The House that Love Built

Nine




Brooke hurried into the administration office at the Oaks. She would have never left the kids with Owen if she hadn’t recalled that Juliet had run a background check on him. Once Juliet figured out how to check out a person for less than five dollars, it had become almost like a hobby for her. You were fair game if you were new to town, and Juliet paid an extra ten dollars for a more extensive search if someone was asking her out. She’d deemed Owen worth the ten bucks as well, and he’d come out clean as a whistle.

Still, Brooke didn’t know Owen all that well, and her stomach was churning. She hoped to make this as quick as possible.

Mrs. Doyle’s office light was the only one on as Brooke walked through the main lobby, and all kinds of crazy thoughts ran through her head as she recalled her mother’s avoidance over the past couple of weeks. All Mrs. Doyle had said on the phone was that they had concerns about her mother and could she please come to the office to discuss it.

“Brooke, honey, this could have waited until tomorrow, but I could hear the worry in your voice, so I was happy to stay late this evening.” Mrs. Doyle looked at her watch, and Brooke doubted that Mrs. Doyle wanted to stay much later. It was already six thirty.

“Is Mom okay?”

“As I said on the phone, she’s fine. We are just . . . well . . . concerned about her, her . . .”

Brooke shifted in her seat across from the director and tapped her foot nervously. “What is it? Concerned about what?”

Mrs. Doyle was not much younger than Brooke’s mother, a small woman with short gray hair, cropped bangs, and—at the moment—a face that was turning red. She placed her palms firmly on her desk and sat taller.

“We are concerned about your mother’s lifestyle.” Mrs. Doyle raised her chin a little.

Brooke cocked her head to one side, confused. “Her lifestyle?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Doyle lifted her chin even higher, casting her eyes down at Brooke. “Your mother is entertaining men in her apartment—or at least one man.” She leaned forward. “His car is here some mornings, and two of the residents have told me that they’ve seen them making out like teenagers, right outside in the parking lot or on her front step.”

“What?” Brooke had a mixed reaction as she tried to process this information. She was very happy that her mother must have found someone so late in life. But Mom wasn’t the type of woman who would sleep around without being married. That part was disturbing. “Maybe it isn’t the way it looks.”

Mrs. Doyle frowned. “I think it is. And this is a small, close-knit community.” She raised her eyebrows. “People talk, don’tcha know?”

Brooke nodded, realizing that this explained her mother’s desire to be left alone. She has a man in her life. “I will talk to my mother, Mrs. Doyle. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.” She stood to leave, and Mrs. Doyle walked around to the other side of the desk to stand next to her.

“I thought you’d want to know. We try to give our residents as much privacy as they need, but if we suspect that something dangerous or inappropriate might be going on, well, we tend to reach out to a loved one.”

“I understand.”

Brooke couldn’t walk fast enough to get to her mother’s apartment.



Patsy hurried to her door and looked through the peephole, then gasped.

“It’s Brooke.” She ran to the couch where Harold was sitting. “Hurry. Get up and go hide in the bedroom.”

He stood up slowly, floundering in place. “Are you sure, Patsy? Are you sure you don’t want to just get this over with?”

Patsy shook her head as she coaxed him into her room. “No, no. Not tonight.” She closed the door behind him, ran a hand through her tousled hair, then pulled her blue robe snug around her. She opened the door a few inches and poked her head out. “Brooke, honey, what are you doing here?”

“Mom, are you going to let me in?” Her daughter’s tone was insistent, so Patsy opened the door wide and let her in.

“I wasn’t expecting you.” Patsy forced a smile, hoping Harold stayed quiet.

Brooke walked around the small living room and kitchen, eyeing every nook and cranny. Patsy was thankful she’d cleaned the dishes in the small sink and put them away.

“I’ll bet you weren’t expecting me.” Brooke pulled her purse up on her shoulder, scratched her forehead, then stared at Patsy.

“Where are my grandchildren?” Patsy’s stomach clenched tight, and she tried to avoid looking at her closed bedroom door.

“Uh, with a friend.” Brooke sat down on the couch and crossed her legs, her purse still on her shoulder.

Patsy didn’t sit down. She didn’t want to do anything that would encourage Brooke to stay. She cut her eyes toward the closed bedroom door, then caught herself and quickly looked back to Brooke.

“Hiding someone in there?” Brooke raised an eyebrow as she nodded toward the bedroom.

Patsy swallowed hard. “What are you talking about?”

“The jig is up, Mom.” Brooke uncrossed her legs, stood up, and walked to Patsy. “I know you’re seeing someone.” She touched Patsy on the arm. “And that’s okay, but can you be a little more discreet? I mean, really, Mom. People are talking. I got a call from Mrs. Doyle, and she said people have seen you kissing a man in the parking lot.”

Patsy’s knees went weak, and she could feel her bottom lip quivering.

“Momma . . .” Brooke’s tone was soft and soothing. Patsy loved it when Brooke called her Momma rather than Mom. The name reminded Patsy of happy times, back when Harold had been in their lives. She waited for Brooke to go on. “I love you, Momma, and I want you to be happy, and I’m sure I’ll love whoever you’re seeing. But I’ve got to be honest with you.” Brooke shook her head. “This isn’t how you raised me, and I’m a bit shocked that you are . . .” She pulled her eyes away. “You know.”

“It’s not what you think, dear.” Patsy latched onto both of Brooke’s arms. “I’m not doing anything bad, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Mom, is there a man staying here overnight?” Brooke brought a hand to her chest. “And please tell me we are only talking about one man.”

“Brooke! Of course it’s only one man.”

“Are you having sleepovers?” Brooke closed her eyes, waiting.

“Sometimes. But it’s still not what you think.”

Brooke’s eyes flew open and she stomped her foot. “Mom, this is the first time in my life that I think I’ve ever been ashamed of you. This is not how you raised me, and how would you feel if I was avoiding you, having casual sex with men, then hiding it from you? Tell me, Mother. How would you feel?” Her eyes began to tear up, and Patsy’s along with her. “I love you, Mom. So much. And I want you to be happy, but you’re being . . . irresponsible.” Brooke lifted her chin, swiping at her eyes. “And you know this isn’t right.”

Patsy’s heart was beating fast, her palms were sweating, and her knees were weak. She opened her mouth to say something, but her lip trembled so much that only a small sound came out before tears started to pour. Hearing Brooke say she was ashamed of her was almost more than she could bear.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry you’re upset. But this just isn’t right.”

Patsy hung her head but managed to say again, “It’s not what you think.”

“At your age, I’d think you would be mindful about—”

As the bedroom door flew upon, Patsy was fairly certain she might have a heart attack.



Brooke couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. He was older, thinner, and bald now, but the man standing ten feet from her was unmistakably her father. Brooke felt like she was in some sort of time warp, because this couldn’t possibly be happening.

“I’m sorry, Patsy, but I can’t stay in there and listen to her talk to you like this.” Her father walked to Mom’s side and put an arm around her. Thankfully, he wore slacks and a shirt, not a robe like her mother. He stared long and hard at Brooke. “We wanted to tell you when we thought you were ready.”

Brooke took a step backward, toward the door, one hand over her mouth.

“Brooke, please.” Her mother moved toward her.

“Get away from me.” Brooke held up a hand toward her mother as tears streamed down both their faces. “You just stay here with him and play house.” Oh, God, please don’t let this be happening.

“We’re married, Brooke.” Her mother cried as she spoke. “We remarried yesterday. We’ve always loved each other. Please be happy and—”

“Be happy?” Brooke glanced at her father, crocodile tears swimming in his eyes, then she pointed a finger at her mother. “I watched you struggle all those years after he betrayed you! And what about me? He just took off without—”

“Let me just talk to you.” Her father stepped forward, but Brooke took another step back.

“Mother, I am not talking to him. And I can’t believe you did this!” She avoided her father’s gaze on her and glared at her mother. Brooke had never been this angry at her. “I can’t believe this.” She reached for the doorknob and pulled the door open.

“Brooke, honey, please, just listen. You know your father is the only man I’ve ever loved. You know that.”

“Then go to him, Mom.” Brooke turned around and forced a fake smile. “Because I’m done . . . with both of you.”

Seconds later she was out the door. She heard her mother lean against it, sobbing, and it took everything Brooke had to keep walking to her minivan. She hated to see her mother hurting. But she hated even more to be in the same room with her father.



Owen was pleased with how well his new window air conditioner was cooling the rest of the downstairs. It was going to be three weeks before the AC people could get out to repair the central air, so he’d picked up another window unit yesterday. They were inexpensive enough, and there was no way he was going to keep working in this heat without air-conditioning.

He’d also arranged for Internet service and picked up a forty-two-inch television, which he’d moved from the bedroom into the empty living room when Brooke agreed to come over. He’d brought in the small kitchen table and the two chairs, rounded up an old barstool that had been in the house when he moved in, and unfolded a lawn chair. It was the most ridiculous dinner setup he’d ever seen, but it was working fine. Brooke’s kids were happily munching on pizza and entertained by the television. Spencer kept staring at Owen, though, and when Owen carried the empty paper plates to the kitchen, Spencer followed him.

“Do you want to date my mom?”

Owen stuffed the plates in the trash. “Nope.” He turned and faced the kid. “Don’t get me wrong. I think your mother is great, I’ve just got my reasons.”

They stood facing off for a few moments.

“I’m sorry about what I told you—you know, about Mom.” The kid avoided Owen’s eyes and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his shorts.

Owen turned on the faucet and washed his hands. “It’s cool. I can understand you wanting to look out for your mom.” He turned to face Spencer as he reached for a kitchen towel. “So, uh, did you ever find out who sent her the flowers?” It was none of Owen’s business, but he’d been curious ever since Brooke mentioned it.

“Yeah. My grandpa.” Spencer leaned against the kitchen counter, frowning. “Me and Meghan have never met him before.”

Owen wasn’t sure what to say, or how much Brooke would want her kids sharing.

“He wants to see us and my mom, I think. That’s why he sent her the flowers.” Spencer walked out of the room, leaving Owen wondering about the situation, but he followed Spencer back into the living room.

“Why don’t you have any furniture?” Meghan asked when they walked in.

The little girl had been asking questions all night, but she was the cutest thing—very animated when she talked, lifting her hands, twisting them together. Much like her mother in personality and looks. She had Brooke’s big brown eyes and sandy-blond hair.

“Well, I have to get all the painting finished, and these floors need refinishing.” Owen kicked at the worn wooden slats. “I guess I’ll get some furniture after some of this is done.” Although, at this rate, he’d be without for a while.

He looked at his watch. Almost eight o’clock. Now Meghan was the one staring at him, her elbows resting on the table, her cheeks in her hands.

“Do you have kids?” She smiled, as if hopeful.

“No. I don’t.” Owen sat down in the green lawn chair across from where Meghan was sitting. He’d found some 1980s phone books in a kitchen cabinet for her to sit on.

“Don’tcha want kids?” Meghan frowned.

Owen crossed an ankle over his leg. “I always thought I did.”

Meghan threw her hands up in the air. “Then have some!” She laughed.

Spencer leaned over and whispered to Owen, “Just ignore her. She thinks babies come from a stork who leaves them on the front porch.” Spencer rolled his eyes. “Because that’s what Grandma told her.”

“Quit talking about me, Spencer!” Meghan told him. Loudly.

“Shut up and quit yelling, Meghan!” Spencer replied even more loudly.

Brooke, where are you?

Both kids seemed to have lost interest in whatever they’d been watching, and Owen didn’t have any other way to entertain them. Not even any ice cream or cookies. They went back and forth again, yelling at each other to shut up, and Owen knew he was out of his league.

He checked his watch again. “Well, your mom is taking longer than we thought, so should we look through the pictures while we wait for her?”

Spencer and Meghan both got quiet and nodded, and Spencer reached for the photo album. He opened it, pulled out a piece of paper, and handed it to Owen. “This is a real sad letter.”

Owen unfolded the piece of paper and read it, a melancholy settling over him. How awful for Adeline, wandering around this big house. Alone.

He scratched his chin. Not so different from me.