Echoes (22 page)
He searched her face. "Okay. I get that. And I like your alternative." He looked around. "But I don't know that Rese has time to take this on."
"You could."
Part of him balked at the thought of turning Nonno Quillan's sepulcher into a studio; part of him thought the man whose poetry he'd read would appreciate life going on. "I'd have to run it by her. She owns the property."
"Until you're married."
He didn't think in those terms, but she was right. "It is commercially zoned, since she planned an inn when she got the permits. I'll see what I can do."
"Thanks." She smiled. "And thanks for not pushing."
"I still want to know."
She released a soft laugh. "You're a Michelli, aren't you?"
"Not quite as bad as Monica, but . . ."
"I don't need Matt's scrutiny."
He could understand that. "Okay." If Matt had pushed too hard too fast, if he'd expected more than she was ready to divulge . . . Except she'd already told him the worst. Hadn't she?
They went upstairs and found Nonna reading in the kitchen. Lance looked at Sofie, who tossed it back to him. "Hey, Nonna, can we run an idea by you?"
She folded the book closed over her finger and looked from one to the other. He laid it out, Sofie's idea and his own thoughts, being more familiar with the cellar's layout.
Nonna listened, then confirmed his guess with a tearful nod. "Nonno would want that."
Lance watched her gaze slip into the past, where she no doubt pictured Nonno Quillan, the grandfather she had lionized. The strengths and talents he valued most in himself had come from Quillan Shepard. Neither Vittorio, nor even Nonno Marco, whom he'd loved, nor Pop nor Tony had left as deep a mark as the poet he knew only through Nonna's musings and one book of poems. The part of him that sang, the part that prayed without reserve—the best parts of him—he attributed to the man who'd found victory through crushing adversity.
W
hen Rese drove in a few hours later, Lance met her at the truck. "Want to come down to the cellar a minute?"
"No way." She crossed her arms.
"Come on. It's a great make-out spot."
She gave him the look of death. "Except for the time Mom tried to kill me, I've never been so afraid as in that stupid cellar. I'm not going down."
He unwrapped her hands from her sides. "I'll be right beside you."
"What can you possibly want down there? The wine's gone, so is the money, and there's no one left to bury."
"Sofie wants to make it a dance studio."
Rese stood dumbfounded. "She wants to dance in a tomb?"
"It's not a tomb, Rese." He should never have made her believe that, though it had been for a while. "People die in lots of places. That doesn't mean they can't ever be used again. Is a studio possible?"
"Anything's possible."
"So can you take a look, gauge what it would cost, factor materials, and make a decision?"
She shook her head. "Walter's down there."
He was pretty sure she didn't really believe her mother's invisible companion lurked in the cellar, but she said, "I felt him. If Chaz hadn't come—"
"Honey, there is no Walter. I promise you."
She opened her mouth and closed it. "Did you call me honey?"
He drew her toward him. "Rese."
"The last time you called me honey you broke up with me."
"I never broke up with you."
"Hah."
He slipped his arms around her. "I was taking care of business." He caught her mouth and took care of it again. "I didn't want you trapped in something that could hurt you."
"And now you want to take me to the cellar."
"I promise nothing will happen." He threaded her fingers with his. "We'll take a look around, see what it needs . . ."
"It needs to be sealed up."
"There's some great workmanship down there." He inched her toward the door. "You'll appreciate it."
"I'll appreciate your dropping it."
"You don't want to be afraid of this, Rese. You're too tough for that. What if Brad knew?"
"He does. I made him retrieve the money we used to outfit the business."
The silver certificate bills had been stashed there by one of Nonna's forebears, but she and Brad had made use of them. "See, if Brad can do it, you can."
"Not fair."
But they'd made it inside the carriage house and he opened the hatch.
"Lance . . ."
"If Walter's down there, we'll boot him out, once and for all. But he's only in your mom's mind. You know that."
"He was pretty firmly in mine as well."
"You were an impressionable child."
"I was an adult, alone in the dark with—"
He kissed her. "You'll be fine." He took the flashlight in one hand, hers in the other, and started down the stairs.
"Why do I let you do this? Why do I always let you talk me into things I don't want to do?"
"Like hiring me?"
"Right."
"And kissing me?"
"Well . . ."
"Come on, you were steamed that first time." They made it to the bottom of the stairs.
"Because you worked for me and would not respect my authority."
"I've always respected you, Rese."
She snorted.
"It's true." They'd reached the gate.
"Lance . . ."
He pushed it open. Just past that point, he'd found the remains of his great-great-grandfather. So had Rese, though he'd warned her not to go down there.
She balked. "I don't want to do this."
"Come here." He took her into his arms. "We can beat this, and you'll be stronger for it. Or you can turn around and go back." He kissed her forehead. "I'd like your input, but if you can't, that's okay."
"I don't know anything about dancing or studios."
"You know about floors, walls, and ceilings." He could do it without her, but he wanted to share anything he could, because even though she'd accepted his proposal, it still stung that she spent so much time doing what she loved with Brad.
She exhaled. "I suppose you'll be wiring it."
Electrical was the one element she wouldn't touch. He knew enough to get light and sound into the place. "I'm the man."
She looked through the gate. "You're sure we're alone?"
"If we're not we'll just do some house cleaning."
"Do you think Walter was a demon? I mean the Walter I felt?"
He'd encountered a principality or two in his travels—and on the night he and Chaz had prayed for Star. "It's possible." He took her hand. "But we have the victory."
"That's what Chaz says." She looked unconvinced.
"He should know. In Jamaica people still practice obeah. Voodoo." Chaz had not been shielded, but rather trained to recognize and vanquish the enemy in a land of dark arts. In the cellar, Lance didn't expect to meet anything worse than mice, but he didn't say so. Mice were the other thing Rese couldn't stand.
She looked into his face, her brown eyes resigned, her callused palm tight inside his. "Okay. Show me what you want to do."
He smiled. "Now that's a dangerous statement."
"To the cellar."
"Oh, that."
She tugged his hand.
Laughing, he shined the light far enough out to push the darkness away as they moved in among the empty racks. No bogeymen so far. "You okay?"
She nodded.
"Feel anything?"
She shook her head. "It's different with you."
"Alone in the dark anyone can get worked up."
"I don't think I imagined it."
"Then you probably didn't." He shined the light around.
"But what if—"
"You're not crazy."
"For Mom, Walter was so real she could touch him. She danced with him." She shivered.
"He's not real." But he searched the room again, picking up her tension. Her mother's delusions were clinically explained by sound medical diagnosis. But he closed his eyes and slipped into prayer.
Lord, if there's anything here—
It hit him like a brakeless Mack truck. A sense of oppression and fear. Why was it there? It had no right or reason, unless . . . His anger erupted. He spoke without conscious effort, one hand outstretched against the darkness as Rese clung to the arm that held the flashlight. He prayed hard and deliberately that she would no longer be a target, that whatever had preyed on her fears would be bound and broken. "In Jesus' name, be gone."
Rese gave a little cry.
He opened his eyes. "It's all right." He turned, shining the light up and around. "Now, then. Sofie'll need some framing on the walls to attach mirrors, but I'd hate to lose all this hand-cut stone."
"Lance." Her breath came sharply.
He turned. "It's an action, reaction thing. God seems to have a plan for us. Satan would like to scare you off, but this is our home, our life. Together."
He took her into his arms, wanting to light the place up and dash the darkness that had keyed into her childhood trauma, masquerading as her mother's companion. Light bulbs wouldn't really affect such things, but it seemed right anyway.
She pressed her hands to his back. "You're thin."
"I'm working on that."
"Why does it have to be harder for you?"
"I don't know that it does." He kissed her temple. "You have a suggestion for flooring?"
"I'll always go with maple over oak."
He nodded. "Bright, durable, regular grain. Let's pace it out so we can estimate lumber."
"You're sure everything's gone?"
"At Jesus' name every knee must bow, every tongue confess Him Lord. They'd rather take off than go through that." He could feel her hesitation. "Come on."
She walked with him the length and breadth of the cellar. As he walked, he silently claimed the ground for God. Only the musty scent and the silence remained. Rese ran her hand over the end of a rack. "These are in good shape for their age."
"We can offer them on eBay."
"Lance, I never apologized for spending the money."
"What money?"
"Your great-grandfather's. From the cache."
"I gave it over to you."
"I know but . . . it wasn't technically mine."
"It wasn't technically mine either." It had gotten too complicated with overlapping deeds and letters of intention that might never have been possible to sort out.
"Does Nonna know?"
He shrugged. "She has what she wanted. Peace."
"And you?"
He drank in her features, the trust and love he saw there. "I have what I wanted."
————
Carly huddled under the covers. She hated her new room—too cramped, too white. Dad said she could pick a wallpaper border and curtains, but the landlord wouldn't let them paint. She'd outgrown pink, but she didn't want plain old white. She didn't want the new school, or the new neighborhood either.
She had left Drew and the other sort-of friends she'd made, and now she'd have to start all over. Why bother? What was the point when anytime someone got close, Dad ruined it? First he would start dropping hints about her spending too much time and thinking too highly of certain people—un-Daddy people.
If she didn't take the hint, it got worse. She guessed but hadn't actually caught him swiping things. They just disappeared after someone had been with her, so it seemed like she'd taken it, but she didn't—ever. Except once when she'd been very little, she'd come home with a bunny sticker that her friend said she took. Maybe that was where he got the idea.
Not that anyone would believe a dad would take the things he took. He didn't want them. He wanted them to think she did. When she denied it, she looked like a thief
and
a liar. So of course no one wanted to be her friend.
The worst part was that she had made them move this time. After she'd talked to Sofie one stupid time, he had left her with the single mother of one of her fellow students and been gone for two days. He hadn't told his boss or covered his appointments and—duh—had no job when he got back. Of course, he would dazzle the next boss, so it wasn't a problem for him.
She did not dazzle anyone. She didn't dare.
Daddy looked in. "Hey. Want to talk about the other night?"
She didn't pretend to wonder which one. "Okay."
He came and sat on the end of her bed. She looked for the icy anger, but what she saw was worse. She'd hurt him. It came off him in waves and smothered her. His face was so miserable, she gulped back tears. "I'm sorry, Daddy."
He took her hand. "I hoped you'd forgotten."
"Forgotten Sofie?"
"You were so little."
"I don't remember a lot." Just the place inside that ached with loss.
"You got her number without telling me."
Now she totally expected to see the ice in his eyes, but they looked far away instead. The way he kept staring at the wall scared her more than his disapproval.
"I'm sorry. I didn't think . . ."
you'd want me to
. "I didn't know if it was
that
Sofie. And—"
"You've been talking to her."
She shook her head. "Just once."
"I saw the calls."
"But I only talked once. The other times I just listened to her voice."
He studied her, then said, "I tried to find her."
"What?" It fell out on a whisper.
He nodded. "After your call, I went back to her place, her neighborhood. But she wasn't there."
No. She had to be. How could he look and not find her?
"She's moved somewhere."
It was a lie. Another lie. Anger burned up her throat. She was going to throw up.
He took her phone out of his pocket. "Would you like this back?"
She couldn't speak. It was too hard to keep it down. And what did it matter, if Sofie was gone? But she nodded.
"Carly, it's all right with me if you want to talk to Sofie."
"It is?" She couldn't hold back her shock, even though something strange appeared in his expression. If he had known she was calling . . .
"But I'd like to know what she says, okay?"
Carly gulped. Tell him everything? Somehow that felt wrong, more wrong than when she'd sneaked her calls. But was it? "Okay."
"Good." He smiled. "What do you want me to order for dinner?"
