Once they had it all: a home with a man who adored her, three children they cherished, a life filled with passion and promise.
Until one troubled child cost them everything.
After a childhood of constant upheaval, all Cleo Formby wanted was to put down roots, to fill a house with family and love. When Malcolm Channing swept into her life, she gained it all: the home, the children, the love of a good man who adored her—
Until their firstborn daughter tore their family apart, and even the love between Cleo and Malcolm wasn’t strong enough to survive the devastation.
Five years later, that daughter returns, destitute—with a child in tow. Cleo and Malcolm are thrown together again…and realize that their love has never died.
But both have ties to others now, and their daughter is no less troubled than before. Being in constant proximity yet unable to be together is a constant heartache, but the welfare of this little grandson has to take first place.
When Malcolm’s new life is shattered by treachery, can he and Cleo overcome the wounds of the past and find their way back to the magic that once filled the house that love built?
(A companion story to The Road Back Home, a different perspective of the story seen through Ria’s eyes and going beyond)
“Jean Brashear’s distinctive storytelling voice instantly draws in the reader. She writes with warmth and emotional truth.”
~ #1 NY Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber
The House That Love Built
Second Chances, Book 4
Jean Brashear
Copyright © 2019 Jean Brashear
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Table of Contents
Cover
About The House That Love Built
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Excerpt from The Road Back Home
Books by Jean Brashear
About the Author
Connect With Jean
Chapter One
Austin, Texas
Gypsy Rose Lee danced in the backyard, performing a slow bump-and-grind for an old, half-blind dog. Tom Jones wailed the melody to a steady backbeat and more brass than the law should allow.
Cleo Channing could swear the squirrel sitting on a limb nearby was smiling.
Today Gypsy. Tomorrow Rita Hayworth, maybe a little Ava Gardner thrown in for good measure. As Cleo’s seventy-four-year-old mother, Lola, danced, her brilliant purple-and-lime-green caftan flashed through pools of golden sunlight.
Cleo sighed. Snuggled into plump pillows on her private sunporch in the crisp autumn morning, she stared at the skyline of downtown Austin through the steam rising from her teacup. Tom Jones and Lola were playing havoc with her much-cherished indulgence, this tranquil time to gather herself before the day. She rose early to watch dawn kiss away the dew as cats prowled beneath the forsythia and birds greeted the sun. The steady hum of traffic from Lamar Boulevard below was background music, the pulse beat of a city coming to life.
She loved mornings, but she had missed a lot of them. Malcolm had always enjoyed sleeping until the last possible moment and had wanted her tucked in beside him.
But Malcolm had been gone for five years; he slept in a condo now, beside his younger woman. Who was welcome to him. Cleo had crawled her way to wholeness alone. She had her own life, and she liked it fine.
Or she’d been content with it before Lola and Aunt Cammie had shown up three months ago. Cammie was a sweetheart, but Lola had shattered the careful structure of Cleo’s world. Once again, Cleo was forced to assume her childhood role as the adult in Lola’s life; Aunt Cammie couldn’t be expected to keep a lid on her sister’s excesses. It boggled the mind to think that B-movie goddess Lola could have been born to the same parents as dainty, demure Camille.
But nothing could bother Cleo today. Not this day. And ironic as it was, Lola would probably approve of her plans.
Tonight, Cleo might very well take her first lover since the divorce.
She was more than nervous, yet a delicious shiver raced through her, and a part of her melted like dark chocolate under summer sun. She had fought the lure, telling herself she was too old and Colin too young, donning her iciest reserve…all for naught.
Fifty-one years old she was, and she should have no trouble thinking of Colin Spencer as a son. He was twelve years younger than she, for heaven’s sake.
But he sang the praises of older women, teased her, calling her a Puritan. Pursued her and refused to let her good sense discourage him.
Until she’d finally agreed to have dinner with him tonight—and not at the coffee shop he owned next door to her high-end gift store.
At his apartment. Where they both knew what might happen.
She had to be insane.
But, oh, she was tempted.
Where is your dignity, Cleo? It’s not seemly, not seemly at all. The voices crowded in, as they did every day. In the past, she had succeeded in listening.
Until yesterday.
Now the former Mrs. Malcolm Channing, mother, grandmother and respected business owner, was staring into the treetops—
And getting hot and bothered.
Her bedroom door opened a crack. Aunt Cammie peered around the edge, her expression apologetic. “I’m sorry. I knocked, but you didn’t hear me.”
Cleo blinked away her fantasies. “Difficult to hear anything over Tom Jones. What did you need?” Cammie moved through the house on silent cat feet, barely stirring the air, seldom speaking. She wouldn’t have interrupted if it wasn’t important.
Her distress registered on Cleo. “What’s wrong?”
“I—” She glanced toward the door. “Would you please come downstairs?”
Cleo wanted to ask if it could wait until she’d soaked up her morning’s peace. Or nestled in one more absurd fantasy of tonight.
Tom Jones wailed, and Cleo gave up. Serenity and Lola Fontaine lived in alternate universes. Only a faulty memory would allow Cleo to hope otherwise. She set down her cup, trailing one finger across its tiny painted violets, and rose, brushing aside the afghan as she slid her feet into satin slippers.
Aunt Cammie was already halfway down the stairs. Cleo barely noticed the smooth walnut beneath her hand as her mind jumped to possibilities. Her aunt was a former nurse who could handle a wide range of emergencies; she was gentle but always forthright. So what was going on?
Nearing the bottom of the stairs, Cleo noted the emotions leaping across Cammie’s features. Unease. Compassion.
Yearning.
Even before Cleo turned in the same direction, something was already telling her that e
verything had changed.
“Hey,” said the daughter Cleo hadn’t seen in six years. The girl who’d made the ten years before that a living nightmare. Cleo couldn’t quite register that Victoria was here, in the flesh. That she looked like hell.
But it was the sight of the little boy with her that sucked all the air out of the room.
“My God in heaven, he’s the spitting image of David.” Lola rushed past Cleo, caftan swirling around her tall figure.
Cleo hadn’t even heard her mother come inside. She stood there frozen, hoping the pain couldn’t pierce the calluses that bone-deep grief had built around her heart.
David. Her son, who’d been lost to them for six years. No one ever said his name anymore, as though he’d never existed. But he had. He did. Within Cleo’s heart, the child who’d been an unexpected gift still lived. Still breathed.
Hadn’t died at the hands of the wraith in her doorway.
Cleo tried to move her feet. Use her voice. Something to dance away from the boulder of longing rolling her way. Anything to keep from screaming at her firstborn.
“Mother—” Victoria’s eyes, so empty and dark and hot, scraped at Cleo’s heart…pleading for comfort and hope.
Cleo’s conscience had almost pushed the message from brain to feet to propel her forward.
But not soon enough.
Gaunt and strained, Cleo’s lost daughter shivered, a survivor close enough to safety to give up the struggle. The feverish glint left her eyes. With one shaking hand, she stroked the boy’s hair.
Then, like a rag doll, Victoria crumpled to the floor.
Chapter Two
“She’s only fainted, honey. Your mother will be fine,” Aunt Cammie said, glancing over at the child Cleo had removed to the kitchen to comfort.
“See?” Kneeling beside him, Cleo rubbed a slow circle on his back. “Aunt Cammie’s a nurse, so you can take her word for it.”
She couldn’t even call him by his name, her own grandson. He looked too much like Victoria—dear God, like David—not to be a Channing. Yet they’d had no idea he existed.
Rage roared so loudly in her ears she could barely think. Knowing about him could have made such a difference to them all. Where had these two been? What had her daughter put him through?
The boy’s bottom lip quivered. “Who are you?”
The carefully constructed casing around Cleo’s heart cracked wide open. She managed to still the rushing joy that made her want to crush him against her, to fight everyone to protect him. Clearing a throat gone suddenly tight, she touched his cheek.
“I’m your mama’s mama.”
Baby soft. Human silk. She let her fingers trail over his hair and realized how badly he needed a bath.
Victoria, what have you done?
With effort, she steadied her voice. “I have two granddaughters who call me Nana, but you can choose whatever you’d like. Would you tell me your name, sweetheart?”
His gaze was uncertain as he shrugged. “It’s Benjy.”
“That’s a very fine name. Is it short for Benjamin?”
Benjy studied her with Malcolm’s brown eyes beneath a shaggy fringe of her own black hair. “Benjamin David,” he corrected.
Benjamin…David. A shudder rippled down her spine. Cut off her breath.
Oh, God. Malcolm. She would have to call him. He would be as shocked as she was. And maybe as aware of the passage of time. Of the love that hadn’t been able to survive the pain.
She yanked her thoughts back to the boy. The present. “Are you hungry, Benjy?”
A solemn nod. “Can my mom eat, too?”
“Of course, but right now she’s really tired. Are you?” She studied him. He needed a bath and clean clothes, but at least Victoria’s son didn’t have the pinched look of starvation that rode his mother’s frame.
“I hate naps.”
Cleo laughed, and a shy smile peeked out from his dark eyes. “So did—” David. Oh, this was hard, so hard. “I bet we could make some French toast. Does that sound good?”
“I never had French toast. Is it like regular toast?”
She bit her lip, then brightened her voice. “Even better. You can have cinnamon and powdered sugar or syrup on it. Do you want milk to drink, or would you prefer orange juice?”
“I like milk.” He regarded her warily. “Do you have enough?”
Tears pricked at Cleo’s eyes that he would worry. She gathered him into her arms and pressed him to her heart as she’d been dying to do since the front door opened. “Sweetheart, we have plenty. And we can get more. You drink all the milk you can hold.”
To her great relief, he didn’t seem to mind the hug. Small hands slid around her back while he leaned into her body. Cleo closed her eyes and soaked up the feel of him. Malcolm, you’re going to love him so.
Then, as lightning heralds a storm, she felt the atmosphere crackle even before she heard the voice.
“Benjy, what’s wrong?”
Victoria.
“Mom!” The boy wriggled out of Cleo’s arms and raced to his mother. “Are you okay? I was scared.”
“I’m just fine, sweetie.”
Cleo faced her daughter slowly, fighting back fury. Fear. “Victoria,” she proceeded with caution. “Should you be up?”
“My name is Ria,” she snapped.
Ri—how could she? That had been David’s special name for her.
The green eyes so like Cleo’s own were fierce and raw. Her daughter clutched Benjy to her side, one hand spread protectively across the back of his head. The warning was clear. Nothing had changed between Cleo and her lost daughter.
“Why—” Cleo battled for composure. “What brought you here, Victo—Ria? Is something—” Wrong? Bitter laughter bubbled up in her throat. Of course it was. Nothing had been right with her for years.
Anger flared in her daughter’s gaze, but beneath it, Cleo thought she saw a flash of sorrow. “Never mind. We’re out of here. Benjy—”
“No—” Cleo grabbed her daughter’s arm. “Don’t—”
Victoria stiffened. “Let go of me.”
She was so thin. So…fragile. Cleo forced herself to remove her hand. “Please. Don’t…leave.”
A fine trembling seized her daughter’s frame.
“Don’t hurt my mom.” Benjy’s voice quivered.
“Oh, sweetheart, I’d never—” But she had. She and her eldest had wounded each other time and time again. “I didn’t mean—I want you both to stay, that’s all.”
His eyes filled with confusion.
“Your mother might need to see a doctor, sweetheart. I’d like to take you both, only to be sure—”
“Afraid we’ve got fleas, Mother?” Color rose in her daughter’s face. “Just because we’ve been living in my car doesn’t mean we have cooties or carry a dread disease. A bath will suffice.” Her voice went sharper. “I’ll clean your pristine tub afterward.”
“Please don’t, Vic—Ria. Not in front of—” Cleo compressed her lips and gestured toward Benjy. “I was about to make Benjy French toast. Perhaps you’d like some, too?”
A bark of laughter, harsh and ugly. “Nothing gets through the Teflon, does it, Mother? Always the perfect hostess.”
Caustic words leaped to Cleo’s tongue, but she saw Benjy’s face. He darted glances between his mother and Cleo.
“Whatever you think of me, consider your child, at least. Let him eat his breakfast in peace.” Salty tears raked the back of her eyes. Cleo blinked hard before they could fall. “Aunt Cammie, would you mind—” She looked around in a desperate attempt to find her balance. “I-if you’ll excuse me, I must open the shop.”
The last thing she wanted was to go to work today, but her younger daughter, Betsey, had to be at her daughters’ preschool, and the new clerk couldn’t handle things by herself yet. And her handyman, Sandor, was due to install new cabinets similar to those he’d built for Colin.
Colin. Oh no. She’d been out of her mind, she saw that
now. Tonight’s plans were out of the question.
With quick steps, she headed for the doorway, giving her daughter wide berth.
“Where’s Daddy?” Victoria’s words froze Cleo in her tracks.
Cleo and Lola exchanged glances.
“He doesn’t live here anymore.” She inhaled, braced for the assault. “We’re divorced.”
“What?” Victoria blinked, then narrowed her eyes. “Congratulations. You drove him away, too.”
Each word clawed at tender, unhealed flesh. Did I? Cleo wondered. Or did he let me down when I needed him most? But she held her tongue, watching the boy whose plight tore at her heart. With a hand she wished weren’t shaking, she brushed his hair once more.
She lifted her gaze to her daughter’s, longing for some magic to make things different between them. With this child of hers, words were sticks of dynamite, all with lit fuses, some shorter than others. She had never been sure which ones would explode in her hand.
She didn’t bother defending herself. “I’ll let Malcolm know you’re here.” Holding herself erect, she exited the room. Aunt Cammie would take care of the basics.
Time had done nothing to change things between her and Victoria, but there was an innocent child to protect. The best thing she could do for the boy, staring at both of them with wide, frightened eyes, was to leave.
Chapter Three
Malcolm Channing woke when the toilet flushed. Sleepily, he reached across chilled sheets for Joanna, then squinted toward the clock and frowned. He had ten minutes yet.
Damn. He’d been dreaming of David, of shooting hoops with his only son, and he wanted to go back. The glow of pleasure tightened into a fast, hard knot of sorrow.
Grief was like that—you’d go along for months, even years, thinking it was done with you. You’d be sure that, at last, you’d found your footing, that the worst was over. That although nothing would ever be the same again, you’d somehow managed to adapt to the new normal and things were under control. He had a setup many would admire: a solid balance sheet, high-end condo in exclusive Westlake Hills, a smart, beautiful, successful woman his friends envied.
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