Instead, he heard her exhale sharply. “Malcolm, wait.” He could almost see her gnaw at that lower lip, her green eyes troubled, head ducked slightly in remorse. She’d always regretted it when her wit cut too close. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. I’m sure she’s lovely.”
He could hear a but coming. “But?”
She chuckled softly. “I wish you’d forgotten more.”
I haven’t forgotten enough, Snow. His smile was wry. “Sorry.” Then he pressed. “There’s something else. What is it?”
“I honestly don’t have any idea how to break this to you, so I’ll just spit it out.”
He frowned but said nothing.
“She has a child. A boy, about four. They’ve been living in her car, Malcolm. Our grandson. Benjy—Benjamin David.”
The air in the room vanished. “My God.” He fell back in his chair, trying to think past the flash fire in his brain. “Where is her—is she married?”
“I don’t think so, but we didn’t get that far.” There was more; he could hear it in her pause. “Malcolm—” Her voice grew so faint he could barely hear her. “He looks just like David.”
He couldn’t speak. This day had delivered a broad range of emotion already. By the truckload. He’d awakened this morning with no sense that anything had changed. It was not yet noon, and his entire landscape had been altered.
He had a child who might die before he ever held it. His prodigal daughter had returned. He had a grandson, the image of the boy he still mourned. And Cleo, for good or for ill, would be back in his life.
“Malcolm? Are you there?”
He nodded, then realized she couldn’t see him. “Yeah. Speechless, though.”
And then he heard the low, husky laughter that hadn’t caressed his ears in aeons. “Tell me about it. I was barely awake and thought my worst problem was Lola doing Gypsy Rose Lee on the lawn.”
Malcolm chuckled, his chest easing. “How is that wild woman?” Lola was an original. He’d always gotten a kick out of her, even though he often could not admit it. He was supposed to take Cleo’s side. Now he didn’t have to.
“More so than ever. Seventy-four is only a number to her. It has no bearing on who she believes she is.”
“Gypsy today, huh?”
“Probably Ava tomorrow. God knows who by Friday.”
And then they laughed together, and it was as sinful as sex. Forbidden and lovely.
“God. I can’t believe it. May I drop by tonight to see him?”
“Be my guest. I’m not sure I’m going home.”
“The house is filling up, isn’t it? You always picked up strays. David learned it from you.”
“That place was huge three months ago. Maybe you should save the apartment for me, not her. She and Lola will get along like gangbusters. They always did.”
“Why now? What brought her back?” he mused.
“She won’t say. I’m positive she would never darken my door unless it was her last hope. She’s fierce about him, but she won’t be grateful. I know better than to expect that.” Then he heard her voice falter. “He wanted to be certain I had enough milk before he took any, Malcolm.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why didn’t she tell us? Let us help?”
“Why should she think we would?”
And there it was, the pink elephant no one wants to admit is crowding the room.
“It wasn’t my fault!” Victoria screamed at Cleo. “I didn’t see the car.” Chest heaving, eyes wild, she towered over Cleo, and Malcolm stepped closer, fearing she would harm her mother.
“You have never loved me. It was always the others. Perfect Betsey, then The Son, the boy I should have been.”
“That’s not true, Victoria.” Cleo’s face was paper-white. “We love you.”
“Once, maybe. Not in a long time.”
“Victoria, calm down. You have a problem. We can discuss it rationally.”
“Rationally? When you hate the very sight of me? When all you can think is how much you wish it had been me instead of him?”
In that one instant before Cleo denied it, he knew his daughter had seen it, too. Knew it because he had asked God the same question—why? Why David, the good child? Why was Victoria so out of control, so filled with hate and contempt, yet she was allowed to survive?
They didn’t wish Victoria dead, either of them. But they were desperate for her to stop hurting them, quit tearing the family apart when they were already bleeding to death.
And they wanted David back. Unlike Abraham, they cried out to God to ask why He must take their son.
She asked for forgiveness they couldn’t convey. Needed to be told it was not her fault.
But it was.
And she had seen all that in her mother’s eyes. Confirmed it by looking at Malcolm.
As long as he lived, he would never forget the way her whole body had sagged into acceptance. Hunched over and refused comfort they didn’t have to give anyway. They were making it through one day at a time, one minute, one second, by pretending it didn’t hurt to breathe. That everything didn’t seem pointless. That they weren’t lying in bed each night, unable to touch or comfort or share anything but the bare-bones need to survive when they wished they had another choice.
And the next morning they had risen to find her gone.
“Ah, Cleo, I wish—” He didn’t have to finish. She understood the regrets as well as he.
“Me, too. Except I haven’t a clue what to hope for now, not really.” She was silent for a moment. “Come see him whenever you want to, Malcolm. I don’t know how long she’ll tolerate my rules, but I will not let her drink in that house.”
“She’ll just do it somewhere else.”
“Then I’ll take Benjy away from her.” Her voice was low and fierce. “I won’t let another child die.”
For a moment of insanity, Malcolm longed to tell Cleo about the baby. She was the only person who would really understand how he felt.
And the person it would hurt the most to hear.
A dart of sympathy shot through him, and she would hate that the worst. He couldn’t help feeling it, though; Cleo was a wonderful mother. That a man could still father a child long after his mate’s fertile days were over was a cruel trick of nature.
But Cleo wasn’t his mate anymore. They simply had a mutual problem. “I’ll go over there in a while and talk to her, feel her out on her plans.”
“I mean it, Malcolm. That child is too precious. He deserves better.”
“She’s his mother, Cleo. A mother’s rights count for something.” Malcolm shook his head at the irony of that statement, coming from him, today of all days.
“The child’s needs have to count for more. I’ll give it time, but if I see that she’s harming him—”
“She could run again and take him with her.”
Cleo’s voice went ice cold, and she bit out every word. “I am not going to let her hurt him.”
“Easy, Cleo. We don’t have enough information yet.”
“I didn’t call you for advice. I merely felt you should be notified. I’ve been handling things by myself for a long time now.”
Malcolm forced himself to take it slow. “You have. But like it or not, I am Victoria’s father and that boy’s grandfather.”
“Benjy.” Her tone turned sharp. “And she wants to be called Ria.”
David’s pet name for her. For a minute, Malcolm couldn’t breathe. “How could she—?”
“Because she doesn’t care how she hurts us.”
“Don’t—” Malcolm exhaled loudly, rubbing his temple. “I’m sorry. No more arguments. The cards have been dealt. The point is that we both have a place in their lives, and there’s going to be enough tension without us being at odds. We’ve been civil up to now, and I’d like us to present a united front.”
She seemed honestly curious, her tone almost teasing. “And how do you suppose we might pull that off, Malcolm, since we disagreed about al
most everything for twenty-eight years?”
He chuckled, and the tension vanished like morning fog at noon. “But we agreed on the important things, Snow.” The ease with which the pet name escaped his lips was amazing.
He hoped she hadn’t noticed. “Let’s remember that Vic—Ria played us both in the past. I doubt that she’s become less manipulative. But she’s still our daughter and we’ve been given another chance. Let’s see if we can pull it off this time.” He didn’t have to elaborate on the consequences of failure. They’d already paid the highest price a parent would ever be asked to bear.
“I’m not sure I can survive failing again. He’s adorable, Malcolm. And I don’t want to fall short with her, either.”
“Let’s take it one step at a time. How much did you find out about her plans?”
Cleo sighed. “Almost nothing. Benjy was scared, being in a strange place, so I sidestepped the battle to keep from frightening him worse. It was time to open the shop, so I left. But Lola and Cammie were with her. Maybe they know what’s going on.”
“I’ll drop by the shop after I visit them. Maybe we can grab dinner and talk?”
Her hesitation went on a moment too long.
“Never mind.”
“It’s not…it’s just that—”
He didn’t have to be there to see the way she licked her lower lip when she was nervous. He was shocked to his marrow when he felt himself stir at the image.
Whoa. Don’t even go there. It’s just all this talk of the past.
“Forget it. Bad idea. I can call you later.” He glanced at his watch, ready to finish.
“Malcolm—” She seemed resigned. “You’re right. We do have to figure out what to do. I can make you coffee.”
“Whatever. I’ll contact you later.” He disconnected without waiting for her goodbye, wondering why he was so pissed.
All this thinking about mothers and babies, about a life he no longer led, was an overload of memories. When he’d arisen this morning, he’d thought his world was set, that he and Joanna would go on as normal. They’d attend the Longhorn game this weekend, hit a party after, make love and read papers on Sunday, then return to work and start another week.
He’d had so little family these last years, only Betsey and his two granddaughters. Now there was family out the wazoo, and most of it troubled.
Welcome to a new world, Malcolm.
But even as he shook his head, a kernel of excitement grew. A grandson needed a grandfather, especially if there was no man in his life. Malcolm still had a hard time imagining himself as a grandfather—he felt too young. But all the same, he believed he was a good one.
A grandchild and a child, all in one day. And a daughter reappearing. Had to be some kind of record.
Malcolm hit the intercom. “Eleanor? I’m going out for a while. I’ll check in for messages.”
He strode through the door, hoping he’d find left inside his lost child, some remnant of the little girl who’d loved him.
Chapter Six
Down the elevator, past unacknowledged nods from security guards, Malcolm made his way to his car, his mind on the past. On a little girl they’d loved fiercely, though no amount had seemed enough. Betsey’s arrival had occasioned the sibling jealousy in Vic one would expect from a toddler, but David’s birth several years later had been when the real problems began.
As he pulled out of the parking garage and threaded his way through heavy downtown traffic, he recalled the first time he’d realized how threatened Vic had felt about her place in their affections.
“Daddy, make her stop it!”
He’d glanced over his shoulder to where his elder daughter perched on one limb of the big old live oak in their backyard. “Vic, she’s not hurting anything.”
“But the tree house was my idea. We’re building it, just you and me.”
“Yes, it’s our project, but Betsey can help. It’s her tree house, too.”
Victoria’s lower lip trembled, her green eyes glistening. “Nothing is mine anymore.”
Malcolm glanced from his string-bean ten-year-old to Betsey, two years younger. Tiny like Cleo, Betsey looked up at him with obvious trust that he would make things right. “Want to help me over here, Bets?”
The pink bow in her neat page boy shimmied as she nodded. “Okay, Daddy.”
“But—” Victoria protested.
He stemmed a glare and forced himself to think. Vic had been so small when Betsey was born that she had no memory of how the demands of an infant upended an entire household. He placed one hand on Betsey’s head. “Sweetheart, would you please get me a glass of ice water? I’m pretty thirsty.”
Always eager to get along, Betsey agreed. “Okay, Daddy.” But where Vic would have run pell-mell toward the house, Betsey skipped daintily.
Malcolm laid down his tape measure and walked over to the branch where his eldest perched, looking thoroughly miserable. “Having a new baby has been hard on you, hasn’t it?”
She glanced at him sideways, suspicious, then shrugged.
“We’ve expected a lot from you because you’re the oldest. Your mom appreciates your help, and so do I.”
She slid a little more toward him, her thin legs, with their perpetually scabbed knees, dangling from the branch.
“I know you get tired of sharing things with Betsey, and now there’s David. I had three brothers and two sisters, and sometimes I got sick of never having anything to myself. I understand how you feel, but sweetie, that’s what families do—they share. Good times and bad times, we go through it all together. We each have a part to play.”
“David doesn’t do anything. He just sleeps and cries and makes a mess. And we have to be quiet and Mommy spends all her time holding him.” Her tone quivered with resentment. She was silent for a moment, then her voice dropped to a whisper. “If I was a boy, we wouldn’t need him.”
He should have realized she would think that. She was half-grown, so he’d assumed that she wouldn’t fall prey to rivalry with an infant. But Victoria had always been edgy, had forever needed more. Malcolm lifted his arms and grasped her waist. “Come down here for a second.”
Without hesitation she went into his embrace.
He put her on the ground, then settled on the grass, leaning back against the tree’s thick trunk. Still holding her hand, he drew her onto his lap and wrapped her tightly in his arms. Stiff at first, she quickly relented, burrowing against his chest, her head tucked beneath his chin.
“Vic, I never wished you were a boy. You’re my girl, remember? My special girl.”
“Betsey’s your girl, too.”
Incisively smart, this one. He stifled a rueful grin. “She is, and I love her very much. But you’re unique, Vic, because you were our first, something no one else can ever be. We three discovered lots of things together. Your mother cried when you were born because she wanted you so much. And you know what else?”
Tousled black locks shook beneath his chin.
“I cried, too.”
Her head came up at that. “You? You never cry, Daddy.”
He smiled. “Not very often. But that was a special time when you were born. You were so small and perfect and beautiful.”
“Like Betsey is now.”
He tapped her nose. “Like you are now.”
“Mommy says I’m a mess. My clothes get dirty and I skin up my knees. Betsey’s always clean and perfect.”
Was there ever an answer that would satisfy them all? Kids scrutinized for the difference, sensitive in a manner that would do a safecracker proud as they felt for the most minute shift in parental balance. “Betsey and you aren’t the same person.”
Victoria snorted. “You can say that again.”
“But one is not better. I love you both.”
“Mommy loves her better. And now there’s David…” Her eyes filled with tears again.
Malcolm turned her to face him squarely, holding her chin lightly between finger and thumb. “Vic, your
mother loves you. Don’t ever doubt that. She’s just really busy and tired these days. Because she’s nursing, she has to wake up every few hours to feed him. I can change his diapers and get up with him, but I can’t nurse him for her. When he sleeps through the night, she’ll get more rest. I promise this won’t last long.”
But he could tell that he still wasn’t giving her what she craved, and it frustrated the hell out of him. Constantly in motion, half the time in a scrape of some sort, she had a restless spirit that drove her—and them—hard.
But she touched a tenderness in him that neither Betsey nor David, much as he loved them both, came near. Betsey was precious and—Vic was right—perfect. She would turn herself inside out to please Cleo and him, and Vic, too, for that matter. She was already eager to help with David and hovered over him like a mother hen.
And David. His son. He would be lying to say that David’s birth had not felt like a special blessing. Coming so long after the girls, when he and Cleo had almost accepted that they would have no more children, David had seemed like a gift, a benediction upon their love. The doctors had told Cleo she could not attempt to bear a third child after eclampsia had endangered her life both times, and she had defied them and Malcolm, as well, to give him a son. There would be no other children for them, no matter Cleo’s dreams of filling the house to the rafters.
But that was all right. They had three healthy, smart, beautiful kids. Figuring out to handle all of them would be challenge enough.
And this one, green eyes ready to seek out his slightest hypocrisy, would always be the toughest hurdle of all. Malcolm acknowledged it, just as he recognized that he had more patience with her than Cleo did. It was easier for him—he wasn’t here all day with three kids.
“Look, sport. Let’s make a deal. You and I have designed this tree house, and we’ll do most of the building because we planned it. We’re going to find a special spot inside it, and we’ll carve a note that Victoria Channing designed this structure. We’ll put it somewhere that only you and I know. It will be our secret. Even though you’ll share this house with Betsey and David, once he’s old enough, there will be a part of it that will belong only to you. What do you think?”
The House That Love Built Page 5