The House That Love Built

by Jean Brashear

  And Lola winked broadly. “That’s my girl.”

  The next day, Cleo locked the shop’s front door and flipped the sign over to Closed, more tired than she could recall being in years. Ria had worked silently for hours, but the atmosphere had hummed with tension, and the effort to dispel it for the sake of her customers had been enormous. For a moment, the temptation to simply fall to the ground right then and there beckoned more strongly than she thought she could resist.

  Cleo crossed the floor and came face-to-face with Ria’s display, depicting a child’s view of a Christmas tree from below. It pushed every button, tugged at the heart, sent the mind arrowing into a life no one actually led but everyone would want. She wondered how much of it came from Ria’s deepest longings. This was the vision of a child wrapped in the arms of perfect love.

  That life hadn’t been Ria’s, no matter how hard Cleo had tried. All Cleo had ever wanted was a normal, happy family life. The one she’d attempted to create had collapsed under the weight of her failure.

  Right now it hurt more than Cleo could bear. She strode past the display and planted her mind firmly on her business. She would swing by the bank and deposit the day’s receipts, then head to the market to pick up the items on Aunt Cammie’s list.

  One step at a time. One task at a time. It was the only way she knew.

  She grabbed the bank bag and her purse, then made her way to the car. Once inside, she leaned her forehead against the window.

  The tightrope was exhausting.

  Briefly she contemplated going over to Colin’s for a coffee. Sandor wouldn’t be back for a while, and a sympathetic ear would be welcome.

  But she and Colin had lost their footing. He didn’t understand her about-face, and she couldn’t explain what she didn’t comprehend herself.

  She should never have yielded, even that slight bit, to fancy. She might have lost not only a potential lover, but a cherished friend.

  All of a sudden, Cleo craved the freedom to drive off and never return.

  But that wasn’t her way.

  So she might as well go home.

  An hour later, after the bank and grocery shopping, she rounded the corner to her house, and for an instant, she was thrown back into a treasured past.

  On her front lawn, the man who had been her life played football with the boy who had been their precious, unexpected gift.

  Her heart bloomed like roses after rain, the sweet redolence intoxicating, almost too rich to bear.

  Then Malcolm turned, and she saw the silver in his hair, the lines on his face.

  And with painful clarity, Cleo crashed back into the present.

  He was not her love anymore. And that was not their love child.

  But he’d kept her drawing.

  Worn out from the emotional tug-of-war, she stopped in the driveway and emerged from her car.

  Benjy tore across the lawn, shouting, “Nana, look! Me and Gramps are playing football.”

  She knelt on the grass, and Benjy hurtled into her embrace. She inhaled the tangy smell of little boy and closed her eyes to savor the feel of his arms around her neck, his weight against her.

  Then she opened her eyes, and there was Malcolm. His dark gaze was as haunted as the hollows of her heart.

  Oh, Malcolm, where did we lose it? Why did we let it go? Why couldn’t we comfort one another?

  Her lips parted, the words thick and full and aching in her throat—

  “Nana, I made a touchdown! Gramps couldn’t catch me. Could you, Gramps?”

  Malcolm’s gaze jerked away. “Too fast for me, sport.” He grinned, eyebrows waggling. “But I’m feeling lucky now.” He rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Let’s see whatcha got, big guy. Bet you can’t do it again.”

  Benjy tore off in a flash.

  Malcolm helped her rise, his touch achingly familiar. Those moments in his office had paralyzed both of them.

  “Snow—” he began.

  “Come on, Nana,” Benjy called out. “Mom can be on my side and you can be with Gramps.”

  It was then that she noticed Ria standing on the porch. Ria stared at Malcolm’s hand on her elbow. In her eyes was not the scorn Cleo expected. Instead, Ria seemed almost…wistful.

  “Gramps, you ready? Nana?”

  Cleo glanced away from her daughter. “Benjy, I’m sorry. I have groceries in the car, and Aunt Cammie’s waiting for them.”

  “We’ll help,” Malcolm said. “We’ve got work to do, my man.”

  He reached inside the car and parceled out bags, saving the heaviest load for himself. Cleo held the front door, watching him turn and shove the car door closed with his foot, and once more, memory assaulted her.

  Ria was bigger and Benjy smaller than the boy and girl who had once performed this chore. The man had silver in his hair and was no longer her husband.

  But for a moment, it all felt so normal. So…right.

  Malcolm stopped before her, nodding for her to precede him. “Beauty first, Snow.”

  Once she would have lifted to tiptoe and kissed that cheek with its five o’clock shadow. That she could yearn to do it now rattled her as nothing had in a very long time.

  So she shook her head. “No. Go ahead.” She took a step backward and stared at the ground.

  Malcolm started through, then paused, as if about to say something.

  Cleo wanted him to speak almost as much as she wished he would go away.

  “Daddy?”

  They both jolted at Ria’s voice. Malcolm was so close that Cleo could inhale the scent of him, once so beloved and reassuring.

  “Would you stay and have supper with us? Aunt Cammie says there’s plenty.” Ria’s voice sounded young. Uncertain. Pleading.

  Malcolm cast Cleo a glance, granting her the final say.

  “Mother? You don’t mind, do you?” Her daughter’s too-slight body tensed for disappointment.

  Cleo didn’t know what her answer would have been. Before she had a chance to respond, Malcolm did. “I’m sorry, Ria. I wish I could, but—”

  He didn’t have to speak the words. Suddenly, the young, beautiful woman Cleo had never met rose like a specter filling the room. Reminding her that all their memories were only that—old times ground into dust, ashes scattered on the wind.

  Ria’s shoulders drooped.

  Cleo’s back straightened as she wrangled her voice into brisk unconcern. “We’d better not monopolize any more of your time. Ria, why don’t you take one of these bags and I’ll carry the other, so Malcolm can go.”

  Malcolm’s hand stopped hers as she reached for the sack nearest her. She was desperate to get out of the room that had abruptly turned airless.

  “I’m sorry, Ria.” His words were directed at their daughter, but his gaze was squarely on Cleo, commanding her to look. “I really wish I could.” He held her fast, dark eyes searching. And seemed truly remorseful.

  Cleo dragged a breath into her starved lungs, fighting what he made her feel. Resenting that she, too, longed for him to stay. Despising the treacherous lure of their past.

  Malcolm had his life, and she had hers. Ria’s arrival had disturbed the order, and they would have to adjust, but they were both reasonable people, and they would.

  Right now, though, she needed to be alone. Away from Malcolm’s scent, from the pull of his dark eyes.

  “Perhaps another time,” she murmured.

  With careful steps, Cleo headed for the kitchen.

  Chapter Eleven

  On Sunday morning, Malcolm stood outside the red front door he’d installed for Cleo not long after they’d moved in. His hand was raised, but he wasn’t sure he was ready. Knocking still seemed awkward and artificial when he had a personal relationship with almost every board and nail in this place.

  But he didn’t have a key anymore. Hadn’t in years.

  And he was crazy to be back here so soon. He could still see the chill in Joanna’s eyes when he’d told her he had made plans to work on the tree house
with Benjy today.

  She’d always been independent of him—that was what had attracted them to each other. She had her life; he had his.

  But it wasn’t peaceful or soothing, that distance. These days, they existed in a state of uneasy truce. She wouldn’t let him hover or protect her. She refused to talk about the baby or to plan its future. Every night, she made it clear that she was his child’s prisoner as she widened the canyon between them on the bed.

  If he’d thought it would help, he’d have tried to figure out a way to postpone this project with Benjy, but Joanna had told him that she would be going in to her office today to take advantage of the absence of ringing phones.

  Damned if he did—damned if he didn’t. Lazy weekend mornings in bed with coffee and the paper had never seemed farther away.

  Cleo wouldn’t welcome the intrusion, either, but it would be his most likely block of free time this week. Once, Sundays had been sacrosanct in this house. The Channings closed out the rest of the world and spent the day together, just the family. No phones answered; no outside obligations accepted.

  Well, he wasn’t part of Cleo’s family now, but Ria and Benjy were his, too. If Cleo didn’t like it, tough.

  He rapped on the door, twice.

  Cleo opened it herself, breathless, laughter sparking those emerald eyes. “Malcolm. Come on in. We’re making animal pancakes. Want some?”

  He followed her through the door stupidly, still trying to work past the slap to his senses. A fifty-one-year-old woman shouldn’t be so damn beautiful, but Cleo would be stunning at eighty-five. His hand itched to grab her, to turn the wattage of that smile back his way. To bring her up against the body that had known hers for a lifetime. Had been her first.

  But she was already headed back toward the kitchen, leaving him to trail in her wake as though he belonged here and wasn’t a guest.

  And for a vicious, unflattering moment, Malcolm wondered how many other men she’d welcomed here since the day he’d walked away. Cleo wouldn’t be promiscuous, but she’d have plenty of offers.

  He hated every blasted one of them. Cleo was his.

  What on earth was he saying?

  “Coffee’s ready, if you’d like some. I ground Kona beans.”

  Now he noticed the nerves.

  Malcolm had the urge to call her back, to ask for a timeout so they could talk.

  Or to turn around and leave.

  But he could already hear Benjy’s voice and the sound of a chair scooting on the floor.

  “Gramps!”

  So Malcolm shoved away his wishes. They were too confusing, too much in conflict. Instead, he knelt and scooped the boy up for a quick hug. “Hey, sport, what’s up?”

  “Mom’s in the shower, and me and Nana are making animal pancakes. Want some? I’m real good at Mickey Mouse. Wanna see?”

  He lifted the boy to his shoulders and ducked as they passed through the door.

  Memory assaulted him. Cleo at the big griddle that was part of the old Chambers stove she loved. A chair stood beside her just out of harm’s way, a platform to hold a child not tall enough to see from the floor.

  The smell of butter just this side of burning, of pancake batter turning golden. An apron he’d seen a thousand times wrapped around her trim waist, above the gentle swell of hips he’d loved holding in his hands.

  Cleo smiled, and it was like hundreds of Sundays before in a life that had been everything he’d wanted. More than he’d dreamed. Until—

  No. Not now. Today was for the living.

  So Malcolm smiled back, and their gazes held. If they’d been alone…

  But they weren’t. Which should be a relief. He lifted Benjy from his shoulders and set him in the chair, then leaned over the boy’s head to study the creations hissing on hot metal.

  Letting his attention drift to her tender nape, left bare by the casual topknot Cleo wore. And smelling the faint tones of the scent that was ever and always Cleo, both sweet and sultry.

  “Want that one, Gramps?”

  Malcolm yanked at his thoughts and struggled to concentrate. When Cleo swerved her head in his direction, he almost thought he saw faint color stain her cheeks.

  “Gramps?”

  “What?” He cleared his throat. “Isn’t that your pancake? Have you already eaten?”

  “Nope. We just got started.”

  “Then you go ahead, and I’ll get a cup of coffee. The cook should get to sample first.”

  “Okay. But after that I’ll fix you one, all right?”

  Malcolm ruffled Benjy’s hair and pressed a quick kiss to the top of his head. “I’m counting on it.” He put distance between himself and Cleo, casting the question over his shoulder, “Want a cup, Snow?”

  “Not—” She stopped.

  “While you’re cooking,” he supplied.

  Their gazes met. They shared another smile. And too many memories to count.

  Cleo broke away first. She held a plate and let Benjy retrieve his pancake. Malcolm took a sip and burned his tongue, then cursed softly.

  Cleo laughed, shaking her head. “Still so impatient.” Her eyes met his, then skated away. She busied herself settling Benjy on a barstool and getting him milk.

  She filled the room. Every corner was painted with her essence. Here, second only to her beloved sunporch, was where Cleo lived and loved best.

  Malcolm thought of moonlit nights, making love on the chaise and trying to keep quiet so the kids wouldn’t hear. He could see Cleo’s pale, smooth limbs. Feel her sweet softness beneath him, her hair gathered in his fists, her eyes alight with love.

  Desire slapped him so hard he nearly dropped his cup.

  He whirled to stare out the window over the sink, glad Cleo’s back was to him.

  “Gramps?”

  What he felt was…impossible. Wrong, even.

  No—not wrong. She was the mother of his children. His first love.

  But now there was another child to consider. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t imagine having a baby with anyone but Cleo.

  “Gramps?”

  He realized that both Benjy and Cleo were staring at him. Shaking his head, Malcolm muttered something about checking the tree house and walked outside.

  Fast.

  “Where’s Gramps going?” Benjy asked. “Doesn’t he want pancakes?”

  Cleo watched Malcolm stride across the grass, her mind inexorably drawn to hundreds of memories of him moving over that same ground. Headed out to play with his children. Throwing a softball for the girls, shooting baskets with David.

  Cutting the grass in shorts and bare muscled chest.

  Making love to her in the tree house.

  “Nana?”

  “What?” She blinked. Shook her head to clear it. “Oh—um, Gramps is probably just checking on the tree house to be sure he’s ready to work with you today.”

  “Can I go out with him?”

  The expression on Malcolm’s face when he passed her—what did it mean? For a second, he’d almost looked as if—

  No.

  Could it be? Was it possible that he felt the pull, too?

  He kept your drawing.

  “Nana?”

  Cleo jerked her gaze from the window. “Wha—oh, yes. I, uh, can’t see why not. Go ask Gramps what he’d like for you to do.” He’s here for Benjy, Cleo. Not you.

  Benjy raced outside, Tyrone waddling after.

  “Gramps, is it okay if I come out, too?”

  Malcolm turned at the sound, and broke into a huge grin, bending to swoop Benjy up and twirl him around and around. Benjy’s giggles made Cleo laugh.

  The expression on Malcolm’s face stole her breath.

  Happy. Young. The man she’d loved more than life.

  Who’d said he’d love her forever.

  For a quicksilver second, Cleo recalled the first time she and Malcolm had made love. How she’d had to convince him that it was all right not to wait, a complete role reversal for them.

  E
motions had been so easy for the young man Malcolm had been. He’d thrown them around the way a profligate spends coins, never worrying about starving later. Never fearing what would come back. He’d always felt safe, always been secure. He didn’t know the first thing about being all that stood guard against disaster. About the price of living by your whims.

  That day, she’d realized that it didn’t matter what was smart, what was scary. She loved him, needed who she was with him. No matter how she fought it, she was sure Malcolm was the one. It didn’t make her the same as Lola if she gave herself to one man, did it? She wasn’t trying to sleep her way into a career.

  She steadied herself by looking at him, at those chocolate brown eyes that she adored. This was Malcolm. It would be fine. With trembling fingers, she brushed his shaggy mink hair back from his forehead. “Okay, I’m ready. I want to make love.”

  Malcolm blinked. Then he shook his head as though he was trying to wake up. “You…do?” His voice cracked.

  A shaky laugh escaped her. “You don’t?”

  “No—I mean, hell, yes, I do, but—” He sat up straight, leaning away from her, his eyes narrowing. “Why?”

  “What do you care? Besides, I’m behind the times—free love and all that. Maybe I don’t want to be a dinosaur anymore. You should be happy.”

  “Cleo, look at me.” His voice was so gentle, his eyes tender as he reached out and cupped her cheek. “But I do care. You’re my dinosaur, and I love you, just as you are.”

  He loved her. Cleo closed her eyes to capture the moment. Malcolm might be easy with his affections, but he’d never said that word before. She hadn’t realized how much she craved to hear it.

  Cleo drew herself up on her knees and framed his face with her hands. “Then it’s time.”

  But even then, his desire had battled with his integrity. “What about marriage, the house, the kids you want?”

  “You don’t have to marry me to make love with me, Malcolm. It’s the sexual revolution, remember?”

  “No—” His voice was suddenly fierce. “Not for you, it isn’t. Don’t you dare sell yourself short. You’re old-fashioned, but I love that about you. There won’t be anyone else for me but you. I thought we should wait until you were older, until you’d seen more of life.” He sighed. “It’s selfish, but I can’t seem to quit wanting you to discover those things with me.” His dark eyes pinned her. “Marry me, Cleo.”