CBN.com – Lance Michelli's
quest for answers continues in this sequel to Secrets, an inspirational
romance set in the idyllic wine country of California. Will unforgotten
truths change everything for him and the woman he loves? Read
an excerpt below.
Prologue
1931
A moonless night invites deceit,
empty sky glutting the stars with self-importance.
The scritch of my fountain pen stills as I raise my eyes to the
chill night slipping through my window. I wait; I listen. No tones
of Kate Smith from Nonno's radio, only the raspy yowls of two
cats tangling and the throbbing crickets' refrain. Only the quickened
pulse of the night.
I should curl up and sleep, ignore the feeling inside of something
creeping just beyond my thoughts, but there is a bitter tang in
my mouth like sorrow. And Papa's words haunt me. "Take
Nonno and hide if trouble comes." What trouble, Papa?
But I know its name.
Arthur Tremaine Jackson. Eyes with no depth, like pewter plates,
that look as though he knows everything and has a right to know
it. Papa didn't argue when I said that. He merely answered, "Some
people want too much."
I don't want too much, only what I have. But lately I find myself
looking at a vine bursting with blossoms that will become grapes,
at a path I have walked a thousand times, at Papa especially,
and I feel a seizing sense of loss. Nonna Carina called it angel
sight, my knowing things before I should. "You have a
gift, Antonia. Do not fear it."
But I fear it now as the little hairs rise on my neck, as my
hands grow cold with speculation. The sides of my mouth are dry
as chalk. The only other time it was this strong was when Momma
died and I felt the angel of death pass down the hall. My hands
clench with remembrance.
At a sound outside, I spring to my feet. Tires on the drive and
the hum of an engine. I snatch up my diary--no prying eyes will
see it--turn off the lamp and hurry to a front window. A car is
coming, but not Papa's Ford. It skims the side of the drive and
slinks in among the trees lining it. The engine stops; the lamps
go off.
But I know the shape of that Packard convertible coupe. Someone
gets out the far side. Though I can't see his face, I see him
move with stealthy purpose, keeping to the shadows. The driver
climbs out, nearly invisible in the trees, but with the flicker
of a match cupped near his mouth, I see the glint of Arthur Jackson's
hair, his sharp features. Red ash glowing, he leans on the fender
and looks up. Though I cannot be seen in the darkened window,
his metal gaze pierces me.
Does he want us to know he's here? This could be planned; a meeting
with Papa maybe. Or will Papa be caught by surprise? My heart
clutches. I have to warn him!
But his instructions were clear. "If trouble comes
..." Is this trouble? It feels like trouble.
I shove the diary into the waist of my skirt and run downstairs,
praying with each step, then into the room off the kitchen that
is Nonno's place. I shake him awake, the words trembling on my
lips. "Come, Nonno. Hurry. There's trouble."
His eyes jerk open, confusion swimming in their gray depths.
"Trouble?"
My heart lodges in my throat at the furtive rattling of the front
door. "Someone's here. We have to hide. Quickly." I'll
see Nonno safe, then think what to do about Papa.
Nonno brings his limbs over, but slowly, so slowly to the floor.
I search for his cane as he slides his feet into his shoes, but
there's no time. I sling his arm over my shoulders. Leaning on
each other, we pass through the kitchen, still smelling of warm
bread and garlic.
The front door wrenches open.
"Hurry, Nonno!" I help him into the pantry and shut
the door behind us, hardly breathing. Together, we grope past
jarred tomatoes, jams, vinegary peppers, wheels of cheese, and
sausages hanging from the ceiling. At the back wall, I feel my
way down the shelves. There. My fingers slip into the hole, find
the lever and release the catch that opens the wall.
I'll see Nonno safely into the cellar. But Papa will come, and
when he does ...
My heart lurches at the sound of footsteps in the kitchen, steps
of stealth and malice. I close the wall panel behind us, leaving
only a pantry. But in the blackness of the other side, I lean
and listen. Either he, too, waits and listens, or the prowler
has moved on. He'll find the house empty, report it to Arthur
Jackson. Then go away! Go away before Papa comes home.
There's no gas or electricity in the cellar, so I light the kerosene
lamp hanging on a hook and look down to where Papa said to hide.
I promised, but how can I hide when he might come home to a trap?
I swallow the lump in my throat. First things first.
Nonno is too old to run, too unsteady to fight. I grab a metal
rod from the corner and stick one end into the gears, then wedge
the other end into the wall, pressing, then banging with my palms.
No one will reach Nonno through this door.
With the lamp in one hand and Nonno leaning heavily, I start
down into the cellar that holds racks of red Cabernet and Pinot
Grigio. The DiGratia vines yield fruit regardless of Prohibition,
and Nonno will not allow their waste. Our last bottlings we've
sold for sacramental use, but Papa and Nonno argued over this
year's vintage, blessed by extra weeks of sunshine, no frost,
no moldering damp.
And so the wine waits. Papa will not let it go cheap; Nonno refuses
to consider an illegal sale. He says the government will soon
see its folly. Papa tells him governments gorge on folly and there
is no glut in sight.
Is this the trouble he meant? Did the banker Arthur Jackson promise
Papa a more lucrative market for our wine? I wouldn't doubt it,
but if he was there to take delivery, Papa would not have said
to hide in the cellar, and someone would not have broken into
our house to lie in wait.... Don't think it. Bad thoughts
bring bad luck.
We reach the bottom of the stairs. "Come, Non--"
My words break at a sound overhead like marbles spilled on tile,
a spattering of sharp, angry snaps. Papa! I spin, but
Nonno's grip tightens. On his face a look of pain. "Nonno,
it's Papa. It must be." Sobs climb my throat.
Shaking his head, he draws me on through the cellar, limping
and staggering. Papa ... Grief floods my eyes. I have
to know, but Nonno won't let go. In the canting light we grope
into the arched tunnel at the end of the cellar, and I guess his
intention. We'll go out this way and--
"Nonno?"
He seizes his chest and falls against the wall, clutching his
arm, then sinking to his knees.
"Nonno, what's wrong!" I clank down the lamp and grab
onto him. "Nonno, hold on. Hold on, I'll get help."
He clings to me and rasps, "No, Antonia. You must not be
found."
Not be found? What ... Gunshots. Arthur Jackson. Reality crushes
me.
"Antonia." He works too hard for words. "Under
..." He sags.
"Nonno?" I cradle his head, feeling each of his ragged
breaths in the feeble rise and fall of his chest. His eyelids
flutter like the slow beat of tattered butterfly wings, then close.
Upstairs something horrible has happened, and in my arms it continues.
Nonno! Papa! But there is only the scent of fear and
grief as I rock on my knees, silently keening.
There is no time in the darkness of the cellar, only the pulsing
of my grief. But slowly my name penetrates, not hollered, but
whispered with urgency.
Nonno? His head is cold in my lap.
The whisper comes again, and someone steps into the lamp's glow.
Relief and confusion swirl. "Marco? What are you... ?"
"Shh." He drops beside me, touches Nonno Quillan's
throat to learn what I know already, then meets my tear-filled
gaze. "We have to go."
"Go? I can't leave--"
He grabs hold of my shoulders, dark eyes intense in his grim
face. "There's nothing more you can do for him."
Where are the laughing eyes, the ardent mouth? Marco, the carefree
beau. What is he doing here? "How did you get in? How did
you know?" The cellar is my family's secret. He would not
just find it.
"Vittorio told me."
Papa told Marco?
He slides Nonno's head from my lap, folds the arms across his
chest.
No. Leave him alone. Don't pose him like a dead man.
I suck in a sob. "Papa's been shot. I heard it."
He pulls me to my feet. "Let's go."
"I have to stay."
"You can't."
My hand stings with the slap. "Don't tell me I can't."
He takes hold of my arm, but I swing again. Marco ducks, grabs
hold of me hard, trapping my arms and hissing, "He'll guess
you saw and heard."
"I did see!" I thrash. "Arthur Jackson--"
He plants his hand over my mouth. "Don't say it. Don't tell
anyone what you know." I kick and squirm, but he forces me
along the tunnel to the intruder gate he has left open. I have
never felt such fury.
The diary digs into my ribs as I fight. Marco tightens his arms
and pushes me through the gate that closes behind us. How has
he gotten so strong, so cruel? I jerk my face free and sink my
teeth into his wrist, wanting to hurt him more than I have ever
wanted anything before.
Sucking in a breath, he eases his flesh out of my teeth. "Believe
me, cara. There's no other way."
Believe him? I don't know him, have never seen this man who grabs
hold and forces me to leave behind the ones I love. What if Papa
didn't tell him? Was it Marco in the kitchen?
Panic infuses my struggle. Exasperated, he hoists me over his
shoulder, trapping my kicking legs with a bear-like grip. The
diary bites into my belly as he climbs the stairs, emerging into
the garage. My inverted view passes over timbers that once formed
stabling partitions, tools and pails and mechanical items. Then
Marco lowers me to the floor.
The moment my feet touch, I haul back and kick his knee. "How
dare you!"
Wincing, he grips his leg, and I shove him hard. Arms flung wide,
he falls to his back.
"Get out of my sight." I clench my hands, wishing he
couldn't see me shaking.
Marco rolls to his feet as the door opens and Joseph Martino
slips inside. Joseph won't expect me to leave when Nonno ... But
he looks from me to Marco, and something passes between them,
a slight shake of Joseph's head.
"What?" What did they communicate with a head shake?
Marco limps toward me. "We have to get out of here."
I turn to Joseph. "Nonno Quillan is dead."
Joseph's face twists with pain. "Quillan?"
I point to the hatch. "His heart ..." My words break
on a sob. Joseph will understand my pain. He will share it. And
there are tears in his eyes, tears in mine. But now I see blood
on Joseph's hand.
My gaze jerks to the house. "Papa?"
Joseph blocks the door. "He's gone, Antonia. And Marco's
right. You have to get out of here."
A moan passes through me. They'll find Papa and investigate.
But what about Nonno? If they find the cellar with the wine, they'll
think Papa did something wrong, that he deserved to die.
But Nonno ... My head spins. I couldn't save him. The pain is
suffocating, but suddenly I know. I couldn't save his life, but
I can keep his secret. "I have to bury Nonno."
"Don't be crazy," Marco barks, reaching for my arm.
Shoving his hand away, I search the garage, snagging my glance
on the timbers. I've blocked the pantry door, and that leaves
only one other way in. If I block it ... "The cellar will
be his tomb."
"Antonia ..."
Glowering at Marco, I grab a board, haul it to the hatch and
wedge it between the stairs and the underside of the floor. I
turn back, but Joseph is beside me already with more. Back and
forth, until the three of us press the last boards into the tangle.
Sweat glistens on Marco's forehead. I press the hatch shut, and
even though the square pavers fit snugly with the rest of the
floor, I'm not satisfied. "Now dirt. So no one sees the hatch."
Like a tomb lost in desert sands.
Marco grips my arm, hissing, "We don't have time."
Joseph takes my other hand. "Please, Antonia. Go now."
He turns and grabs a shovel. "I'll cover the floor. No one
will disturb him." I can smell his fear.
I squeeze his hand. "Promise."
He presses our hands to his heart. "With the loyalty I owe
your Nonno Quillan, I promise I will hide and guard his resting
place until you return."
My eyes stream with tears as I stop resisting Marco's pull. His
Studebaker is directly outside the door, engine running, a great,
growling beast swallowing me up as Marco presses me into the passenger
seat, runs around and gets behind the wheel.
"Where are you taking me?" My voice has died with the
ones I'm leaving behind.
"As far away as I can get you." He hooks his arm over
the seat and spins the car back and around.
As we hurl down the drive and away from the only home I've ever
known, I clutch my stomach and feel the empty skirt. No diary.
Marco will not turn back, I know. I must have lost it in our struggle.
I press my fingers to my forehead. What difference does it make?
That life is gone, that Antonia dead. As dead and gone as everything
I love.
Excerpted from Unforgotten
by Kristen Heitzmann, Copyright © 2005, published by Bethany
House Publishers. Used by permission. Unauthorized duplication
prohibited.
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