Betrayal (16 page)

“I’ve got nobody else. I would like to at least speak to him. I could do as you suggested, as my mother did, and go in with your cleaning crew and meet”—what should Penelope call him?—“meet Joseph.”

“It’s the best plan.”

“When?” The sooner the better.

Mrs. Marino went over to a grubby desk calendar and flipped through the pages. “We clean his house on Monday.”

“Monday?” This was Thursday. In that amount of time, Penelope could run into Noah countless times. “But I was going to leave.”

“You pays your money, you takes your chances.” Mrs. Marino shook her finger at Penelope. “You already got the motel room for seven days, and I don’t give refunds.” At Penelope’s openmouthed surprise, Mrs. Marino said, “Honey, I’m running a business here! I’m bringing you in, doing you a favor. You talk to Bianchin and he could get mad and fire me, and that’s a big account. I’d say I’m doing plenty for the cause.”

“Yes, but I… If I have to stay for a while, I mean, if in the end it’s going to take more than seven days… I don’t have much of a budget. I wasn’t exactly flush when I came to Portland, and my mom’s illness pretty much drained the bank account.”

Mrs. Marino shrugged her massive shoulders. “I can get you an actual job on the housekeeping team.”

That summer nine years ago, Penelope had occasionally helped her mother clean motel rooms. The memory made her shudder.

“Or you could get something on your own,” Mrs. Marino said.

Penelope didn’t really need to get anything on her own. Just this morning, she had found a job.

And this afternoon she had quit.

She glanced up at Arianna Marino.

Mrs. Marino wore a slight smile, like she wanted Penelope to be stuck here in Bella Terra.

But why? That didn’t make sense. Why would she care what Penelope did?

Maybe she wanted to make trouble for Joseph?

Of course. That was it.

Everyone in this town hated Joseph Bianchin. Mrs. Marino wanted him to be uncomfortable, unhappy, uncongenial, upset—and what better way to accomplish her dream than to present him with a daughter when he wanted a son, a daughter who was guaranteed to make trouble for him, a daughter who had not been raised in the manner he would deem appropriate? Penelope would be nothing but a horrible surprise and a complete disappointment to him.

Mrs. Marino waited and watched Penelope work through the ramifications, and when Penelope looked up,
Mrs. Marino smiled that square smile again. “I can give you a good monthly rate on the room.”

With a sigh of mingled relief and dismay, Penelope put down the phone and turned into the dim hotel room.

Brooke had welcomed Penelope back on the job with open arms.

Once more, Penelope was temporarily employed in Bella Terra. Once more, she would be judged on her creativity and her craft.

Employment was a good thing, especially considering the state of her finances, but now that she’d committed to the job, she was stuck here until it was finished.

Going to the bed, she flung back the bedspread and flopped onto the sheets.

The motel room hadn’t really changed from the first time she’d stayed here. Different thin carpet, different ugly flowered bedspread—Mrs. Marino’s way of making sure no one stole it, Penelope supposed—and free Internet. But direct light never touched this motel room. The window at the front opened onto the asphalt parking lot and faced the Beaver Inn. The window at the back opened onto a gravel expanse, where a huge blue Dumpster rusted and the garbage stank. Beyond that, a fence surrounded cars and car parts that alternately baked and disintegrated.

No one in her right mind would open the stiff, off-white, plastic-lined curtains. That would expose her to drunks reeling out of the Beaver Inn and toward their vehicles, or to the psychoses of the madmen who made their homes in the junkyard.

Today she had been so proud of herself for deciding to run away from Bella Terra. Only a fool would remain
in a place where violence happened far too often. Only a fool would stay where she had to fight loneliness and sorrow so deep that it made her long for a relationship with Joseph Bianchin. Only a fool stuck where she was sure to see her former lover on a frequent basis and remember that he had once broken her heart… as he could, oh, so easily, do again.…

But she would learn from the past. Had learned from the past.

She was so much wiser now.

Chapter 22

P
 enelope stood in the great room of Bella Terra resort, pen in hand, her notebook tucked into the crook of her arm, writing frantically while Storm Fiasco shouted out his thoughts for the redesign of the hotel. She’d been on the job only one day, and already she could see he was a genius. An eccentric genius, but a genius, for as he spoke, he created the new space in her mind: a native stone fireplace that rose all the way to the twenty-foot-high ceiling, with a series of three gas fire inserts created to look like fairy lights. A gathering of low seats and tables around it. A long leather-and-mahogany bar in the corner to serve breakfast in the morning and drinks in the evening.

For all intents and purposes, she thought he paid her no heed. But when he announced they would take out that—he waved an airy hand at the brick wall between the great room and the courtyard—and replace it with tall windows, her eyes narrowed.

He turned on her, his long blond hair swirling around his broad shoulders. “What? You don’t agree?”

“No. I… No, I think it’s a wonderful idea.” She realized her voice was squeaking like a mouse, and lowered it to a more reasonable level. “But how is that possible? Isn’t that a bearing wall?”

“My dear intern,” he said with exaggerated patience, “this is your first day, so I’ll make an exception this once. In the world of design, there are three tiers. The top, of course, is the interior designer. We take crude space and make it glorious or comfortable or a showcase—or all three. Next are the architects. They usually have some artistic talent, although I find all too often their understanding of interior space is limited by practicalities. And then”—his Mick Jagger lips sneered—“there are the engineers. They are peasants. They have no creativity, no appreciation, no soul. They are bound by the realities of life.” He paused as if he expected a response.

She nodded vigorously.

“I am Storm Fiasco of Fiasco Designs.” He straightened his long leather duster. “I do not bother myself with such pedestrian matters as the laws of gravity. Let the peasants meet the challenge and figure that out. It makes them so happy when they do. Now.” He waved a long-fingered hand toward the wall once more. “Small bistro tables will sit close against the windows for a view into the arboretum.”

The plants were pretty out there, but she would have never called it an arboretum. Yet already she’d learned—someone else would handle those practicalities. Right now, as an intern, that someone was her. On her page, she noted
, Arboretum—call a landscape architect.

The great room opened into the lobby, and Storm paced into that space and stared fixedly at the desk clerk until she blanched and backed away from the counter; then, with a swirl of his duster, he paced back into the great room and stood where the fireplace would rise in all its glory.

He was silent for so long Penelope sidled close to him and tried to do what he was doing—create the finished product in her mind.

A young man, tall and handsome, and a petite elderly woman stepped in the door.

Penelope barely glanced at them, all her attention on the room.

In a sudden flurry of urgency, Storm said, “All the furniture will have to go, of course.”

“Not all,” she said thoughtlessly.

Storm was tall, commanding, built like an Oklahoma linebacker, but his voice was soft. “I beg your pardon?”

The two people still watched, but if Storm could ignore them, so could Penelope.

“The rocking chair.” Penelope walked slowly toward the simple piece of furniture that sat close to the wall. “It’s handcrafted.” She ran her fingers over the curved sweep of the back. “Figured maple, I think. Someone took a lot of time to build this piece. You can see the loving care in each piece of wood.” She turned back to Storm. “Think of it tucked into the corner by the fireplace, next to it a small table piled with books and an old-fashioned reading lamp. It would tie the new great room to the roots of the hotel. Weary guests would relax and read. Mothers would rock their cranky children.…” Too late she saw Storm’s narrowing eyes, and her fantasy skidded to a stop.

“That is an idea,” he said, each word like an ice cube rattling into a silver bucket.

“It is.” The elderly woman hurried forward. “Mr. Fiasco, my grandson Noah brought me down to meet you. I’m Sarah Di Luca, and I confess, I was worried when the boys insisted it was time to freshen the look of our public areas. But to know that you’re going to open the room to the grandeur of our gorgeous California outdoors and at the same time provide an anchor to our wonderful family history…” She offered him her hand.

For Mrs. Di Luca, it seemed he was bathed in charm. Taking her hand, he kissed her fingers. “Call me Storm,” he murmured.

“Before his death, my husband did so much around the resort, and when he could no longer remember how to do the wiring or where all the plumbing ran through the walls, he could still craft pieces like this.” She gestured to the rocking chair. “To know you recognized the love that went into the creation… You are a man of discernment as well as an artist.”

The young man, Noah, turned toward Penelope.

But she was too terrified by Storm’s impending rage to pay him any heed.

Still Noah grinned and winked, then went to Storm and shook his hand. “We spoke on the phone. I’m Noah Di Luca.”

“Good to meet you at last, and to know the family is so closely involved is a delight indeed,” Storm said.

Penelope swallowed. She could hear the sliver of frozen sarcasm in Storm’s voice. Couldn’t the Di Lucas hear it, too?

Mrs. Di Luca could, for she laughed and said, “I promise I don’t intend to be here every day checking on your progress. In fact, the only time you’ll see me at all is when you come up for Sunday dinner. We start about three. The meal is about seven. There’s always an incredible lot of people, but we have wonderful times. You will come, won’t you?”

Now Storm melted like a snow cone on a hot sidewalk, and all sign of his displeasure vanished. “Mrs. Di Luca, I would be delighted. And you may boss me around anytime you like.”

In slow increments, Penelope began to relax.

“You come, too, child.” Mrs. Di Luca smiled kindly at her.

“I, um, my mother is here in Bella Terra with me and—”

“Bring her, too. Company is a blessing I enjoy.” Mrs. Di Luca could not have sounded more sincere.

A few more congenial words, and Noah and Mrs. Di Luca backed out of the room.

Storm started shouting instructions again.

Penelope took notes, chastened, and resolved not to contradict Storm Fiasco ever again as long as she lived.

Then she found out it didn’t matter, because two hours later, he fired her.

Chapter 23

I
 n all her life, Penelope had never been so humiliated as when Noah found her crying in the supply closet of the unoccupied resort office. Sure, it was a stupid place to hide, but where else was she supposed to go? She didn’t have a car. Her mother wasn’t scheduled to pick her up for three hours. And the tears wouldn’t wait any longer.

So when he opened the door and flicked on the light, Penelope did the only sensible thing to do—she scrunched further into the corner and tried to disappear into the wall.

Most guys—normal guys—would have taken one look at her splotchy face and runny nose and fled. Instead, he came and squatted down in front of her. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She was right in the middle of the first full-fledged paroxysm of despair and humiliation of her design life. Which was over. Her career was over before it even began.

So she put her head on her knees and continued to cry, long, wrenching sobs that tore at her throat and shook her whole body. She’d stolen a roll of toilet paper off one of the shelves, and occasionally she used it to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. Violently.

And still Noah stayed, kneeling there, patient and calm.

What a dumb-ass.

She controlled her sobbing long enough to say, “Go away.”

He studied her for a moment. “Okay.” He left the closet.

“Shut the door!” she wailed.

He didn’t. Instead he was back in a minute with a bottle of cold water and can of cold Coke. He thrust them both under her downturned face. “Drink?”

“N… no. Th… thank you.”

But he didn’t withdraw them.

So she took the water. Of course, she couldn’t get the cap unscrewed—because she really was the incompetent, interfering, ignorant half-wit that Storm Fiasco said she was.

So the Di Luca guy took the bottle away from her, unscrewed the top, and handed it back.

She took a slurp and cried a little more, then took another slurp. She heard him pop the top of the can. He took the water away from her and put the Coke in her hand. “Drink it. The sugar will make you feel better.”

“No, it won’t. I’ll never feel better as long as I live.” And she started crying again.

“Did he fire you?” he asked.

“What? Yes! How did you know? Did he tell you?” Mortification twisted like a snake in her belly.