Her walker was folded against the wall, and her eyeglasses were near, she supposed. But she took three sliding steps toward the corner, reaching through the clutter, her fingers pulled toward the object.
Though her vision was foggy, the light only a dim glow, as soon as her fingers touched, she knew it. With fierce concentration, she slid it out and fondled the silver head Nonno’s hand had held as he found support from the walnut shaft for his own leg crippled in his prime.
Ah, Nonno
. She knew all about limbs that no longer held their own. But using the cane with her stronger arm, she crept past Lance, sleeping in the bed not unlike Nonno’s, into the kitchen that hadn’t changed so much. Memories rushed in: Papa at the table, Nonna Carina teasing Nonno with a spoonful of sauce. Friends and relatives. Even Momma was there, planting a kiss on Papa’s lips, leaving a lipstick stain and laughing as she tried to smudge it off, Papa taking hold of her long strings of pearls and drawing her back for more.
She couldn’t remember anyone being unhappy in the kitchen. Except once.
Heart squeezing, she stared a long minute at the pantry door.
Oh, Nonno
. She swallowed painfully.
Papa
. Slowly she passed the door and went outside in the dark. The velvet sky was studded with stars, the air a cold hand that gripped. Everything seemed too close. A shed that didn’t belong. The house next door. Hedges and fences. No fields lush with vines. What few vines were left had not been harvested. That especially hurt.
The motion light from the back door guided her to them. These vines were over a hundred years old. The grapes they had borne would have yielded a rare vintage. Heart pounding, she touched the gnarled wood, crisp leaves and tendrils, the shriveled fruit. These vines against the garage had worked hard to survive—as she had.
She gripped Nonno’s cane, reliving the effort it had taken to get on her feet again. Lance had resisted, afraid the trip would be too much for her … and simply afraid. It was hard to want something so much. She knew, and yet … life was in the wanting, and in cherishing what you had.
She turned around and studied the old house she had left with such regret. Change was inevitable. Back in Belmont she had children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, her friends and neighbors, her church. She knew every crack in the walls, every sound that came through her window. Here, where she had once known the breeze in the vines, the stones in the floor, the pace and pulse of each day, here it was all different.
She stared up at the window from which she’d heard the night sounds that had alerted her to danger. She might have died that night, but she hadn’t. She had lived and raised her family and run her restaurant and grown old. And now here she was, ancient and crippled, her days numbered by God.
Ay … maybe it was time to learn something new.
————
Dragging down the stairs in jeans and turtleneck with a flannel shirt thrown over, Rese tried for serene, but it wasn’t in her repertoire. Star had gotten Mom up, and Rese could hear them in the kitchen.
“Sausage biscuits, Mom?” Like Star didn’t know the answer to that.
In her strange monotone, Mom said, “Sausage biscuits for the queen.”
Rese joined them as Star took the plastic-wrapped sausage-stuffed biscuits from the freezer to stick in the microwave. Having discovered the gap in Lance’s kitchen setup, Star had purchased the microwave to cook most of what they ate.
Rese glanced toward the door to her suite. “Any sign of them?”
Star beeped the cooking time on the touch pad. “I heard voices.”
“Not you too.”
Star turned with a giggle. “ ‘O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown.’ ”
Rese turned as the door opened behind her and Antonia came out, braced by her walker.
Star plunked a plate down for Mom, then sucked her finger. “ ’Tis an ill cook that cannot lick her own fingers.”
“An ill cook in … deed.” Antonia smiled.
“Breakfast for the queen,” Mom said, secure in her role.
“He’s awake.” Antonia patted Rese’s arm in passing, guessing she wanted a word with the man in her bed.
She went through the door into the hall she had once forbidden to Lance. Funny how things changed. She tapped, then opened the bedroom door. He was up on one elbow, so he’d lived through the night. He looked a little better, though rumpled and contrite.
He said, “I didn’t mean to take your bed,” but his eyes were saying so much more.
She refused to acknowledge his regrets. “I wasn’t about to drag you up the stairs.”
Lance pulled up in the bed to sit, his torso hollow beneath his T-shirt. She hated the worry that took hold. Who did he think he was, jerking her emotions around?
She crossed her arms. “Exactly what do you expect to happen here?”
His throat worked. “I don’t expect anything.”
Right. Like he even knew what that meant. She went fully into the room. “You just show up with no explanation, not even a call. I would have told you the place is not open to the public anymore.”
He took “public” like a punch.
She softened her tone, but the next part of her message would hit even harder. “I’m not running an inn. I’m in business with Brad. I used the silver certificates to fund our partnership.” Why did it not feel good to tear away his illusions?
He nodded mutely, no condemnation, even though technically that money could have been considered his.
She expelled a breath. “I can see this matters to Antonia, and there’s obviously room.” Although it was hers. “We have our routine, but …” She planted her hands on her hips. “You can stay. For a while, anyway.”
He looked out from eyes only slightly less hollow than his voice. “There’s nothing for me to do.”
She scowled. “You’re in no condition to do anything. Starving yourself might be very religious, but it’s obviously not very healthy.”
His brow pinched. What good did it do to berate him? His faith had always been radical. He’d just taken it to the next level. So what if he looked like John the Baptist with an earring? She suddenly wanted to cry.
“Star’s warming sausage biscuits. Do you—” She turned as someone brushed against her arm. “Oh. Mom, this is Lance.” She’d forgotten to mention that part.
His astonishment slid from her to her mother. He brought his legs over and stood, a little unsteadily. Then he took Mom’s hand between his own. “It’s great to meet you, Elaine. I’ve waited a long time.”
The sincerity in his face actually hurt. Rese turned away. “Come on, Mom. Let Lance get ready for breakfast.”
A
great impression he was making. Fainting on the doorstep; usurping her room. Not that it mattered. He’d had his chance and lost it. They could stay—awhile—but then they’d have to leave. He released his breath. Why had Nonna asked this?
As he headed for Rese’s bathroom, he noticed a cot made up in the office. It must have been Nonna’s bed last night. He sighed. He’d expected it to be rocky, but hadn’t planned on complete humiliation. Fainting at Rese’s feet?
Come on, Lord
.
He closed the bathroom door and leaned against it, light-headed. Frozen sausage biscuits. He got into the shower, hoping he didn’t pass out in there. He wasn’t as ripe as he might’ve been, but he had slept in his clothes.
The shower felt good to his joints, and the exhaustion was not as deep in his muscles. What hurt most was seeing Rese trying to be so tough again. He toweled off, brushed his teeth, and finger-combed his hair. Then he got into his jeans and sweatshirt that had been stacked on top of the dresser. Maybe Nonna had unpacked them there.
He slipped his bare feet into his Top-Siders and went out. The aroma of frozen sausage biscuits all but gagged him. He prayed he could manage it. Just one. And not look like a fool.
You owe me that much
. Though he knew it wasn’t true.
Nonna was at the table with Star and Rese’s mother, and he joined them in the only remaining chair. Star slid a plate toward him. Rese wasn’t there.
“She’s gone to work,” Star offered.
Ah. With Brad. Her partner. He lifted the biscuit, eyed the brownish grease leaching into the stiff, floury encasement. He brought it to his mouth, gathered himself, and bit. If he didn’t want to be a burden… . He chewed, swallowed, and kept it down.
As soon as he finished, Star asked, “Want another? There’s one left in the package.”
One too many already. “Do you have any fruit?”
“Peach?”
“Sure.”
Star fetched a peach from a bowl and set it before him. He struggled with the thought of picking it up whole and biting in, the wholemouth experience of savaging even a piece of fruit. Star slid a paring knife onto his plate. He didn’t know if she’d seen his struggle, and didn’t want to know. He cut a thin slice and tore it from the pit, releasing the aroma. He gave it a moment to register, without attempting to eat, giving himself time. Pathetic, but necessary, like reintroducing foods to an invalid.
God
.
“Rese doesn’t know how to take you being here,” Star said.
He nodded. That was apparent and predictable. He’d done it to her again, maybe on purpose. He could have called and asked to bring Nonna, but he hadn’t because if he did things right and it didn’t work, what excuse was there? He could be empty and broken before God, but with Rese? He was all Italian-American male. Except for the fainting part. That was pure Lance Michelli.
“She’s gone,” her mother said. “Gone, gone.”
The words sank into the hollow of his stomach. He had said he was willing to fail with her, but he hadn’t believed he would, and even now his pride kept him from admitting it. But he was flint to her steel, setting her off just being there. He’d expected the thrashing this morning when she barreled into the room. But she wasn’t quite as hard as she used to be. He raised the strip of peach and bit. The tangy juices filled his mouth. Intense, but easier than the sausage overload.
“Gone, gone,” Elaine said. “The green is with the green. The blue is with the blue. But the brown …” She looked up. “Do you know?”
He smiled at the woman who looked so much like Rese. “I wish I did.” Then he turned to Star. “I don’t want to keep Rese from her bed. Is anyone using the carriage house?”
“No, but …” She looked at Nonna.
He turned. “Do you mind if we stay out there, Nonna, so Rese can have her room?”
She shrugged. “Fine. Bene.” Her color was good this morning; her countenance peaceful. He had meant to watch her carefully, to be sure the strain of seeing the place wasn’t too much. But he’d passed out instead.
Star cut a slice from his peach and ate it.
He left the rest for her and went to the window. “Nonna can have the bedroom out there. I’ll move the cot into the other room.”
Star shrugged. “If you want to.”
He had to. He couldn’t take another night in Rese’s room, and if he stayed out of her way, maybe it wouldn’t be so hard for her either. He suspected Nonna intended more than her own healing here, but she didn’t know how utterly autonomous Rese could be.
————
Rese climbed the ladder to the roof of the project they had bid on and won over their main competition. It still gave her a shock to think of Barrett Renovation as something outside herself, and it was a good lesson in not making decisions during a state of crisis. No Barrett was represented by that outfit anymore, though Dad’s reputation carried them.
She would have no problem with that if they even tried to live up to his standards, but the things Brad had told her, and what she’d seen herself in the two public buildings they’d renovated, justified her offering the real thing—Plocken and Barrett. Brad may as well be a Barrett for all he’d learned from Dad and his adherence to it. She respected him more than she’d realized. And vice versa.
But when he looked up from his knees on the roof, she wished he hadn’t known her so long, because his “What’s up?” held more than she wanted to go into. Maybe it was the strap around his hips or the pitch of the tile roof, but she had flashed back to the time Lance climbed up to save her from the turkey buzzards. And now she didn’t remember the question that had brought her up there.
“Rese?”
“What?”
“I’m guessing you came up here for something.” He was in a zone of his own, and she’d interrupted him.
“Umm …”
“Are you okay?”
“Of course.” She stood on the ridgepole and thought of Lance screwing up the courage to let go of the chimney. She had been downright insulting. What had he ever seen in her? But he’d had his own agenda, and then she gasped. The villa.
He and Antonia out there together. Had he decided to fight her for it? Take back what Antonia had lost? He didn’t look up to a fight, but he’d fooled her before. Maybe it was all an act to make her let him in. She couldn’t claim possession if they were all on the premises, both parties having a deed. But that didn’t feel right. Not that she knew what to feel.
Brad caught her elbow. “Hello?”
“I’m …” She shivered.
“Admiring the view?”
“No, I … I’m …”
“In my way?”
“Oh. Sorry.”
Brad seemed oblivious to the chill kicking up as he tapped a cigarette from the pack in his jacket pocket. “What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing.”
“Second thoughts?”
“No. It’s nothing to do with you or the business. I should get back to work.”
He still held her elbow, and even that made her think of Lance.
“Brad, why did your marriage break up?”
He pulled his brows together. “Besides her being unreasonable and pesky?”