Today, she could use a friend to help her sort through the turmoil. Sandor was the best listener she’d ever met. She picked up her pace across the grassy, tree-shaded expanse, needing to get a grip on herself before she phoned Malcolm.
At that moment, however, Colin stepped out of the back door of his coffee shop, white pastry box in hand.
Normally, she would have experienced a small thrill, part joy, part anticipation, laced less and less with self-consciousness. When she’d awakened this morning, she had felt much more.
But this day was not normal, nor was it the one it had been just a few hours ago. Her calm, orderly new life, already strained by three months of Lola, was ready to burst at the seams. The small steps she’d danced closer to Colin’s lure were giant leaps toward being a fool.
Who was she kidding? She was firmly middle-aged, teetering on the edge of indignity. And now there were eyes to watch her do it. Her pretty new brass bed, which she’d bought to replace the wooden one Malcolm had made for her, would remain chaste.
“Good morning.” His expression brightened at the sight of her. He stopped only a breath away.
For a moment, Cleo couldn’t find her voice, so sharp was her longing. He had barely ever touched her except a hand to an elbow, a palm to her back, but in her mind his hands had been…everywhere. In the heart of the night, she had buried imaginary fingers in that unruly black hair, had pressed wish-filled lips to the mobile mouth. Had treasured once more the welcome weight of a man’s body covering her own.
His smile dimmed. “What’s wrong, Cleo?”
His eyes were tender, eager. Heated. Cleo mourned the loss of something she’d wanted, ridiculous or not. Anger rode to her rescue.
She straightened. “Nothing. Only some unexpected company.” Briskly, she continued. “I’m sorry, but I’ll have to cancel our dinner, Colin.”
He frowned but nodded. “We can reschedule. How long will your company be here?”
Cleo couldn’t meet his gaze. Couldn’t carry this off if she did. “I don’t know.”
A long pause. Then a chuckle. “I got it. You’ve lost your nerve again, haven’t you?”
“Don’t mock me, Colin.” The anger she’d been suppressing all morning bumped at the lid she’d slammed on it. “I was foolish to think—You could be my son,” she accused.
His sigh was eloquent. “How often do we have to confront this, Cleo? You were just a kid when I was born, but the point is moot. We’re not kids now. There’s no law against good, healthy sex between people who enjoy each other. I care about you, Cleo. I admire you. There’s no reason to be so afraid.”
“I’m not.” Though he was wrong; there were plenty of reasons. And too much a-tumble inside her this morning. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
He grabbed her arm. “You never do. Listen, it doesn’t have to be a big deal. Why can’t you see that?”
But it was a big deal. She’d only made love with one man in her life. She yanked from his grasp and drew herself up, wishing she were taller. “We have nothing in common, Colin. The idea was ridiculous. I don’t know why I ever—” She reversed course and stumbled.
“Whoa, careful—” Colin clutched at her.
Embarrassed nearly to the point of tears she’d rather die than shed, she slapped at his hand. “Don’t.” She hated the shrillness of her voice.
“I was only trying—”
“Just—get out of here—”
“Is something wrong, Cleopatra?” A low baritone behind her.
Sandor. Thank God.
“I—no, it’s—”
“Are you certain?” Tall and blond and unsmiling, he was beside her then, towering over Colin.
Colin stared at her. “Cleo, I’d never hurt you.”
“Perhaps you could return later, Colin.” Sandor’s tone made clear that it wasn’t a suggestion.
Colin’s head snapped up, and he glared at Sandor. “Yeah, sure. Here—” He shoved the pastry box into Sandor’s hands. His shoulders sagged. “I don’t understand.”
“Me either.” She sniffed and wiped beneath her eyes. “It’s not your fault, Colin. I just—things—” She turned her palms upward and forced herself to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry.”
Colin took a step toward her. From the corner of her eye, she saw Sandor shake his head.
Colin halted. Seemed unbearably young. Finally, he threw up his palms. “Have a good day.”
And he was gone, striding off with hurt and confusion riding on his shoulders.
She buried her face in her hands. “He’s a good man. He deserves better.”
“As do you. Sh-h…” Sandor clasped her elbow, led her into the shop and closed the door behind them. He settled her on the sofa in her office, then placed the pastry box on the desk and crouched before her. “What has happened, Cleo?”
“Nothing’s—” She abandoned pretense. “My daughter arrived on my doorstep this morning.”
“Betsey is well?”
“Not Betsey. Victoria—Ria, as she wants to be called.”
“What does she want?”
“I don’t know. Shelter, perhaps. Probably money, as well.” She shot him a glance. “She has a little boy. They were both filthy and hungry. They’ve been living in her car for God knows how long.”
Then she studied the ground, her voice barely a whisper. “He looks like David.”
Sandor knew the story, told one night when they were both working late after the shop had closed. “I see. So you will take him in and feed him because he is your flesh. You will care for him both for himself and for the son you can no longer hold.”
Cleo nodded.
“And Victoria? What will you do with her?”
“She hates me still. There’s so much anger in her.”
“But if you send her away, you will lose the boy.”
“Yes.” Despair settled over her like wet wool.
Sandor shook his head. “So much to fret over, even for you, the Madonna of Perpetual Worry.”
“And now I have to call Malcolm.”
“How will he react?”
“He’ll probably side with her, as always.” She sighed. “I have no desire to fight with her anymore. I only—” She struggled against hopelessness. “I want my family back,” she whispered. “The way it used to be.”
Hot tears scalded the back of her throat. “I was sure I’d put it behind me, but seeing her today, knowing that she hasn’t changed—” Cleo sat up very straight. “She has no right to that boy. She can’t be trusted.”
Suddenly, Cleo had a goal that would lead her out of the quicksand that had sucked at her ankles since Victoria had walked through the door. “I’m going to ensure that Benjy has the life he deserves. I will not stand by and let her harm another child.”
Sandor’s eyes did not grant her the approval she’d expected. “You have little information about their relationship.”
She tilted her chin. “I know more than she does about being a mother.”
“But you are not his.”
Fury renewed her strength. “You have no children, Sandor. You can’t possibly understand.”
“This boy is not David. Saving him will not give you back your son.”
Didn’t he think she was all too aware of that?
An uncomfortable silence loomed.
Finally, Sandor broke it. “So what happened with Colin this morning?”
“Nothing.” Not true, but she was too embarrassed at her lapse of control to discuss it.
“You are breaking his heart, Cleopatra.”
She gasped. “I have no idea what you mean.”
When she rose abruptly and began fussing with the teapot, he chuckled. “Oh, my friend, you are so American sometimes. If that is your best impression of an elderly spinster, I am afraid you need more practice.”
“Sandor, it’s not what you—I mean, we aren’t—”
“You think the attraction between you is invisible? Do not tell me—you have rejecte
d him with some sort of argument about your remarkably advanced age.”
She set the teapot down with a barely restrained thud. “I don’t want to discuss this. It’s—I’m…ridiculous.” She quickened her steps and made to enter the showroom.
“Cleo, stop. I apologize. I can see this pains you, and that is the last thing I want.”
She stood with her back to him, struggling to find solid ground.
“Talk to me, my friend. Tell me what has happened to make you feel old again.”
He’d put his finger on the problem, as always. Slowly she faced him. Sandor’s eyes were like his soul—older than his body and much too perceptive.
“It’s just—” How did she explain that Colin had made her see herself as desirable and beautiful in a way she’d thought never to experience again? Without ever even kissing her, he had pressed at the seams of her armor, sliding it away from her one plate at a time, and had transformed the dried-up woman she was in danger of becoming.
Colin’s interest had made her feel juicy again, ripe and succulent like a fruit ready to drop, an apple turned a perfect red on the tree. Even when Lola had fallen on hard times and Cleo had made the decision to take her and Aunt Cammie in, she’d kept Colin her delicious secret. She was still the youngest in a house full of women, the one who might have possibilities and potential. Lola was too self-absorbed to notice, and Aunt Cammie would never chide her, even if she was aware.
But Victoria’s arrival, child in tow, had reminded Cleo that she was the mother of someone who would view Cleo’s attraction to Colin as foolish. Ridiculous, even.
“I am too old for him. It’s a simple fact.”
“He is an adult, Cleo. He knows his mind. And you are a beautiful woman, one who has been solitary for too long. Why can you not allow yourself a little pleasure? Who will it harm?”
“I can’t discuss this with you, Sandor. It’s not…proper.” Nor was following through with Colin.
“And with whom can you?”
Who indeed? Once there had been Malcolm, who had plumbed the secrets of her soul; since then…no one. The road to accepting her solitude had been a long one, but Cleo should be accustomed to dealing with life on her own by now. “There’s nothing to talk over. I’ve come to my senses.”
“Cleo…” Sandor’s dismay was evident. “Very well. I will drop it for now, but I will not cease to remind you that you are far from dead and deserve more than you allow yourself.” He walked to the back door, then paused. “Please remember that above all I am your friend. I will be here, should you change your mind.”
The tears she’d been fighting all morning nearly got the best of her. “Thank you, Sandor. You’re very kind to me.”
He shook his head sadly. “If only you would follow my example.” He left.
She watched him go, then with a long sigh made her way to unlock the front door. She was tired already, and she still had to call the man she hadn’t talked to in forever and break the news that the daughter who had cost them everything…was back.
Chapter Four
San Francisco, 1971
Seventeen-year-old Cleo hurried down Fulton Street after work. Her mother was gone for the weekend, off with yet another yacht club member who was sure to pave their way down Easy Street. Cleo was the one who squirreled away the rent money before Lola could spend it; Lola kept them on the move in pursuit of a dream.
Pulling up her collar against the stiff breeze, Cleo ignored how cold her feet were, concentrating instead on her list. A whole weekend by herself. Homework first, of course, and a head start on that term paper for history. She had her life mapped out, and college was the next step.
But for two glorious days, she’d have blessed quiet. Leisure to take a bubble bath. To read without interruption. Maybe even a chance to re-cover the old rocking chair she’d rescued from the alley.
She was so lost in anticipation that she didn’t see the stranger until she ran into a wall of chest.
She recoiled. Lost her balance.
Strong hands steadied her. “Whoa, what’s happenin’, pretty girl?”
The voice had a drawl. The tone was friendly. But Haight-Ashbury had been taken over by hippies, and Cleo had a brush-off ready before she ever lifted her head.
And looked into the warmest pair of brown eyes she’d ever seen.
“You all right?”
“Yes. Fine.” She shifted to walk around him.
“Sorry, miss. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
Miss. Cleo lifted her head to discern whether he was mocking her. Then she noticed that he wasn’t wearing a coat; that his jeans, though worn, were pressed with a crease. That his ancient work boots appeared almost spit-shined.
“That’s okay. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“Oh—sure. I just wondered—”
Here it came, the request for the handout. She tightened her grip on her purse and glanced around to check for help nearby, should he take her refusal poorly. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe in handouts.”
He recoiled. “You think I want—” His face flushed bright with insult. “No way.”
“Then what do you—” She caught a good look at his eyes just then and realized that he was lonely. “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”
He frowned, still incensed, then exhaled. Grinned. “What gave me away—the accent or the lack of a coat?” He shivered slightly, and the breeze ruffled his thick, mink brown hair.
“San Francisco is very cold in June.”
“You’re telling me. I thought California was supposed to be the land of surf and sun. You mind if we duck back out of the breeze? I’m supposed to pretend I’m not chilled to the bone, being a strong manly sort and all, but…”
Cleo couldn’t stifle a laugh.
The brown eyes twinkled back.
He was a few years older, she thought. Tall. Charming. Cleo knew better than to trust that, though. Lola’s men were often charming.
But Lola’s men were smooth and slick. This one was different. Not polished at all, natural, even a little raw around the edges…and oddly appealing.
He shivered again.
She glanced up at the storefront sign and made a snap decision. “Want to get a cup of coffee?” Then she realized he might be down on his luck. “My treat?”
His brows drew together. “I’m from the old school, miss. I’m afraid you’ll have to let me buy.” He pulled one hand out of his pocket for a shake. “I’m Malcolm Channing. Wouldn’t do for you to go inside with a stranger, you know.”
That smile again, irresistible in the lean, handsome face.
Cleo gave him her hand, still gloved. “Cleo Formby. I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Channing.”
He winced. “You seem pretty young, but come on, Mr. Channing?”
She couldn’t help grinning. “You’re the one calling me miss. And a gentleman isn’t supposed to ask a lady’s age.”
Eyes glowing with mischief, he leaned down from his six-foot-plus height to whisper, “My mama would kick my tail from here to Waco if she heard that I had. You won’t tell on me, will you?”
Cleo surprised herself by teasing back. “Is Waco far?”
“Darlin’, it’s a long way from anywhere.” He gestured for her to precede him. “So is Cleo short for Cleopatra?”
“Those are fighting words, buddy.”
He rubbed his hands together. “Oh, good. I haven’t seen any of my brothers for weeks now. I’m spoiling for a fight.”
The hostess ushered them to a booth. Malcolm helped Cleo out of her coat, and she nearly swooned at his manners.
“Brothers? How many?
“Three. And two sisters.”
She resisted a sigh. “How wonderful to have such a big family. Where are you from?”
“Texas. You?”
“Native Californian.”
“You look like some hothouse flower from back East.”
“Not all California girls are tall and blond and wear
bikinis.” She’d spent years praying for a growth spurt.
He shrugged. “I’m thinking my type might have to change to china dolls with black hair and green eyes.”
The come-on had Cleo drawing back against the vinyl. She’d never learned how to flirt.
He leaned forward, eyes widening. “I just realized who you remind me of. Snow White in the storybook my mama read to us.”
Cleo’s tone went as rigid as her spine. Maybe he wasn’t any different after all. “I’m not a character in a fairy tale, Malcolm—or some china doll.”
“You don’t like that.” He lifted a shoulder. “Fine. Maybe you’re not, but somebody ought to be pampering you.” Then he leaned back and stretched out his arms across the back of the booth. “How old are you, anyway? You got a big brother who’s gonna come whip my tail for making time with his pretty little sister?” He winked, his smile sure and easy. This was no boy, strutting and posturing like the ones she knew at school. This was a man, comfortable inside his skin.
“Just me and my mother.” Maybe she should leave, but she didn’t want to. “I’m almost eighteen, and if you ever call me Cleopatra, I’ll kill you.”
Malcolm laughed loudly, drawing the attention of the other diners. He nodded for the waitress to come take their coffee orders and somehow managed to talk Cleo into having dinner.
She watched how the waitress stared at Malcolm and noticed that more than one woman in the place cast second and third glances his way. When he got up to go to the rest room, female eyes followed him, smiles winged his direction. He didn’t seem to register any of them. Instead, he focused on her, and the effect was narcotic. She’d never met anyone like him.
Two hours passed in a blur. They had dessert, then endless cups of coffee, talking about everything imaginable. She learned that he was twenty-one and from Austin, Texas, that he was here out of curiosity, that he’d worked his way across the country on his summer break from college, living in his van so he could save money for his last year and still check out the crazy hippies in California.
His tastes in reading were eclectic, as were hers—everything from Herman Hesse to Louis L’Amour. He loved his big family, had played three sports in high school, and was pretty sure he was going to break his father’s heart when he didn’t go to law school after graduation.
The House That Love Built Page 3
