For one Christmas morning smile. One proud grin at an A on a report card. One night of making the monsters go away.
For all the love that had flooded him the first time he’d held each child in his arms.
She didn’t have to want the baby. She could walk away without a backward glance, and he would never say a word. He would bear every cost, give whatever it took.
But he could not tell this woman it was okay to get rid of his baby.
I’m sorry, Joanna, he thought. If I could take your place, I would.
Joanna soughed one last, catchy breath and slipped into sleep in his arms.
And Malcolm prayed for the words to make things right.
Chapter Nine
The light over the sink cast its warm glow on the deserted kitchen, once Cleo’s favorite room in the house. It had become Aunt Cammie’s domain and, little by little, pieces of her aunt’s life had appeared. Delicate porcelain pitchers and African violets joined Cleo’s bright Mexican pottery and gleaming copper pans.
Cleo surveyed the ivory walls, the Mexican tiles she’d laid herself, she and—
Malcolm.
She could still feel Colin’s arms around her. For a few minutes, she’d experienced the forgotten luxury of someone to lean on. And a little of the magical tug of what might be.
But now, in her house under siege, Malcolm’s handiwork everywhere around her, that tug felt like…betrayal. Cleo couldn’t reconcile the woman Colin made her want to be with the woman who was supposed to be—what? Mother? Daughter? Wife?
No, not wife. And she shouldn’t feel as if she’d done anything wrong. Malcolm had probably never given her a second thought when he was inside Joanna.
She pressed one finger to swollen lips, inhaled the scent of Colin on her skin. And mourned.
“Was he good?” Victoria’s voice greeted her from the doorway, her spiky hair tousled from sleep, a crease on her face from the sheets.
“What?”
“No woman looks like that unless she’s been with a man. Anyone I know?”
Cleo had put herself back together before leaving the shop, but guilt had her flaring back. “That’s none of your business.”
Her daughter laughed, sharp and grating. “It’s true, isn’t it? Who is he? My, my…maybe we have more in common than I thought. This is a whole new wrinkle, Mother.” She strolled into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. “Want to tell me all about it?”
Cleo whirled on her, embarrassed and furious. “I don’t have to explain anything about my life. You ran out six years ago and didn’t have the courtesy to tell us you were alive.”
“Am I supposed to believe you would have worried?”
“Of course we did—” she cried, pointing in the direction of Benjy’s bedroom. “That little boy—you kept him from us. Why? And what are you doing back now?”
“I thought—” Victoria shoved away from the counter. “It doesn’t matter. I was wrong. You still don’t give a damn about me. You’re only upset that I didn’t tell you about Benjy.” She headed for the door. “Maybe he was better off, unaware of you. I sure was.”
“Victoria, I do—” Care.
But her daughter wasn’t listening, gone from the room, leaving her disdain to ricochet around like a stray bullet, wreaking havoc.
What good had her caring ever done? Cleo could hardly remember the child for whom she’d had such dreams. So much heartrending love. Victoria was a living symbol of her failures as a mother. Cleo leaned against the opposite counter, rubbing her forehead, too weary to move. Somehow, she had to summon the strength to climb the stairs to her room. A shower, then fall into bed.
And hope that tomorrow would be better. Uneventful. The peace of this morning seemed light-years away.
Footsteps pounded down the stairs. Cleo moved to the doorway to see Victoria pulling a sweater around her shoulders, fully dressed now.
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“Where?”
Victoria’s jaw was so tight the words barely slipped through. “I don’t know, Mother. Do I have a curfew?”
“What about Benjy?”
Her daughter’s laugh was bitter and sharp. “You’ll take care of him, of course.” She slipped halfway through the door. “And maybe, just maybe, you’ll get real lucky and I won’t come back. Then everything will be perfect in Cleo’s little world.”
“Victoria, I would never—” Cleo lunged for the door and jerked it open, but too late. Her daughter’s long, runner’s legs took her out of sight quickly.
I don’t want you to go away, Cleo wanted to call out. We can fix this.
But there was no sense lying to either one of them.
Sandor gouged a hole in the acacia he was carving and laid down his chisel in disgust.
He’d returned earlier just in time to spot a thunderous Colin heading back to his place. He’d heard Cleo talking on the phone, then she’d slipped past his work area without her usual good night. She was always thoughtful and respectful of his work, not presuming a right to enter without invitation, but never before had she failed to let him know she was leaving.
He wondered if he should intervene and warn Colin off. Cleo had had quite enough dumped on her lately, especially today. She was a remarkable human being whose beauty was more than her façade, and any man shallow enough not to see the whole of her did not deserve her.
How her ex-husband had let her go, Sandor could not imagine. He’d never met the man, but he scorned him. Betsey had told him of her father’s much-younger companion, and Sandor considered it pathetic, if typical of men that age.
Sandor would not do that to his own woman. When he found her, the mate of his soul he refused to believe did not exist, he would guard her and cherish her and love her all his days.
Cleo deserved such care. Beyond her inner strength, there was a vulnerability that made him want to protect her. She was his friend, and she’d given him, new to this country, a chance to not only earn a wage but a place to practice his craft. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.
He raked his fingers through already tousled hair and muttered a few choice words in Hungarian about the men in Cleo’s life. Then he glanced over at the piece that held such promise and recognized that if he picked up his woodcarving tools again tonight, he would ruin the beauty locked inside it.
Perhaps a walk would clear out his head, so he could get back to work. Without pausing for a jacket, he strode outside.
Half an hour later, little more settled than when he’d begun, he noted that he’d reached Lamar and Twelfth, only a few short blocks from Cleo’s house. He could hike up the hill and talk to her. See if she needed a friend.
But it was late, and he respected her privacy.
So he set out in the opposite direction. A short block down Twelfth, he crossed in front of a dingy bar that had withstood the gentrification taking place around it. For a moment, he contemplated entering to seek out a beer.
A scream cut through the darkness, emanating from the parking lot in back, he thought.
Sandor charged around the side of the building. Heard furious words he couldn’t make out.
Then the sound of a slap, flesh upon flesh.
“Be still, damn you,” a man’s voice growled. “You asked for this.”
“Let me go,” a woman cried.
Sandor spotted them then, in front of a pickup, the woman half-naked and fighting. “Stop!” he called out.
They didn’t seem to hear him. She clawed at the man’s eyes.
He dropped her, and she slid to the ground with a yelp, then scrambled to gather her things and retreated from him. “Get away from me!”
“Goddamn you, leadin’ a man on like that. Come here—”
“Let her be,” Sandor ordered.
The man turned in fury. “Get the hell out of here.”
“Not until I speak with the lady.” Sandor cast a quick glimpse toward her.
The woman rap
idly straightened her clothes, sobbing with each breath.
“Are you hurt?”
She glanced up then, eyes wild, hair choppy and short and black, face shadowed with fear and pain.
“This ain’t your business,” the other man growled. “Get back over here, Ria, and finish what you promised.”
Ria? The man charged, and Sandor couldn’t stop to ponder. He blocked the man’s path, casting over his shoulder. “Go. Wait for me in front.”
“You goddamn drunken whore—come back here!”
Sandor didn’t pause to see where she went. “You deal with me now, unless you are too frightened of someone your size.”
Mean eyes narrowed. “I’m not afraid of anyone.” He took a swing.
Sandor had no trouble dodging that blow or the next. Each maneuver only increased the man’s rage.
“Bring it on. You too chicken to stand and fight?”
Sandor ignored the taunt, watching for the opportunity.
Then it arose. He moved in under the man’s guard, hooked a foot around his ankle and dropped him on his back on the pavement.
His opponent didn’t stir, mouth gaping like a fish’s as he sought the breath that had been knocked out of him.
Sandor chose mercy. “No man is worthy to call himself such if he mistreats women.” He cast a disparaging glare, then turned to go.
He made it only a few feet before a bellow of rage preceded heavy footsteps. He whirled and met the charge.
Fists flew, and the skin on them broke. It was not his choice to continue the battle, but Sandor never backed down when trouble was brought to his door. He didn’t choose physical violence as a means of resolution, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t.
“Break it up, you two—” a voice shouted “—I’ve called the cops.”
Sandor’s opponent lifted his head, registered the situation and bellowed a violent curse. “This ain’t over,” he warned Sandor. “But you’re not worth going to jail for, and she’s sure as hell not.”
With that, he took off running for his pickup. Tires squealed as he drove out the back way.
Sandor swiped at a cut on his mouth and glanced at the owner of the voice. “Is there a woman waiting in front?”
“The one who was all over that guy?” The older man shook his head. “Of course not. She’s long gone. Best you make yourself scarce, too.”
Sandor shook his head and wondered if he’d just encountered Cleo’s bad-seed daughter.
Cleo awoke to the sound of a broken laugh.
Then a thud against her wall, followed by urgent whispers.
“Sorry, sorry.” Giggles sliding up to hysterical pitch, quickly muffled.
She rose from the bed, heart sinking. This was too reminiscent of scenes she’d rather forget. With a sigh, she donned her robe and reached for the door.
“I—I’ll take care of myself, Aunt Cammie.” Despair threaded through her daughter’s tone.
“You certainly will not.” Aunt Cammie might be quiet, but she could hold her ground. “You think you’re the only one who ever met hopeless, child? I’m going to put you to bed, and you don’t be fretting any more tonight. Tomorrow is soon enough. Answers don’t come that easy, not for most of us.”
“They do for her.”
Cleo clutched the door frame, knowing exactly who her daughter meant. If the idea weren’t so absurd, it would be funny.
“No, they don’t. Your mother just hides it better than most. Now, come on.”
“I—I smell bad. This guy—”
“Sh-h, sweetheart. I’ll draw you a nice bath downstairs where no one will hear you.”
Ria’s voice turned small. “I’m so tired, Aunt Cammie.”
“Lean on me, child. There’s love waiting for you to take it.”
“Oh, Aunt Cammie…if only you were right.” A world of sorrow and pain echoed in Ria’s heartfelt sigh.
If only… How many times had they tried? How often had they failed to reach her, to love her right?
Cleo stayed where she was for a second too long, torn between hope and fear.
When she emerged, it was too late. They were almost out of sight, the tiny old woman shepherding a tall, broken child down the stairs.
While the tall child’s mother watched. And wondered if she had the strength to risk having her heart broken one more time.
In the faint light of morning, Cleo thought she heard voices in the hallway outside her bedroom again. Rising from the bed, she pulled on her robe, then opened the door.
Benjy lay cuddled around Tyrone on the floor outside David’s old bedroom. Solemn brown eyes gazed up at her.
Cleo smiled and crossed to him, then knelt beside the pair. “Are you all right, sweetie?” she whispered.
Benjy nodded, gaze worried. “My mom’s asleep. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
Cleo laid one hand on his head. “You didn’t. I like to get up early.”
The brown eyes lit. “Me, too.” Then he petted the silvered black fur. “Tyrone visited see me.”
“Benjy—” He didn’t know his way around yet, and he was so young. “If you wake up early, come to my room, all right? I really don’t mind, even if I’m still asleep.”
“Okay.” A hand stroked the dog burrowed against him. “Tyrone likes me.”
Cleo smiled. “Of course he does. We all do.”
Long, dark eyelashes lifted. “You do?”
Her heart twisted. “Oh, yes, sweetie. We’re your family, and we love you so much.” A rush of tears pricked at her eyes. How alone had this child been? What had he seen?
She would make things different for him now. Better. “Are you hungry?”
Benjy shrugged. “A little.”
“Let’s put Tyrone out, and then I’ll fix you something to eat, okay?”
Black hair bounced around his face as he nodded. “Okay.” He lifted up his arms in a gesture so trusting that Cleo’s heart ached.
She pulled him to his feet as she knelt before him. One hand pressed his head into her shoulder as she fell into an age-old rhythm, rocking him. Benjy’s arms tightened around her neck, and Cleo inhaled the scent of little boy: salty, slightly acrid…infinitely precious.
Oh, God. So sweet. So painful. “I love you, Benjy,” she choked out.
“I love you, Nana,” his breathy voice answered.
Cleo squeezed her eyes shut to banish the tears that threatened anew. With effort, she rose, holding him to her side, and headed down the hallway, pausing before Ria’s room to close the door.
Her daughter lay curled up on her side, clutching the bedspread in one hand, a faint frown on her too-thin face. She appeared so fragile and haunted…so in need of care.
A thousand times, Cleo had extended a hand to her firstborn.
A thousand times, it had been slapped away.
But what kind of mother stopped offering, regardless of the provocation, no matter how difficult the child? Where had the tiny girl gone, the one whose birth had seemed a miracle? The first step. The first word. Cleo had learned motherhood with the child inside this woman she barely knew.
No matter how far they’d drifted, couldn’t she find a way to bridge the gap?
“You look sad, Nana.”
Cleo tore her attention away from the woman in the bed. Placing one finger across her lips for quiet, she slowly closed the door and led Benjy down the stairs. Tyrone creaked along behind them.
When they reached the kitchen, Cleo opened the back door and let Tyrone outside. “Do you need to use the bathroom, Benjy?”
He shook his head. “I already did.”
“You’re a very big boy, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. Gramps let me climb the tree yesterday and sit up there, all by myself. Did you know you have a house in the big tree?”
“Yes, sweetie. I do.”
“And my mom helped build it? It’s really cool. I was so tall up there.”
Cleo remembered the excitement on Malcolm’s face as he described their p
lans. “Gramps told me that you and he are going to rebuild it.”
“Gramps is great. He knows all kinds of stuff. And he said my mom could help us.”
She thought about the young Victoria, face screwed up in concentration as she nailed the planks. Recalled her pride when it was finished. And Malcolm’s.
“You want to work with us, Nana?”
“I’m not that good with a hammer.”
He shrugged. “Gramps says he can teach me. I bet he can teach you, too.”
She owed Malcolm an apology. Seeing Benjy’s enthusiasm, she couldn’t blame Malcolm for charging ahead with plans. She herself wanted to make up for every loss this child had suffered, wave a magic wand over his life.
So what if her orderly house was suddenly bursting with people? If her hard-won tranquility was wrecked? Would she trade peace and quiet for this boy’s eager smile, his glowing eyes?
In a heartbeat. “Gramps is good at lots of things. I guess I could try.”
“Great!” Benjy squirmed on the counter where she’d set him. “Do you know how to make cinnamon toast, Nana?”
Cleo grinned and hugged him hard. How wonderful to have a child to care for again. “You better believe it. Want to help me?”
“Yeah!” Benjy threw his arms around her and squeezed. “I like it here.” He pulled back, uncertain. “I wish we could stay,” he whispered.
Cleo swallowed hard. “You can, Benjy.” She pressed him into her shoulder and gazed sightlessly into the past, wishing for a different future. “I really want you to.”
Please, Victoria. Ria.
Help me find a way.
Chapter Ten
“Mr. Channing?” His very proper receptionist Eleanor stood in the doorway to his office. “You have a visitor.”
Malcolm glanced up from the stock profile on his computer screen. “Did I forget an appointment?”
“No. This one is…unexpected.” An odd expression crossed her face. “Mrs. Channing.”
“Cleo?” he echoed. “She’s…here?” After the way they’d parted last night, unexpected didn’t quite fill the bill. “I’ll be right there.”
The House That Love Built Page 9
