Then something small and unexpected would streak into his field of vision and with no warning would rip away the scab of six years’ making.
It didn’t happen often now, thank God. But for one crazy, impulsive second, still caught in the snare of the dream, Malcolm wanted to call Cleo. To talk about their boy, to make him real again, to hold him here.
But he and Cleo never spoke anymore. She had her life; he had his. Twenty-eight years of marriage had vanished like smoke in the ashes of David’s death and Victoria’s disappearance. They had hung on for a year of agony, long months when their every word had been tainted with pain. Finally, she’d begged him to leave for a while. Equally as stunned by the plea as desperate for a solution, he’d complied. Cleo had watched him go with relief in her eyes. They’d no longer been able to see anything but grief and blame when they looked at each other.
He’d never intended the separation to become permanent, but soon divorce papers had arrived. Like a man betrayed and captured behind the lines of battle, wounded and shell-shocked, he’d signed them. What little he knew of Cleo’s life now came in fragments dropped by their daughter Betsey. Cleo had opened her West Sixth Street gift shop after their divorce and made a success of it. He passed by every day on his way home from work, and some days, he wondered what would happen if he stopped.
He never did. There was no point. Cleo had made the transition, and so had he. He had Joanna now. Did Cleo have someone? He couldn’t quite hope she did.
The shower began, and Malcolm slid out of bed, then padded across the pale carpet. On his way, he glanced in the mirror over the bureau. Not bad. At fifty-five, he could probably pass for mid forties. He biked; he worked out five days a week; he took the stairs instead of the elevator; he watched what he ate.
When you had a woman in your life who was twenty years younger, you’d better damn well watch your waistline. He didn’t kid himself that Joanna would stick around if he didn’t. He thought she cared about him, but Malcolm didn’t assume that she would be there when he was old. He’d never asked her to marry him, likely never would. She hadn’t mentioned it, either.
Joanna was into success and ambition. She’d carved out an impressive career as a lobbyist, and she rubbed shoulders with power every day. Sleek and blond and tall, she had a softer side, but it seldom showed. He didn’t doubt she would regret losing the good times if they parted, but she was not the nurturing sort. Malcolm was a well-connected and successful investor, but if he lost his edge, she’d be gone, and Malcolm knew it. It was what he had liked about her from the beginning—that she would never break his heart.
Because he would never love her. Love could heal, but it could devastate. He’d save what was left of the emotion that had once pervaded his every cell for his daughter Betsey’s two girls. For Betsey, who tried so hard to be enough now that her siblings were gone.
When he shoved open the bathroom door, Joanna backed away from the mirror and stepped quickly into the shower without a word of greeting. Malcolm frowned. It wasn’t often that they showered together, but that wouldn’t account for the look on her face, one he’d seen several times recently. Almost anger—but he could think of nothing he’d done to provoke it.
He opened the glass door and entered. “Are you all right?”
With jerky motions, she lathered the shampoo into high peaks and nodded, still facing away from him.
Malcolm stroked her back, leaning down to nip at her shoulder. Joanna stiffened. He placed his hands on her hips and slowly turned her toward him. “What is it?”
Pale. A bit guilty. “Nothing. I have to be in the office early.”
He took her chin in his hand and studied eyes that flared in defiance. “How early?” But the smile that usually drew one from her—the one she claimed to adore—wasn’t working.
“Too soon.” She turned and rinsed, but not before he saw something like apology in her gaze.
Malcolm took the conditioner out of her hands and poured some in one palm. Then he proceeded to massage it into her scalp and smooth it through her golden hair. Normally, she would relax. Sometimes, it even constituted foreplay.
Not today. Shoulders rigid, she waited as though a racehorse ready to run, a nearly imperceptible trembling in her frame. The second he finished, she moved under the shower flow.
“What is it, hon? Don’t try to tell me there’s nothing wrong.”
She whirled, and her feet slipped from beneath her. Malcolm caught her against him, and for one moment she relaxed, leaning her forehead against his jaw, her breath warm against his skin.
“I—” She shook her head. “No, Malcolm.” Straightening, she grabbed the door handle and pushed. “Not right now.”
If her voice hadn’t quivered, he would have let her go. Joanna was not an easy woman to live with, subject to mood swings, solitary by nature, driven and focused and seldom relaxed. But this was something different. Somehow she appeared…vulnerable.
Vulnerable? Joanna?
Malcolm cut off the shower and stepped out. He would finish later.
“What is it, babe?”
“Don’t call me babe. It’s demeaning.” She cranked up the blow dryer, making it impossible to talk.
Malcolm ignored the retort and considered her while he wrapped a towel around his waist. Long, smooth flanks, small, high breasts, hips that barely flared from a slender waist. A thoroughbred down to her toes, she wore clothes like a mannequin, a perfect size six and only a few inches shorter than his own six foot two.
Joanna glanced at him in the mirror and shut off the dryer, then donned the robe she rarely wore. Tying it tightly around her waist, she moved toward her closet.
Malcolm grabbed her arm. “Joanna, something’s wrong, and I want to know what. Is it work?”
She jerked away and kept going. “No.”
“Anything I did?”
She snorted, but the sound was elegant, as was everything about Joanna.
“How the hell am I supposed to fix it if I have no idea what it is?”
“I didn’t ask you to fix it.” She pondered her clothes as though the meaning of life lay draped over a hanger.
“Fine.” Malcolm stalked out of the room and pondered why he didn’t live alone. Cleo had done so since the divorce and from all reports was doing fine.
But he understood why. He liked waking up with a woman, enjoyed sleeping with one tucked against him. Relished the way they smelled and the mess they made of his bathroom with all their bottles and potions. This place was too antiseptic after all the years of kids and pets and bikes on the lawn. He’d thought that not being surrounded by clutter, in something new and bright that required no mowing or painting, would be a welcome relief. But every day, it mocked him.
He could live alone all right. Maybe he would again soon. If he required any assurance that he didn’t love Joanna, the lack of pain in that thought should have told him for certain.
Feeling a little guilt at the ease with which he could let her go, Malcolm turned back toward the bathroom and pushed open the door.
Joanna stood in her closet, her face in her hands and shoulders shaking.
If the sun had come up in the west that day, Malcolm couldn’t have been more shocked. Joanna didn’t cry—ever. He’d never been certain her tear ducts functioned.
Malcolm crossed the expanse of tile and glass, came up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. Joanna recoiled, wiping at her cheeks with the palms of her hands.
“Whatever it is, I’ll help you, Joanna. Just talk to me.”
“Damn you, I’m pregnant.”
Shock sizzled down his spine, followed by a joy so intense he could barely speak. Malcolm forgot that he didn’t love her, that two minutes before, he’d been ready to let her go.
A child. His child.
“But that’s great, honey!” He smiled with the rush of a pleasure so visceral he shivered.
“I’m not having it.” Her chin jutted, her eyes sparking with mutiny.
“What? Why?”
“I don’t want children, Malcolm. I have no idea how this happened. I was so careful. It ruins everything.” Always-elegant Joanna all but wailed out her accusation.
“No need to be hasty. Take some time to get used to the idea. We can get married right away. We can—” He started pacing the room. “I’ll find out about a license today, and John will marry us—” He whirled back and studied her belly for signs of rounding. “When is it due?”
Her eyes turned to stone. “I don’t want to get married.”
“Okay, you prefer to be nonconformist about this. It leads to so many questions later, when a child is older, and it’s not really fair to the child, but we can talk—”
“You’re not listening to me, Malcolm.” The voice snapped each word out like gunfire. “I—do—not—want—this—baby.”
Malcolm could not believe how much the words hurt him. Or that five minutes ago, he’d been prepared to live a different life. Now everything was changed. His baby was stirring to life in this woman’s body.
Still, he tried to be objective. “Because it’s mine?”
The eyes softened then. Joanna shook her head. “No, that’s not it. If I—” Her voice caught. “If I were going to have a child, you’d be a perfect father.”
He smiled in relief. “You’re just nervous. Hey, I’ve got lots of experience with kids. I’ll show you the ropes.”
Her tone hardened again. “I know you would. But it doesn’t change anything. I don’t want to be a mother, Malcolm. I never did.” She moved away. “I’ll make an appointment to handle it. I hadn’t planned to tell you, and I’m sorry I slipped.”
Rage all but blinded him. He jerked her around. “You can’t get rid of my child. I won’t let you.”
“What are you going to do? Tie me to a chair until it’s born?”
He could see that she meant it. If she was bent on proceeding, there was nothing to prevent her.
Malcolm eased his grip on her elbow and dragged a deep breath into his lungs. Where was his leverage? Suddenly this child’s life was everything. He had to find a way to stop her. “I’m sorry. I don’t—Joanna, I’ll beg if I must. Please don’t do this.”
“I can’t be a mother, Malcolm. Don’t ask me to. I just can’t.” Fear leaped high in her eyes.
“You only think that because this is new to you. You’ll handle it as well as you do everything else. And I really am good at parenthood. I’ll teach you.”
Her voice lowered in sympathy. “This is about David, isn’t it?”
“Of course not.” Instantly, he was sorry he’d ever shared any of his pain. Her expression made it clear that she pitied him, and he understood then that he had no desire to raise a child with this woman, didn’t want her as his baby’s mother. She was nothing like—
Cleo. Damn. Why couldn’t it be Cleo here right now? She would rejoice with him. She would be thrilled, already mentally redecorating a room for a nursery. But Cleo’s baby-making days were over. He’d thought his were, too. To care about this so much was insane, but he did. Whatever was required, this child must survive.
“Okay. You don’t have to marry me. You can walk away, scot-free, once it’s born. Name your price, Joanna.”
Her eyes went wide. “You can’t raise a child alone.”
“The hell I can’t.”
“Malcolm, you’re too—” She halted, but he understood what she meant.
“I’m not too old, and I’m in great health. Men in my family live a long time. I’d have the money to retire right now if I decided to do it. I can afford help.”
“Maybe it’s not your child.”
She was lying, but the thought stopped him cold. Why did this mean so much? Was he grasping for a shield against aging? A second chance? Another bid for immortality because his name would go on?
Malcolm had no idea and didn’t wish to think about any of that now. He had to buy time. “You may not want to raise it, but do you really have it in you to do this, Joanna?”
Her chin thrust forward. “It’s my choice to make.”
“Is it?” he challenged.
The tension ratcheted. The room went silent, the air around them charged.
Her words sent panic slamming through his veins. He’d have defended any woman’s right to make the choice—until this moment. But now it wasn’t simply an idea, not some abstract debate. This was his baby, and he couldn’t be philosophical anymore.
As anger rose, he caught a look at her face. She wasn’t just mad. She was scared.
Slow down, he told himself. You’re going at her too fast, too hard.
And to be fair, the pregnancy affected her more. He could be responsible for everything once that child was born, but he couldn’t handle the next several months for her. Couldn’t prevent the thoroughbred frame from changing.
“I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to say that.” Suddenly he lacked the words. At the most critical juncture of his life, his glib tongue failed him. All he had left was his heart.
“This has to be a shock for you. I understand how important your career is and that this doesn’t fit into any of your plans.”
He raked tense fingers through his hair and began to pace. “Maybe you’re right. This might be about David more than I want to admit. And yes, I’m not young anymore, but I’m a long way from the grave. Plenty of men have become fathers at my age.”
Malcolm faced her. “You’ve never held your child in your arms, but I have. There’s nothing that even comes close.” He felt a spark of hope from the indecision flickering across her features and took his first deep breath since she’d confessed. “You might like it, Joanna, more than you realize.”
She stiffened again. “I doubt that.”
He tamped down his anger. There would be no second chance if he blew it now. “Fine. Maybe you’re right. But the fact remains that it’s my child, too.”
He could see her protest forming and held up one hand to stop it. “All I’m asking for is time for both of us to think.”
“I don’t have much left.”
“I’m sorry.” And he was. This had to be wreaking havoc inside her. Watching for signs that she would shy away again, he reached for her. She remained stiff. “Please, Joanna. Just promise you won’t take any actions without talking to me first. The legislature’s not in session this next year, so your workload will be lighter. I could spirit you off somewhere so that no one would know. You’ve labored hard for a long time—you’ve earned a sabbatical. Who’s to complain if your lover decides to pamper you?”
“I could lose all my contacts, Malcolm. Six months is too long to be gone.”
“You’ve got a solid reputation. You can text, email, video call—you can easily stay in touch with your contacts. Please, Jo. Just give me a chance to figure out a solution.”
She stared at him silently.
Malcolm held his breath.
“You’ve got one week.”
“A month. Give me a month. My business doesn’t wrap up easily.”
“Neither does mine.”
Of course she was right. But this was too important. If he had to, he’d cancel every contract he had going. “Two weeks.”
Joanna stared at him. “Two weeks. But don’t get your hopes up.”
He held out a hand to signal agreement on the most critical negotiation of his life. Summoned a smile to hide the nerves. “I’ll make you an offer you can’t turn down.”
Her slender hand clasped his larger one. “Your charm won’t be enough, Malcolm, potent though it is. I do business with charming men every day.”
He was certain then that their relationship was over, regardless. Whatever had brought them together, Malcolm looked at Joanna Wainwright and realized that he’d been drifting from day to day, week to week, piling up money too easily while puffing his chest that a beautiful, much-younger woman was on his arm and in his bed.
He’d once had a life that had cut to the marrow of existence. He’d
poured his heart into his children; he’d loved a woman down to his soul—
He’d lost all of it. Walked away stunned like a survivor of a bomb blast, living only in the moment and forgetting what was truly important.
There was nothing Malcolm could do to bring David back. To reclaim the lost daughter he feared he’d never see again. And Cleo? She’d gone on without him. All that had been good in his life was over.
But inside the belly of a woman who didn’t want it lay his chance for redemption.
Negotiation was his lifeblood, structuring compromises and win-win situations. He would find a way with this, the most important deal he’d ever attempted.
Cleo slowed as she approached the back door of her shop. The door was half-open in deference to the crisp, cool air, which meant that Sandor was inside, busy, as usual.
Sandor Miklós Wolfe had entered her life as an act of mercy, but he had become her cherished friend. Raised in Hungary by his grandmother, he had arrived in Austin nearly a year ago at the age of thirty-four to experience the world of the American father, long dead, whom he had never met.
He was the hardest worker she’d ever known. He’d come to the shop seeking employment she couldn’t afford to offer, but he had quickly shown her, through a series of odd jobs that desperately needed doing, that it would be folly to refuse him. He had worked too cheap, and when she’d discovered that he had no place to stay, she’d allowed him to set up a cot in her storeroom.
Along the way, she’d stumbled upon his true gift, practiced late at night, for woodcarving. She constantly urged him to let her show his work to gallery owners she knew, but thus far, he’d refused, calling it only a hobby.
In the meantime, he sought out jobs from others and saved nearly every cent, paying cash for his tools and an old pickup and, a few days ago, making a deal to trade repairs for rent on a garage apartment not far away.
He still did his carving in her storeroom, but she would lose that soon, she imagined. His daily presence was so comforting that she wasn’t eager for him to leave.
The House That Love Built Page 2