The House That Love Built

by Jean Brashear

  She burrowed closer, still trembling. “I can’t stay, Daddy. But I don’t know where—”

  “Sh-h, sweetheart.” Heart heavy, he led them toward the house. “You need rest and food and time to think. It will all work out, I promise.”

  Please, he begged the Fates.

  But it hadn’t before. Instead, they’d lost everything.

  Malcolm located a parking place a block from Cleo’s shop. With one hand on the door latch, he found himself reluctant to get out of his car. He hadn’t seen Cleo in such a long time; maybe a phone call would be better.

  Distance might help keep their conversation objective.

  With a rueful headshake, he reminded himself that today’s phone call hadn’t gone all that smoothly.

  Then the reason for his reluctance struck him.

  He was scared.

  Of Cleo? Not physically, of course. He outweighed her by nearly a hundred pounds. The top of her head barely reached his collarbone. Suddenly, he could feel Cleo’s breath warming the skin over his heart, soaking deep as he held her in his arms.

  Shaken, Malcolm released his grip on the door handle and blindly peered out the windshield.

  Recalled that final day. The last serious conversation he’d had with the woman he’d loved for more than half his life.

  Could feel again how his legs had seemed weighted, his heart dragged down by despair. The way he’d braced himself to try one more time to reach her, to seek the miracle that would bring her back.

  He’d approached the door to their bedroom, seen Cleo staring out the window. “Snow.”

  Words had deserted him in the futile campaign to re-create the world in which they’d lived and loved.

  Once she would have turned to him, smiled, run into his arms.

  Now she stiffened. Repelled every advance, holding on to herself as if without vigilance, she’d fly apart.

  Slowly revolving to face him, no longer supple and giving, embracing life…she was the stranger with whom he lived. Brittle. Polite.

  The green eyes that had for years been his lodestone were careful. Quiet, dangerously so. His Cleo had never been quiet. Passionate, tempestuous, yes. Loving. Warm. Determined. Driven.

  This woman was…hollow. Going through the motions, except for the moments she’d cling to their last child as if Betsey were all that grounded her to earth.

  He’d done everything he could think of for eight months now.

  And failed every single day.

  Suddenly, he was furious. Whatever happened to for better or worse? Where in their vows had been permission to vanish while still walking around?

  “Betsey deserves more than this, Cleo.”

  She recoiled as if he’d slapped her. “What?”

  “One child is dead.” Merely saying that word nearly doubled him over. How could the laughing, beautiful boy be gone?

  He shook his head to banish the question. “Another is missing. Even if you don’t care about Vic, why are you abandoning Betsey?”

  Her mouth fell open. “I’m not—”

  For a second, he thought her old spirit would stir to life.

  Then she looked away, and he saw her doing it again, composing that mask.

  “Goddamn it, Cleo, stop this.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you dare go away again when we need you.”

  She almost seemed ready to fire back, and he welcomed the fight. Anything was better than the robot she had become.

  Instead, her face went blank and still.

  How could he risk hurting her more? But how much longer could this go on? “I don’t know who you are now.”

  A devastated glance. “Me, either.”

  An instant of communion. A flash of a chance. Come back to me, Snow, he wanted to beg, but a hard kernel of resentment got in the way. Who was she to put her grief before theirs? Did she think her pain any greater than Betsey’s? Than his? She’d been the hardass with Vic, the one who couldn’t see past the rebellion to the agony inside. He and Betsey had never quit trying. “I want to find her,” he said. “I’m going to start a new search.”

  That shattered the careful façade. “Why?” Her voice was pure agony. “She murdered her brother.”

  “That’s not true. You know it isn’t. She didn’t mean—”

  “You were always too easy on her.” Her eyes were lasers of accusation.

  “You never loved her enough,” he shot back.

  “Of course I did, but she hated me.” Cleo’s whisper was as raw as a shout. “Her own mother. Why, Malcolm? Why?”

  He moved toward her, drawn by her suffering.

  But she recoiled.

  Never in all their years together had Cleo shied from his touch.

  He stopped. Bled. “She didn’t hate you.”

  Her eyes went bitter and hard. “She did—and she killed my baby to take her revenge.”

  It was he who withdrew then. “It was an accident, Cleo. What kind of mother would believe she ever intended it?”

  She turned away. “A mother who failed.”

  “Snow, that’s not true. You were a good mother.”

  He heard the past tense. She did, too.

  “You still have a child here who needs you.” He approached once more.

  Again, she sidestepped. “I want you to leave, Malcolm.”

  His mouth fell open. “Leave?” he echoed. “For how long?”

  She wouldn’t face him, her back rigid, arms wrapped around her middle in protection.

  From…him.

  “I don’t know,” she murmured. “I don’t know.”

  “You can’t mean it.”

  But she only shrank further into herself. “I do. If you care about me at all, let me be.”

  He watched her in stunned silence, unable to absorb that for the first time since they’d met on a cold San Francisco sidewalk, they were no longer one. That the woman who was life itself to him—and he to her—was damaged by his very presence.

  What had they come to? It was more than he could take in, ravaged and bleeding himself.

  “What about Betsey?” he finally ventured.

  She rubbed her temples. “You’re right. I…I’ll pull myself together for her.”

  “But—” What about me? “Snow—how can you expect—”

  “Never mind. It’s not fair to ask of you—I’ll be the one to move out. You’re a better parent, anyway. You always were.” She looked out the window again, her face a study in despair.

  He comprehended then just how desperate she was to be away from him. Cleo loved every nail and floorboard in this house. Her deepest desire in life was to make a nest, to gather in her dear ones and provide them with the love and attention and stability she’d been denied growing up.

  He cherished it, too, this place. Or had, back when they’d been a family.

  But he loved her more.

  “No.” As he contemplated the enormity of his next step, his voice broke. “I’ll…go.”

  Cleo cast him a grateful glance, and his heart shattered.

  He almost begged then, but somehow he managed to do as she’d asked. Turn around. Walk away.

  Out into a world from which their love had granted shelter. Peace.

  Hope.

  He’d been hanging on to a tiny scrap of faith that time would heal them, that after a while they’d be shaky but, in the end, fine.

  Unable to imagine that, just like Adam, he’d been cast from Paradise.

  But unlike Adam, he would find a way to return. He’d believed that with every fiber.

  Instead, three months later, divorce papers were delivered to his office.

  Someone got into the car parked next to his, and the noise jerked Malcolm from his reverie. He leaned his head back against the car seat, reminding himself that five years had passed. He’d built a life. Become a bigger success than ever.

  Cleo was fine. He was fine. They’d gone on without each other. The journey to healing had been agonizing, but he’d
done it. She had no power over him now.

  And if you believe that, Malcolm Channing, you really are one hell of a salesman.

  Chapter Seven

  Cleo concentrated on the shelf of Victorian paperweights, fairly certain she’d already dusted this case, but Betsey’s near hysteria, after she’d encountered Ria at the house with no warning, had taken her far too long to shake. It was past closing time. Malcolm hadn’t called or shown. She should be heading home.

  Tonight’s plans had been irrevocably altered. There would be no interlude with Colin, and Cleo’s disappointment was far sharper than she would have liked.

  She should be glad she’d been saved from a foolish mistake by her prodigal daughter’s appearance. Only now, though, when the opportunity had vanished, did she understand just how much she’d longed to experience passion again. Once her days had been rich with it. Full to overflowing.

  Just then, a knock sounded at the locked front door. She turned.

  There stood Malcolm.

  Cleo froze, caught between the past and the future that had been whisked from her grasp. She drew a deep breath, smiled at her ex-husband and hoped he’d lost the ability to read her mind.

  “Hello,” she said, relocking the door behind him.

  “I’m late—sorry.”

  This close to him, Cleo had to swallow hard at his impact. Older, yes, but still lean and powerful, his broad shoulders encased in an expensive charcoal suit that had to be Italian in design.

  His young paramour must agree with him.

  “You look terrific, Cleo.”

  “Thank you. So do you.” How stilted they were. Cleo stirred herself to ask, “Still want some coffee?”

  A slight frown creased his forehead as he watched her.

  “Malcolm?”

  “What?” He shook his head. “Sorry. Just wool-gathering. Can I change your mind about dinner?”

  “I—” This day was already too full of memories. “Probably not a good idea. I’d better head home soon.”

  He pursed his lips to argue, then exhaled. “All right. Coffee would be good—thanks.” He followed her toward the back. “You don’t have to worry about hurrying, though. Ria’s asleep, and Benjy is having a ball with Lola and Aunt Cammie. When I left, they were making sandwiches shaped like animals.”

  Ria. The name still stuck in her throat.

  Cleo busied herself grinding Kona beans, struggling to forget they were Malcolm’s favorite, too—and that Colin had roasted these for her himself. “What did you think of Benjy?” She kept her voice neutral. When he didn’t answer, she peered over her shoulder.

  To see him struggling with emotion.

  “I—” His voice thickened. “Dear God, Cleo—when I saw him, I felt as though somebody had planted a big fist in my chest. I’m trying very hard to remember he’s not David.”

  Fighting tears, she flipped the switch on the coffeemaker, but couldn’t face him just yet. Instead, she reached for two mugs.

  “I miss him so much.” Malcolm’s voice dropped lower. “It never seems to go away. Just when I believe I’m past it—”

  Cleo pressed one hand to her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut. Silence pulsated in the tiny room, the throbbing beat of hearts never healed.

  She couldn’t quite manage to stifle her sob.

  Malcolm came up behind her. Hesitated, when once he would have touched her. “Hey—”

  The past was a whirlpool ready to suck her under. For a crazed instant, she longed to burrow into his arms. Return to the charmed world where she’d been so safe and happy.

  But that existence had skidded to a screaming halt one night six years ago, and climbing out of the seductive embrace of despair had required all she had.

  She was terrified of the memories Malcolm stirred to life. She could not survive hurting like that again. “Don’t.” She backed as far away as the small room would allow. “I’m sorry, Malcolm—it’s—” She glanced to the side, to the floor—anywhere but him, helpless to explain. “Today has been—” Finally she lifted her gaze to see his wild with grief. Instantly shuttered.

  “Yeah.” Malcolm withdrew then. Stared out toward the front. In a moment, he cleared his throat and spoke again.

  “Benjy’s wonderful, Cleo.” He smiled. “He went crazy over the old tree house. We’re going to rebuild it this weekend, so he’ll have a place to play. I told him I’d take him to the Zilker Park train, and he wants to see the Children’s Museum, and—”

  “Wait—” Cleo held up a hand, already suffocating from too many plans she’d had no hand in making. Her life had spiraled completely out of control. “What if I don’t want that tree house rebuilt?”

  He goggled. “What?”

  “It’s not your house anymore. You moved out, remember? You have a place of your own.”

  “You begged me to leave. You’re the one who filed for divorce.” With visible effort, he snapped his mouth shut. Exhaled. Began again. “This is for Benjy, Cleo. Our grandson. How can you deny it to him after he’s suffered God knows what kind of life with Ria?”

  “They could be gone tomorrow, for all we can tell.”

  “Not if they have a real home.”

  “Then you take them to yours.” Why was she saying that? She didn’t want Benjy anywhere else, but she kept mum, her ire rising by the minute. Who were all these people who thought she was Grand Central Station or the Ritz? She’d had a life that she’d fought very hard to build. Now everyone was crowding in, destroying her refuge.

  Malcolm’s frown deepened, but something else hovered in his eyes. “I—I can’t do that.” He glanced away. “Not right now.”

  Leaden silence ensued.

  “I told you I’d find them a place, but Benjy—if you could have seen him, how happy he was in that tree. And I thought maybe Ria could help, like before. She needs something to hold on to. A sense that she belongs. Some purpose.”

  “She was a child then, Malcolm. Not the hateful creature she became. We can’t be sure that she’s changed.”

  “You sound just like Betsey.”

  “She has a right to be upset.”

  “She doesn’t have to be vicious. She was out for blood. I don’t know what she told you, but she wanted to tear Ria limb from limb.”

  “Can you blame her? After all Victoria has cost us?” And here she was again, ripping apart the balance so hard-won.

  “She’s your child, too.”

  “She hates me, Malcolm. She was always more yours than mine. Daddy’s girl.”

  “She didn’t mean for it to happen.”

  And suddenly, that chasm they could not cross yawned between them once more.

  If you hadn’t been so easy on her…

  If you had loved her more…

  The old accusations they’d brandished like daggers as each of them sought to battle past the agony and loss. If only was their silent chorus to guilt’s melody. To the unanswerable question: what could we have done to prevent it?

  Her voice was a stranger’s, tight and shrill. “She took him to a party on the sly. She drank—a lot—and then she got behind the wheel of a car with a fourteen-year-old boy who adored her.” Her breathing was harsh in her own ears. “She killed our son and walked away without a scratch. How are we supposed to live with that, Malcolm? How do we bear it?”

  Malcolm looked at her for a long, charged moment. Then he shook his head. “The same way we’ve been doing for six years—one day at a time. We have a daughter who is dying by inches. Do we let her go, too?”

  His voice hardened. “Turn your back on her if you wish, Cleo, but I won’t.” He made to leave. “I’ll move them out of your house as soon as possible. I’d put them up in a hotel tonight, but I think that Benjy could use every bit of love he can get right now. I’d appreciate it if you could try to hide your contempt for his mother.”

  “I don’t feel contempt for her. I just—”

  “What, then? Disgust? Anger? She understands all that, Cleo. She’s awar
e that you don’t want her.” His voice softened only slightly. “But she returned to the only place she had left to go, hoping that home was still there. You and Betsey have made it amply evident how wrong she was.”

  “Benjy can stay.”

  “Would you have accepted that, in her position?” Malcolm’s eyes filled with pity. “They’re a package deal. She may not be the daughter you wanted, but she loves that boy with everything in her.” Brown hardened to agate. “She would never have come near if she didn’t love him more than she fears you.” His jaw flexed. “I’ll explain to Benjy about the tree house. Goodbye, Cleo.”

  She watched him go, a man who walked just like the one she’d once loved more than life itself. Then she collapsed onto the flowered chintz sofa, weeping for all that she and that man had lost.

  And would never recover.

  A knock sounded at her back door.

  “Cleo?” Colin.

  She shrank into the cushions.

  She didn’t know how much time had passed while she wept.

  “I can tell you’re in there. I heard you crying. Let me in. Please.”

  She rose. Balked.

  He spotted her. “I’m not after anything from you. Just let me—tell me who hurt you. I’d like to help.”

  The long day’s welter of emotions had her too heartsick and weary to battle. How could she explain what she didn’t understand herself? “Oh, Colin, I can’t talk about it now. I can’t—my heart—” Hurts, she thought, rubbing the heel of her hand against her chest.

  “At least let me drive you home. You’re too upset.”

  “Why would you want to be nice to me? I told you we can’t—”

  He laughed, but the sound was anything but joyous. “As hard as it may be to conceive, I care about you as much as I lust after you, Cleo. I’m not as shallow as you seem to believe.”

  “You’re not—” She sighed. “Oh, all right.” She unlocked the door. “Come on in.”

  She sat down and rubbed at her neck. “I don’t want to talk. I mean it. Just give me a minute to—” What did she want?

  “Here.” He walked behind the sofa. “Let your head fall forward. I give a hell of a neck massage.”