The House that Love Built Read online

  He glanced at the name plate on his desk. “Uh, Officer Ward?” Owen waited until the man looked up. “What happens now?”

  Officer Ward raised one bushy brow and grunted. “Oh, he’ll be in here for a while. This ain’t his first rodeo.”

  Owen nodded again, scratching his chin.

  “Is there something else, Mr. Saunders?” Officer Ward didn’t try to hide the irritation in his voice.

  Owen took a deep breath, stifling a yawn. “No. I guess not.”

  He left the police station with a strong urge to pray for Hunter Lewis, even though he hadn’t talked to God since the day he and Virginia called it quits.

  Three

  Brooke woke up on Saturday to sun rays streaming through her white lace curtains, and she felt movement on Travis’s side of the bed. She eased one eye barely open and found herself gazing into the most beautiful pair of brown eyes.

  She quickly lowered her eyelids, scrunched her face into a contorted expression, and deepened her voice. “Who is this in my bed?” Keeping her eyes closed, she reached a hand toward the small bundle next to her.

  “Me, Mommy.” Meghan laughed. Brooke knew she would never tire of hearing that sound.

  “Me who?!” Brooke growled as she continued to poke her hand toward Meghan, keeping her eyes closed.

  Meghan squealed, giggling as she tried to squirm away. “You know who! It’s me!”

  “I don’t know anyone named Me.” Brooke pulled the covers over her head, knowing what was next. She braced herself.

  Meghan pounced on top of her. “It’s Saturday, Mommy. Get up! It’s pancake day.”

  Brooke threw back the covers and came face-to-face with her little angel. “And who gets pancakes?” Brooke pointed a finger to her cheek and waited as Meghan planted a kiss there.

  “Me and Spencer.”

  Brooke had been making pancakes on Saturday mornings since way before Travis died. Spencer and Meghan used to love going to the Treasure Chest with him after those breakfasts while she worked at the hardware store. Later, after her mother moved in, the children had stayed with Mom after school and on Saturdays. Nowadays, both kids were forced—Spence’s word—to go to work with Brooke. Their lives were definitely not the same, but pancake Saturday had kept its spot on their schedule. Brooke sat up, stretched her arms, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll meet you downstairs shortly.”

  Meghan scurried out the door, and Brooke shuffled to the closet to pull out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Ten minutes later she was in the kitchen, keeping their pancake tradition alive. She served Meghan the first two cakes, then walked to the calendar and marked an X in the appropriate square.

  “How many days left?”

  Brooke wrote in the number, then turned to her daughter just in time to see her upending the syrup bottle over her flooded plate. “Forty-two,” she said as she rushed to Meghan, frowning down at her plate as she took the bottle from her. “That is way too much. Your pancakes are swimming in it.”

  “She does that every time.” Spencer rolled his eyes. “And now she won’t want them ’cause they’re soggy.”

  Brooke knew he was right. “Do you want new ones?” she asked her daughter.

  Meghan was nodding when someone knocked on the door. Brooke glanced at the digital clock on the stove, wondering who would be visiting at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning. She turned the burner off, pulled the pancake from the griddle, and put it on a new plate for Meghan.

  “Here. Now go easy on the syrup.” Brooke hurried out of the kitchen, through the living room, and toward the front door, almost tripping over Kiki, their big orange-and-white cat. She pulled the door wide, then blinked, stunned by the dazzling floral arrangement the man on the porch was holding.

  “Brooke Holloway?”

  “Yes.”

  “For you.” He held out the colorful mixture of tulips, orchids, and daisies toward her. As soon as Brooke latched onto the white vase, he turned and left.

  She noted the small white envelope stuck in the middle of the arrangement. Austin address. Who in the world ordered me flowers from an Austin florist? “Or any florist, for that matter,” she mumbled as she made her way back over the cat and into the kitchen.

  “Mommy!” Meghan bolted out of her chair and ran to see the flowers. “They’re so pretty!” She bounced on her toes as Brooke lowered the arrangement so Meghan could see it and get a whiff of the sweet aroma. “Where’d they come from?”

  “I have no idea.” Brooke couldn’t imagine who would send her flowers. Duh. Open the envelope. She gently eased a card out with no idea what to expect. But as she read the message, inscribed in blue ink, she felt her legs go weak beneath her. Stuffing the card into the back pocket of her jeans, she set the flowers on the counter.

  “Well? Who are they from?” Spencer’s chair scuffed against the wooden floor as he pushed away from the table and stood up. He slammed his hands to his hips. “Who are they from?”

  Her son had made no secret about his thoughts concerning another man in their lives. “You better not ever try to replace Dad,” he’d said almost venomously on many occasions. She’d assured him that Travis could never be replaced.

  Now she was faced with lying to her kids about the sender or facing off with them about a subject that they didn’t have time to get into this morning. “No one you know.” It was a truthful answer, but Brooke could feel Spencer’s eyes boring a hole through her.

  “They’re from a guy, aren’t they?” He ground the words out between his teeth.

  “Spencer, they aren’t from anyone you know, and it’s not what you’re thinking.” Brooke shook her head as she began clearing the table. She took a quick look at two pancakes on a plate next to the stove, but she’d lost her appetite.

  “I think they’re from a man.” Meghan leaned toward the flowers, lifted up on her tiptoes, and her big eyes rounded as she smiled and took another whiff. “Juliet said yesterday that there is a new man in town, and he’s about your age, and his name is Owen. And Juliet said—”

  “Stop, Meghan.” Brooke blew out a breath of frustration. She looked back at Meghan, who was grinning. Unlike her son, Meghan had often asked if they’d have a new daddy someday. Brooke couldn’t imagine it, but she’d always just said, “You never know.”

  “Don’t listen to everything Juliet says,” Brooke told her. She would have to speak to Juliet about this later. For now, she was concerned about her son, who stood with his fists clenched at his sides. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Spencer . . . ,” she began, but he stormed out of the room. Brooke followed him to the front door, but Spencer was already running down the street. She yelled after him, hoping he could hear her. “Spencer, we have to go to work! Get back here! The flowers aren’t from Owen!”

  Sighing, she closed the door, knowing he wouldn’t go far and would probably show up at the hardware store shortly. There were advantages to small-town living. When one of your kids got mad, there wasn’t far for them to go. And an ice cream at Miss Vickie’s Emporium would cure just about anything that ailed a person.

  Just the same, Brooke would go look for Spencer after she got dressed.

  Owen tightened the last screw into the porch ceiling, sweat dripping down his face, then stood back and admired his new swing. He was tired of sitting on the steps, and the small grocery store in town had been selling porch swings out front yesterday—locally made, already painted, and with room for two. Gonna just be me.

  He eased himself down, letting the swing get used to his weight, and hoped he’d hit a stud overhead. Once he felt the screws weren’t going to pull loose over his head, he pushed with his boot until the swing fell into a rhythm, then he closed his eyes and smiled. You always wanted one of these, Virginia.

  His bitterness should have suffocated him, but some days it was all that gave him comfort. He opened his eyes, still smiling, and noticed a kid walking up the sidewalk.

  “Hey, there.” Owen slowed the swing to
a stop, noticing the frown on the boy’s face. “Everything okay?” The kid walked right up to Owen, stuffed his hands in the pockets of his blue-jean shorts, and wagged his head back and forth. His brown hair looked freshly cut into a burr, and he didn’t look older than nine or ten.

  “Are . . . are you named Owen?” The boy squinted from the sun’s glare.

  “Yeah, I’m Owen. Just moved in not too long ago.” Owen draped one arm over the back of the swing, tapping his fingers against the wood. “And you are?”

  “Spencer.”

  Owen dropped his hand to his knee and waited, wondering if the boy’s sole purpose was just to introduce himself. “Well, nice to meet you, Spencer.”

  The kid clenched his mouth tight and looked to his left, then right. His eyes landed back on Owen, and the boy raised his chin. “I’m looking for my mom.”

  Owen slid to the edge of the swing. “Are you lost? Do you need me to call someone?”

  Spencer shook his head as he glowered. “No. I’m not lost. My mom is.” He paused, looking around again. “Her name is Brooke Holloway.”

  Owen recalled the woman who’d helped him with his sanding issues. “Yeah, I know your mom.” He scratched his forehead. “What do you mean she’s lost?”

  Spencer took a step closer, then spoke almost in a whisper. “My mom, she has . . . problems.”

  “Problems?”

  “She’s not right in the mind.” He pressed his lips together. “And sometimes she gets lost.” He shook his head mournfully. “She just walks right out the door and doesn’t know where she’s going. It’s real sad.”

  Owen stood up from the swing and came down on one knee in front of the boy as he wondered if Brooke was okay. She’d sure seemed all right at the hardware store. “Do you want me to call someone?”

  Spencer sighed, a hint of annoyance hovering in his eyes. “No. I always find her, then I take her back home. I take care of her.”

  “All by yourself?” That sounded unlikely. Owen kept his eyes on Spencer’s, watching for any clue that the kid might be making this up. Owen didn’t know much about children this age. Did they usually make up tall tales for total strangers?

  “My grandma helps take care of Mom too.”

  This sounded more plausible. Sad, though. He hated to think of a young boy having to shoulder that much responsibility.

  “Anyway, I was checking around. I’m sure she’ll show up soon. She runs the hardware store in town.” Spencer squinted one eye. “Guess you might already know that.”

  Owen nodded, then held a hand to his forehead, blocking the sun, as he looked down the street. He still wasn’t sure whether to call someone in case it was Spencer who was in some kind of trouble.

  “I’m pretty sure that’s where she got that bad rash all over her back, being ’lergic to something at the store.” Spencer scrunched his face, closing his eyes. “It never goes away. Just big red bumps all over her back, oozing stuff all the time.”

  Owen tried not to cringe. He well remembered the backside of Brooke moving down the aisle in front of him. Now he could add oozing red bumps to that mental image. “That’s, uh . . . that’s a shame,” he finally said, wanting more than ever to doubt this kid’s credibility. But Spencer’s face was utterly sincere. And what reason would he have to lie about something like that?

  “Anyway, I better keep looking for her.” Spencer smiled and took a deep breath. “Gotta get her to work on time.” He turned to leave, then spun around with a quick wave.

  “Nice to meet you, Spencer.” Owen watched him walk away, and the kid was almost to the street when he turned around again.

  “And she’s real ’lergic to flowers too!” Spencer gave another wave and ran down the street.

  Owen watched him until he turned the corner, then he sat back down in his new swing and kicked it into motion. He shook his head sadly.

  You just can’t tell about people.

  Brooke dropped Meghan off at the store to stay with Juliet so she could go look for Spencer.

  “And I’ll chat with you later.” She pointed a finger at Juliet.

  Juliet gave her an innocent shrug but began nervously twisting a strand of long blond hair.

  Brooke wound her way to the front of the store, where Big Daddy sat at the cash register. “I shouldn’t be long. I’m sure Spencer didn’t go too far.”

  “No problem. I was just sorting through some deliveries in the back. Nothing that can’t wait.” Big Daddy opened up the newspaper on the counter and picked up a cup of coffee. “What’s he mad about anyway?”

  Brooke didn’t want to explain about the flowers, so she just waved a hand in the air. “Who knows.”

  She had searched up and down Main and was halfway down Olive Street when Juliet called to say that Spencer was there at the store.

  “Thank goodness.” She stuffed her phone in her pocket and made an about-face in the middle of the street, swiping at the sweat trickling into her eyes. Her pink T-shirt was damp with perspiration. Twisting her hair into a ponytail, she secured it with the hair band she kept on her wrist during the hot summer months. She picked up the pace to get back to the store, but slowed down when she heard someone call her name. She turned to see Owen Saunders running toward her.

  “Hey, Brooke.” He reached out like he was going to touch her arm, but then didn’t. “Can I help you?”

  Brooke dabbed at her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Uh, no. But thanks.” She turned and started walking again, but Owen caught her by the arm.

  “Really. I don’t mind. Where are you trying to go?”

  Brooke pulled her arm away and let out a small grunt. “I’m going to work.” She forced a smile, then kept walking. Weird.

  Owen got in step with her. He looked about the same as the last time she saw him, but even with his paint-splattered clothes, scuffed work boots, and sweaty white T-shirt, he still managed to look good. The broad outline of his shoulders strained against the T-shirt. He was taller than Brooke by several inches, and his dark hair looked like it had been parted on one side earlier today. At the moment, it was wind tossed and a bit wild.

  “How’s the house coming?” she finally asked, wondering why he was walking with her.

  “Slow.” He smiled, but then stopped suddenly. “Crud!”

  Brooke stopped too. “What? What’s wrong?”

  He put a palm to his forehead and squeezed his eyes closed for a few moments. “I think I left water boiling on the stove to make some iced tea.” He paused, frowning. “I’m going to need to go back to the house.”

  “Uh, okay.” Brooke shrugged. “Bye.” She took off walking again, only to have him catch up with her.

  “Are you going to get there okay?”

  Brooke turned to face him but kept walking. “Get where?” What is wrong with this guy?

  “Can you find your way to work okay? I can call someone . . . or go get the car.”

  Brooke stopped and stared into his blue eyes. She spoke slowly. “Yes. I can find my way to work just fine. Thank you.” She put her hands on her hips and nodded toward his house. “Can you find your way back home?”

  He chuckled. “Well, of course.”

  “Excellent!” She slapped her hands together, then took off in another brisk walk, not looking back, hoping he didn’t follow. His looks were clearly deceiving. He looked like a normal guy. Had even acted like one the other day at the hardware store. But there is something seriously wrong with him.

  She shook her head, then thought about the flowers she’d received. A recollection that caused her stomach to twist into knots.

  Something odd about this whole day.

  Four

  Brooke tried to pay attention to the pastor’s message on Sunday, but she’d had another dream about Travis last night, and thoughts of him distracted her. She couldn’t remember much of the dream except that she, Travis, and the children had been all together. They’d been happy.

  She glanced to her right at her mother. Mom h
adn’t looked this good in years, and Brooke was pretty sure that peach dress with the ruffled ivory collar was new. Once a week a van from the Oaks took the residents to the mall, and apparently Mom was taking advantage of the field trips. Brooke noticed a hint of blue eye shadow again, and Mom’s cheeks were a bit rosier than usual. Brooke had given her mother the bottle of perfume she’d asked for, and as always, her mother had insisted on reimbursing her. Mom must have been in between field trips when she asked Brooke to get the perfume for her.

  Clearly, the retirement villa was agreeing with Mom, and Brooke hated to mess up her mother’s day. But she’d decided she had to tell her about the flowers . . . and why she’d tossed the lovely floral arrangement in the trash can.

  She waited until after lunch at the house before she broached what she knew would be a painful subject for both of them. Spencer was upstairs in his room, playing video games, most likely, and Meghan was in the fenced backyard swinging. She spent every free moment doing that. Brooke watched her through the kitchen window. She could almost see Travis standing behind her, laughing and pushing her higher and higher.

  “I need to tell you something, Mom.” Brooke pulled her gaze from the swing set and turned to face her mother. Mom sat at the kitchen table sipping on a glass of iced tea. Brooke closed her eyes for a moment, wanting to bypass this conversation. But she’d never really kept much from her mother.

  “What?” Her mother set the glass down, pushed her glasses up on her nose, then slowly laid her palms on the table as she sat taller. “Is everything okay? With you? The kids?”

  “Yes, yes.” Brooke pulled out a chair across from her mother and slowly eased into it. “Everything is fine with all of us. I—I just . . .”

  “Spit it out, dear.” Mom reached over and laid a hand on top of Brooke’s. “What is it?”

  Brooke leaned her head back, blew out a long breath, then looked back at her mother. “Daddy sent me some flowers.” She watched her mother’s face, waiting for sadness or anger to creep across her expression, but Mom wasn’t giving anything away.