The House that Love Built Page 2

  The young woman was breathless. “I have to talk to you right away.” She turned to Owen. “Please excuse us for one moment.” She held up a finger as she pulled Brooke around the corner. Owen waited, eyeing some of the larger sanders, wondering if he should step it up. But the women’s voices caught his attention.

  “I saw that man out the window of my office when he passed by on the sidewalk, and that has to be the new guy people are talking about. He is hot, and he looks about your age.”

  “Lower your voice. And . . .”

  Owen couldn’t make out anything else they said. He grinned, appreciating the compliment. But what neither of these gals knew was that he was done with women. Forever. He was still in love with a woman he couldn’t stand.

  And for that . . . he didn’t like himself very much either.

  Brooke finally got Juliet to hush before she made her way back to the new guy, a bounce in her step. Finally, something to get mildly excited about, and it wasn’t Owen Saunders or the prospect of a new love interest.

  “Sorry about that,” she said as she met up with him again. “So . . . are you doing mostly cosmetic work on the house? Or are you restructuring, like knocking out walls?” She punched keys to ring up the sander. “Cash or credit?”

  “Just trying to get it livable.” He handed her a card. “I guess you could say it’s mostly cosmetic. But there’s a lot to do.”

  “I imagine.” Brooke bit her bottom lip as she swiped the card. “Have you found anything . . . unusual?” She held her breath as she recalled all the stories she’d heard about the Hadley place.

  “Does a raccoon in the attic count?” He smiled as he put his hands in his pockets.

  In another life, she might have found him attractive, even with his scraggly chin and paint-splattered clothes. But Travis had been her one true love, and she was sure no one could replace him.

  Owen Saunders did have something she was interested in, though, and she got giddy just thinking about it. If she played her cards right, this might be a chance to finally get in and look around his house.

  To see if what she’d heard was true.

  Two

  Every time Brooke walked into her mother’s small apartment at the Oaks Retirement Villa she questioned Mom’s decision to move here. Mom had sold her house and moved in with Brooke and the kids after Travis died, and Brooke had thought the arrangement worked well. Her four-bedroom home had plenty of room, and she and the kids had enjoyed having her mother around. Mom had liked being with them too. Or so Brooke had thought.

  The simply furnished apartment featured a compact living room, plus a tiny bedroom, a bathroom, and a half kitchen with a microwave, a small sink, and a few cabinets. Lunch and supper were provided in the main dining room, and Brooke kept her mother stocked with fruit and cereals for breakfast.

  “Grandma, you look pretty,” Meghan said when they walked in. Brooke froze in the doorway, momentarily caught off guard. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her mother so done up. Mom’s graying brown hair looked freshly cut and set and . . . was that blue eye shadow? She wore a navy pantsuit Brooke didn’t remember ever seeing.

  “Where are you off to?” Brooke set her purse on the couch as Spencer gave his grandmother a hug that warmed Brooke’s heart. Mom hadn’t driven for the past three years, since her glaucoma had gotten so bad that she could no longer pass the eye exam.

  “Just to supper,” Mom answered with a shrug, then she held up a finger, smiling. “But they have a band tonight.” She walked over to the couch and sat down. “Gladys, Audra, and I thought it would be fun to get a little dressed up. We don’t do that very often.”

  “Well, Meghan’s right. You do look very pretty.” Brooke sat down beside her mother. Meghan snuggled up close on the other side, and Spencer planted himself in the nearby rocking chair. “Do you need anything? More cereal? Anything else?”

  “Hmm.” Mom adjusted her thick gold-rimmed glasses and then drummed her fingers against her blue slacks. “Can you pick me up some perfume? Do you remember the kind I like?”

  “Chantilly, right?” How could Brooke forget? Her mother had always favored the same flowery scent, never opting to try something new. “But you haven’t worn any perfume in a long time.”

  “I know, dear. But the girls always smell so good, and I smell like Ivory soap.” Mom frowned as she cupped the back of her hair and gave it a little lift. It was the same haircut she’d always had—short, with a little poof on top.

  “I’ll pick you up some perfume.” Brooke touched her mom on the leg. “Anything else?”

  Mom shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, her mother quizzed the children about school and their plans for the summer, but Brooke noticed that she repeatedly looked at her watch. Then, as if she’d dutifully fulfilled her grandmother role, Mom stood up and hugged each of them.

  “Thank you for coming by. I don’t want to be late for supper tonight.” She walked to the door, obviously expecting them to follow.

  Brooke glanced at the clock on the wall as she stood. “Supper’s not for another thirty minutes, Mom.”

  “Yes, but I want to get us a good seat.” Her mom kissed the children on the cheek, leaving lipstick on each of them. “You know, because of the band. It will be extra crowded in the main dining room.”

  Spencer ran the back of his hand across his cheek, scowling, as he walked out the door, followed by Meghan. Brooke hugged her mom. “Okay. I’ll come by tomorrow.”

  Mom’s eyebrows puckered. “Brooke, I love you. But you don’t need to check on me every day.”

  “I don’t come every day. I come every other day, or sometimes every three days.” Brooke folded her arms across her chest. “Getting sick of us?”

  Mom grunted. “Oh, of course not.” She patted Brooke on the arm. “But you need your own life, honey. Have some fun.”

  Fun? “I do have fun.” Brooke felt like a little girl, and her voice rose defensively.

  “Like what?”

  Brooke looked toward her children, who were climbing into the minivan. “Me and the kids do fun things all the time. We go to the park, movies, make cookies—”

  “No.” Mom shook her head. “You need some grown-up fun. When’s the last time you went to dinner with friends or spent the day shopping with the girls?”

  Brooke honestly couldn’t remember. Most of her and Travis’s friends had been couples, and Brooke had edged away from those relationships. Navigating the memories was just too hard. “Not that long ago,” she finally said.

  Mom frowned. “You’re lying.” She moved closer to Brooke, almost pushing her out the door. “And it’s been almost two years. I think it’s time you considered dating again.” She put up a finger when Brooke opened her mouth to argue. “And I know what you’re going to say. But those children need a father figure in their life. And you’re too young to give up on finding love again.” Her expression softened, and she laid a hand on Brooke’s arm. “I know it hurts, honey. Travis was a wonderful man. But you need to move on.”

  Brooke blinked. Of all the people she knew, her mother had always seemed to understand and sympathize with her the most. Even though Brooke’s father hadn’t died, her mom had suffered from a broken heart for years. Why was she being so pushy now?

  “I’m not ready.” Brooke forced a smile before she turned and headed for the parking lot.

  Patsy closed the door behind her daughter, breathing a sigh of relief that they were gone. She loved her family dearly, but she needed time to touch up her makeup, apply some scented hand cream so she didn’t smell like an old woman, and put on some earrings. And she wasn’t ready for them to know about Harold.

  She’d barely done all that when she heard the knock. She flung the door open, and there he stood, looking dashing in his tan khakis, white pullover, and white tennis shoes. His bald head shone like a polished stone, and his bushy gray eyebrows arched above the most beautiful pair o
f pale blue eyes. Patsy’s heart rate doubled at the sight of him.

  “Hello, handsome.” She smiled, hoping she didn’t have lipstick on her teeth.

  “Hello, beautiful.”

  They’d been greeting each other that way for two weeks, and Patsy felt like a teenage girl, a wave of excitement rushing through her at the sound of his voice.

  Harold offered her his elbow. “Shall we?”

  Patsy looped her arm in his, still smiling, and together they walked to the dining hall around the corner. Harold was three years older than Patsy—seventy-two—and even though his recent health issues had aged him considerably, Patsy still thought he was the most handsome man alive.

  Gladys and Audra were already seated when Patsy and Harold walked into the dining room. The band was still setting up, and Patsy felt like a prom queen as she approached her friends, Harold on her arm.

  She’d moved into the Oaks so she could participate in all the activities she’d heard Gladys and Audra talking about. Dating Harold was a bonus she hadn’t foreseen. She hadn’t felt so alive in years. And as a breast cancer survivor and the mother of a young widow, she knew how precious time was. Briefly, she thought about Brooke and hoped her daughter would realize that as well.

  “You look very pretty, Patsy,” Gladys said when they arrived at the table. It was the third time she’d heard that this evening. Patsy beamed. She felt pretty.

  “Doesn’t she, though?” Harold pulled out her chair, smiling, and Patsy felt her cheeks warming. “And you ladies look lovely as well.”

  “Oh, go on.” Gladys was clearly pleased, despite her protest. Harold wasn’t a resident at the villas, but he had come to dinner with Patsy three times and quickly won over her friends.

  “I’m sure they are going to destroy the lobster bisque today.” Audra shook her head. “People who don’t know how to cook French food shouldn’t do it.” She took a deep breath. “And I’ll bet you all the ants in a hill that they won’t get the crème brûlée right either. They’ll probably slap some boxed pudding together, throw some sugar on top, and then light it with a cigarette lighter.”

  The others paid no attention to her rant. They were used to Audra’s role as resident food critic. She’d been a chef most of her life, even preparing food for the rich and famous in New York City. But Patsy thought the food here was just fine, especially since she didn’t have to cook it. “Maybe it will be all right, Audra.” Patsy smiled. She was so happy, not even Audra’s negativity could bring her down.

  She glanced at Harold. He met her eyes, and she felt a tingling in the pit of her stomach—a sensation she loved and feared at the same time.

  Owen sat down on his front steps and gulped from the glass of iced tea he’d brought outside with him. He’d managed to sand off the new paint he’d applied and the coat underneath that, then he’d taken it down to the original wood. Six thousand square feet of house, and he’d managed to tackle about three hundred of it so far. And those three hundred feet had just about done him in.

  He swooshed ice around the empty glass, wiped his sweaty face with the tail of his T-shirt, and decided he needed to rethink his plan. The May heat was a challenge, but July and August would be impossible. He remembered it getting up to 112 degrees in Austin last year. He’d known when he bought the place that the central air-conditioning didn’t work, but he’d thought he could put off the repairs until later. What was I thinking?

  He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a card someone had given him a few weeks ago: Smithville Heat and Air. That was his new first goal, to get the central air repaired. He’d already installed a small window unit in the master bedroom so he could sleep. But to work on the rest of the house, he needed it not to feel like the African Sahara.

  Pressing the cold glass against his cheek, he looked across the street, then down to the left and right. He couldn’t have picked Virginia’s dream location any better than he had. All around him were beautifully restored turn-of-the-century houses with front porches and great landscaping. Some even had white picket fences. It was everything his wife—ex-wife—had ever wanted. And though Owen had put off leaving the city, eventually he would have gotten it all for her. For them.

  Sirens in the distance jerked him out of his thoughts, and he sat taller as the cop car drew closer. It wasn’t a sound you heard very often here. Maybe the occasional ambulance, but not police sirens. Owen had done a short stint as an EMS worker right after he graduated from college, so he could tell the difference.

  He stood up as the sirens blared even louder. But long before the police car turned onto his street, a lanky red-headed boy rounded the corner, huffing and puffing as he tore past Owen. The kid wore ragged jeans and a yellow T-shirt. Tattoos ran the length of one arm. That was all Owen saw. The kid was around the next corner before the police car turned onto Owen’s street.

  Hmm.

  Wonder what he did?

  Hunter Lewis squatted in the Parsonses’ flower bed, wishing he hadn’t worn a yellow shirt today. The plants came almost to his waist, so he bent down and crawled beneath the leaves, tucking his head and holding his breath. One more trip to jail and he was gonna do some real time, not just an overnight thing. At least that’s what the judge had told him a couple of months ago.

  Another thirty minutes or so, and it would be dark. A gnat buzzed near his ear, and he slapped at his cheek without thinking, then peered out between the long stalks to see if he’d drawn any attention to himself. So far so good. The sirens moved farther away, and Hunter was pretty sure they were giving up for now. But they’d be looking for him again at daybreak, so that meant no going home tonight.

  Another gnat tickled his nose. Hunter pinched his nostrils and shook his head, swatting at the space around him. If he could just get away this time, he’d leave town. That’s what everyone wanted anyway, even his grandma. He’d need some money, though, and he couldn’t take any from her. She needed every penny for all those pills she took.

  Hunter’s heart began to race so fast he couldn’t breathe, and if he hadn’t known better, he would swear someone had their hands around his throat. He hated this feeling. Grandma said it was panic attacks, but to Hunter it always felt like he was going to die.

  He took a few deep breaths, hoping to slow his heartbeat and make the dizziness go away. He tried to focus on something else, on where he would go. He didn’t have any other family besides Grandma. Well, none to speak of.

  The invisible hands closed in tighter, and his vision narrowed. This always made him wonder where he’d go when he croaked. He was only seventeen.

  Covering his hands with his face, he wanted to cry. Such a sissy thing to do. But so much had gone wrong in his life, and he didn’t have a clue how they could ever be right. Not that he could blame it on everyone else. That would be a cop-out. No one had forced him to rob a store a couple of years ago or to steal Ms. Skaggs’s computer so he could pawn it a few months back. But Mom and Dad without drugs was like living with two wild bobcats that hadn’t eaten in a month of Sundays. Seemed easier to get them the money.

  At times like this, he figured he’d be better off to just cut his wrists open and bleed to death. It would be better than this awful feeling that swept over him. What did he really have to live for anyway?

  Right then he felt a sharp pain against the back of his neck. A hand. And a strong force yanked him to his feet. Like the little sissy baby that he was, he barely kept from crying as he tried to struggle free.

  He was caught. And the guy was strong. He quickly had Hunter’s arms behind his back with nothing but the firm grip of one hand. With the other hand, he held Hunter’s arm.

  “I think the cops are looking for you.”

  Hunter didn’t say anything or struggle. The Parsonses’ porch light came on. Crazy Mr. Parsons came out with a shotgun, and Hunter thought he was lucky this strong guy had found him first. Otherwise, Mr. Parsons most likely would have just started shooting. As many times as Hunter had thought abo
ut dying, a gunshot wasn’t the way he wanted to go.

  “Don’t shoot!” Strong Guy said as Mr. Parsons held the shotgun toward them. “I found this kid hiding in your flower bed. Call the police. I think they were looking for him earlier.”

  Mr. Parsons inched closer, all bent over, probably a hundred years old. And they let people like him have guns?

  “It’s that Lewis kid! Hunter Lewis. I’ll go call the police. No telling what that piece of trash has done now.”

  Trash. That’s what Hunter was. And everyone knew it.

  Owen had to give his statement at the police station, an inconvenience he hadn’t foreseen. He’d tried to tell the cop on the scene how he’d walked around the corner and spotted the kid, but they insisted he go down to the station.

  Hunter Lewis was being charged with robbery and evading arrest. They weren’t his first offenses. Hunter had a long record, and from what Owen gathered from the police, he was the town troublemaker. His parents were druggies in court-ordered rehab. Hunter lived with his grandmother, who clearly couldn’t control him.

  Apparently Hunter was seventeen, but with his red hair, freckles, and lanky build, he didn’t look that old. Owen would have pegged him around fourteen or fifteen. Owen could see him from here, leaning against the brick wall in the cell with arms folded across his chest and the kind of scowl that only a teenager can hold for long. He was the only one in the small jail tonight.

  Owen looked at his watch, surprised that it was nearly midnight. Nothing moves fast in a small town.

  “You guys done with me?” Owen stifled a yawn.

  The arresting officer, a stocky, middle-aged man, didn’t look up as he glanced back and forth between his computer and a file on his desk. “Uh, yeah. You can go.”

  Owen turned around to leave, but a memory from his past kept slamming into the forefront of his mind. Push it away. Just go home. After taking a few more steps toward the exit, he turned and walked back to where the officer sat.