Betrayal Page 5

  And she didn’t. Not really. Running into Noah would be uncomfortable, but she’d faced more daunting challenges. Really, what were the chances she would see him?

  Well. Possibly good, since he managed the Di Luca family’s resort, it fronted on Bella Terra’s main street right on the square, and she intended to look around at the changes that had been made in the last nine years. She would not, of course, reminisce at all. Because, yeah, she’d spent the most memorable summer of her life in Bella Terra, but she wasn’t here to remember.

  She was here on a whole different business.

  Penelope had taken a circuitous route from the Sweet Dreams Hotel (north and west of town) to Joseph Bianchin’s estate (on the southeast), around the outskirts that stretched to encompass mansions and subdivisions where people who worshiped the California wine country lifestyle had built homes. Now she drove to Bella Terra’s main street and into the compact, vibrant downtown.

  She stopped at the red light, two cars back from the crosswalk, and peered through the hustle of tourists and locals. She wanted to see the town square, a park of grass and a gazebo, where benches rested in the shade of tall trees.

  The square hadn’t changed a bit. It was still quaint, a carefully preserved early-twentieth-century square, still Bella Terra’s beating heart. Restaurants and art galleries lined the streets around it, and those had changed names and possibly owners, but the buildings hadn’t changed, and neither had Penny’s Bookstore, where Noah and Penelope had spent many a pleasant afternoon browsing the titles on the shelves.

  For her birthday in that long-ago August, Noah had bought her a picture book about the history of Bella Valley.

  She had kept it. It was packed in a box in a storage area with most of her furniture and knickknacks from Cincinnati. When she got back to Portland, she had to go through it all and…

  But she couldn’t think about that now. There was too much to see here, too many memories to confront.

  The Bella Terra resort’s stucco exterior faced Main Street. It had been washed a light gold, and guests strolled out of the breezeway holding icy bottles of water and wearing good-humored smiles.

  Yes, the resort had that effect on people. She knew; nine years ago she’d been an intern to the interior designer hired to freshen the interior of the main building, and the Di Luca family had made their desires clear. Their first directive had been to make the lobby, the breakfast area, and the lounge as relaxing as possible. Although Penelope had worked on the project for only two and a half months and left before it was finished, obviously the design had been successful.

  Or perhaps by now they’d done another redesign. She would love to go in, see whether she could spot Noah’s influence on the resort, sit and have a glass of wine in the Luna Grande Lounge.

  Not that she’d done that before; in those days, she hadn’t been old enough to drink.

  It would be good to see whether Tom Chan was still behind the bar. He’d been an influence on the design of the lounge, and such a trusted friend of the Di Lucas, she thought he must still be there.

  She wished she could linger, observe every little detail of the resort, but the light turned green, and resolutely she refused to drive around the block for another look.

  She needed to remember her mission. She was here to use one of the Marinos’ breakfast coupons. To see whether she could find out anything about Bianchin, where he was, what he was doing, when he’d be back.

  But first, she had to eat, because no matter what the crisis, her body demanded sustenance. It seemed so shallow to face tragedy, disease, and death and still need to eat, but there it was—her stomach growled in demand, and she had learned to listen.

  Rhodes Café sat three streets off the square, narrow, unassuming, and outside of the main tourist flow, but even at nine thirty in the morning it was busy. She took a chair at the counter between a guy who never needed to eat again and yet was shoveling in scrambled eggs and sausage as if it were his last meal, and a young woman with chin-length dark hair who stared with such revulsion at her toasted bagel Penelope checked to make sure it wasn’t crawling across her plate.

  The bagel looked fine to her.

  She glanced again at the young woman, noted her complexion, pasty pale under what normally would have been a healthy color, and hoped that whatever she had wasn’t contagious. Stomach flu while staying at the Sweet Dreams Hotel would be an ordeal Penelope did not wish to face.

  Plucking the menu from between the napkin holder and the saltshaker, she studied it, made her decision, and ordered a Denver omelet, crisp bacon, and wheat toast. She tried hard not to look around, but the woman next to her reminded Penelope of her mother during the worst of her chemo, and she couldn’t stand it. With the intention of distracting her from her misery, Penelope asked, “I’ve never been here before. Is the food that bad?”

  The woman turned her head slowly, as if afraid a quick movement would set off disaster, and gazed at her. “No, it’s pretty good. I just don’t feel too well this morning.…” Something sparked in her blue eyes. She leaned back, scrutinized Penelope, and asked, “Aren’t you Penelope Alonso?”

  Bingo. First time out of the gate, someone knew her.

  Penelope wet her lips and scrutinized the woman in return.

  She was pretty, fit, and a little less pale than she had been a moment ago. Her jeans and black T-shirt looked expensive, and rather incongruously, she wore a lightweight camouflage vest zipped up halfway.

  Penelope didn’t have the foggiest who she was. “I am Penelope Alonso—or rather, I was. Now I’m Penelope Alonso Caldwell.”

  “You’re married!” The woman beamed.

  “Widowed.”

  Her face fell. “Oh, no! I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you. It’s been over a year. The first shock is over.” Penelope recited the usual soothing phrases, then changed the subject. “I’m sorry, but I can’t place you.”

  “Brooke… Brooke Petersson. It’s been years, and we really barely brushed shoulders.” Brooke’s eyes narrowed intently. “You were here that summer after your freshman year, an intern at Bella Terra resort in… Wait. I almost have it… interior design.”

  “That’s right.” Penelope was seriously impressed. “You have a great memory.”

  “I’ve had to have. I’m the head concierge at Bella Terra resort and we’re expected to remember everything about everybody. Although actually—I recently got married and quit.”

  Penelope lifted her brows. She had barely known Brooke before, but somehow this woman didn’t seem the type to leave a job she loved for a man.

  Brooke launched into an explanation. “I quit before I married him. I was going to work in Sweden. He persuaded me to stay.” She half smiled. “Anyway, I remember you because you and I were roadkill in the Di Luca love caravan, and I felt such a kinship with you!”

  Remembrance jolted through Penelope. “That’s right! I remember now. Gossip said you and one of the Di Lucas had had a thing in high school and then split when you both left for college. Something about he wanted to join the military and you didn’t like it?”

  “You have a pretty good memory yourself.” Brooke picked up her bagel and nibbled on the edge. “What are you doing in Bella Terra? I never would have thought you would return.”

  Here it was. Penelope’s chance to get the scoop, and from the former concierge of Bella Terra resort. “I have business with Joseph Bianchin. Do you know him? Do you know if he’s in town?”

  Brooke’s eyes went flat and cool. “No, he’s not. I don’t know when he’s coming back—if ever.”

  Penelope’s fork stopped halfway to her mouth. She stared at Brooke.

  Her horror must have shown on her face, for Brooke said, “What? What did you want to see him for?” A thought seemed to jolt through her. “He didn’t get you pregnant, did he?”

  Shock rocked Penelope backward on her stool. “No. Ew. No! He’s past eighty!”

  “He’s a nasty old man,” Bro
oke said, “and I wouldn’t put it past him to promise the world to a young woman and then betray her. But I’ve insulted you by insinuating you’d sleep with the old fart. Forgive me.”

  “It’s all right.” What an eye-opening revelation of how Joseph Bianchin was viewed in the community.

  “I’m bitter about him,” Brooke said. “We’ve had a lot of problems here in Bella Terra and he started them all.”

  Penelope sighed. “I know he has a challenging personality.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “I researched him. He’s a jerk. But I need to talk to him and I really don’t have the funds to sit around here and wait until he—”

  “Slinks back into town? Really, I don’t think that will be very soon.” Brooke studied Penelope and nibbled the bagel, studied and nibbled the bagel. “Did you become an interior designer? Finish the courses and everything?”

  “I had a full-ride scholarship to the University of Cincinnati and finished their five-year interior design program. Best studies program in the country.” Maybe Penelope was a little too emphatic, but she had the baggage to justify a little bragging.

  “Very cool. My husband and I just bought a house. Our first house. Here in town. It’s an old Victorian built in 1913. It’s thirty-nine hundred square feet in three stories, built on half a city block, really a great house, but it needs work. I’ve been going there every day since we closed on the deal, making sketches and stuff—”

  Penelope listened with rising excitement.

  “—but I’ve realized that looking through architectural magazines and watching HGTV doesn’t qualify me to redesign this monstrosity. Would you be willing to take a look…?”

  Penelope tried very hard not to jump up and down and squeal. Because this wasn’t why she was here, but—what an opportunity!

  Instead she concentrated on presenting a reassuring, professional image. “I’ve got my résumé and references on my computer. I can shoot them right to you. I worked in Cincinnati for a design firm—we did office interiors. It was great money, and my husband and I were trying to start a family, so I kept at it, but what I always wanted to do was work with older homes—”

  “This was meant to be!” Brooke put her hand on Penelope’s forearm.

  Penelope observed the contrast of Brooke’s pale skin against Penelope’s own warmly tanned flesh, and thought how nice it was to have someone touch her in kindness. It had been so long since Keith had died, since life had been lived in sunshine, since she’d been able to concentrate on the mundane bits that made up the days she imagined she wanted to live.… She was so tired of being melancholy. More than anything in the world, she wanted not to be alone.

  “I think you’re right.” Penelope knew she was going to make things worse, but that after that they would be better, easier for Brooke, who she hoped could be a friend, and really, no one needed to know the whole truth. “I know it seems dramatic, but after Keith died, I kept working at my firm for a while, but when I discovered my mother’s cancer had metastasized, I quit my job and returned to Portland to stay with my mom until the end”—she was leaving out a huge, heavy chunk of grief, but who would blame her?—“so I’m unemployed and short on funds. I am glad to have you check my credentials—they’re impeccable, I promise—and you can show me your house, and I hope we can come to an agreement.”

  Brooke scribbled an address on half a napkin, then used the other half to wrap up what was left of her bagel and drop it in her purse. “Are you finished eating?”

  “Pretty much.” Penelope crunched her last bite of bacon. “How do you eat so little?”

  “This was my second breakfast.” Brooke put a five on the counter and waved to the waitress, who waved back and kept pouring coffee.

  Outside, she handed Penelope the napkin. “Follow me, and if you get lost, there’s the address. It’s the three-story white Victorian with two huge oaks in the front and an overgrown blackberry thicket on one side.”

  “Okay. I’ll meet you there.” This was it. Penelope followed Brooke, determined not to lose her.

  This offer of a job is an omen. I am in the right place at the right time. I am doing the right thing.

  At last.

  Chapter 8

  A mere five blocks later, Brooke turned into an old neighborhood filled with a mixture of grand Victorian homes and small fifties bungalows. She pulled up before one of the largest houses.

  Penelope parked behind her, turned off the motor, stepped out onto the sidewalk, and studied the project with slowly rising excitement.

  From the top of the tall, narrow cupola to the place where the foundation sank its sturdy concrete footings into the brown dirt, the home was a jumble of classic styles, with irregular, steeply sloping roofs, a round turret on the left front, a wraparound porch with turned posts and a pediment above the steps, and massive double doors with cut-glass panels at the sides and above.

  This Victorian was a noble monument to bygone days. Yet the wide swath of wood shingles that circled the second story showed signs of rot, the decorative porch railing sagged, and plywood covered an upstairs window.

  “Isn’t she a beauty?” Penelope murmured in awe.

  “Yes!” Brooke turned and hugged her. “I knew you’d see it, too! The bones are there. All we have to do is a face-lift to the outside, maybe some Botox to stop the rot, some filler to smooth out the wrinkles—”

  Penelope laughed. “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

  “My mother-in-law is a movie star, and right now she’s practicing for her first Broadway role. She’s growing old gracefully… with the aid of her dearest plastic surgeon.” Brooke gestured to the porch. “My mother suffers from rheumatoid arthritis, and one of my husband’s great-aunts is in a wheelchair, so on the side of the porch, we have to construct a handicapped ramp.”

  “That’s always a wise idea, and with the right design, it’ll fit right in.” As they walked up the steps, Penelope’s fingers itched for a sketch pad.

  “Come inside. Don’t worry about falling through the porch. It’s not original construction. About fifty years ago, someone replaced the boards and they’re still in pretty good shape.” Brooke waved a hand at the peeling paint. “At least, structurally speaking.” Pulling a keyless fob from her purse, she clicked it. She typed in a code on the keypad beside the door. Only then did she turn the knob. At Penelope’s raised eyebrows, she said, “My husband’s in security. As soon as we closed on the house, and before he would let me set foot inside, he replaced all the locks with electronic sensors. It’s not traditional, but it’s reliable, and like I said, lately we’ve had a few problems in Bella Terra.”

  “Must be some impressive problems.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Brooke sounded disgusted.

  Penelope meant to inquire further, but as they stepped into the two-story entry hall, the prospect of working on this project took her breath away.

  A few broken pieces of furniture remained scattered throughout the visible rooms, but for the most part, the place was, as Brooke had said, stripped down to its bones.

  Yet what glorious bones those were.

  The solid wood floor swept into the parlor at the left and the grand room on the right, toward the curving sweep of the staircase and into the shadows beyond. The plaster walls met the wainscoting of the ceiling, and at each corner a carved wooden ribbon held a spray of plaster flowers. A mirror, mottled with age, decorated the wall over a broken, listing entry table. The crystal chandelier hung in front of the transom window atop the door.

  Brooke flipped the switch; the massive chandelier lit, but half of the thirty candle-shaped bulbs were burned out. Cobwebs and dust obscured the rest of the illumination, leaving the entry still in shadow.

  Yet Penelope could see what had put that hopeful expression on Brooke’s face. “The house faces west, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And as the sun sets, the rays strike the prisms and rainbows dance up the stairs?�
�

  “Yes!” Brooke beamed.

  “When it’s cleaned, it will be magnificent.” Penelope tossed her soft leather purse into the corner of the entry, knelt, and ran her hand over the floor, scratched and worn, yet glowing with ambers and with a distinctive grain pattern she thought she recognized. “Is this heart pine?” She had to ask. It was so rare, she’d seen it used only once before, in a historical mansion in Virginia.

  Brooke leaned against the doorframe, tense with excitement. “They told us that’s what it is, but I don’t know what that means.”

  “It means that it is cut from the heart of first-growth pine trees that stood before the first settlers arrived on these shores, trees so old and so large that their straight-grained heartwood could be used for flooring. Even if there were such trees now, they’d be preserved, and rightfully not cut for such vanities as heart pine flooring.” In theory, Penelope mourned the trees that gave their lives for such a frivolous vanity, but that had happened long before she was born. And to have a chance to work with such beauty…

  “Now I know what it means. It means we scored big-time,” Brooke said.

  “Exactly, because this wood is known for its resilience, and once you have it sanded and refinished, it will last you and your children and your grandchildren.” Penelope watched as Brooke passed a betraying hand over her belly. “I haven’t seen the whole house yet, but if the rest of it has these kinds of accoutrements… restoration will bring it back to magnificence.”

  “I know!” Alive with eagerness, Brooke stepped away from the door and slammed it shut.

  Standing, Penelope asked, “Where shall we start?”

  Two trips to the drugstore and a food delivery later, the two women sat on the bottom step in the entry, picking the toppings off the remains of a large cheese-and-pesto pizza.

  As the day progressed, Brooke seemed to have recovered her appetite.

  Penelope propped her brand-new grid-paper pad on her knees and sketched her ideas for the remodel of the main floor. “We’ve got the kitchen at the back of the house—it’s going to have to be gutted. There’s a good-size pantry and a large porch we can incorporate into the house as a breakfast nook. We’ve got the dining room between the kitchen and the parlor. Now, I’m pretty sure this is a load-bearing wall”—she pointed at the wall that divided the parlor from the dining room—“which means it supports the structure of the second floor. We can’t remove it without consulting an engineer to design a load-bearing substitute.”