The House that Love Built

Thirteen




Owen was on the porch Monday morning when Hunter Lewis walked up wearing blue-jean overalls and carrying a black lunch box.

“Right on time.” Owen took a sip of his coffee. “I always have coffee made in the mornings. You a coffee drinker?”

Hunter shook his head, his stringy red hair blowing in the wind.

“You ever been inside this house?”

The kid shook his head again. “No, sir.”

Owen swiped at coffee he’d dribbled on his overalls. “I think you can just call me Owen. No need for the ‘sir.’ Makes me feel old, just like calling me Mr. Saunders.” He moved toward the door and opened it, then pointed past the entryway. “Right through there to the kitchen. You can put your lunch in the fridge.”

Hunter shuffled in, and Owen followed him to the kitchen. “I want to finish the closet in my bedroom and the trim work in the other rooms, then we’ll start in here. It’s going to be a big overhaul.” He looked around the spacious kitchen. Three cabinet doors were missing, and the rest had been painted a peach color at one time, but now just chips of color remained on the bare wood. The gas range worked, so Owen figured he could wait to upgrade it until after the other work was done. He didn’t really cook much anyway. An old white sink was stained a dreary red-brown, despite all the scrubbing he’d done when he first moved in, and the faucet leaked.

“You can tell that someone redid this kitchen at one time.” Owen pulled on a strip of peach-and-white-striped wallpaper that peeled loose from one of the walls. “I’m guessing it must have been in the sixties or seventies.” He pointed up. “And it must have leaked in here at some point because you can tell where someone patched the ceiling. The leaks upstairs are a much bigger problem, though. Pretty sure I need a new roof, but I’m hoping to wait a little longer on that.”

Hunter looked up but didn’t say anything. Owen hoped he was going to talk at least a little.

“You ready to get started?” Owen set his coffee cup in the sink. “I thought you could paint the trim in the living room and then in the dining room. I’m going to work on the closet.” He paused, thinking about all the work he’d put into the painting he’d already done, realizing that Hunter might not be as meticulous about it as he was. “Or I can start you hammering the sides on the closet?”

“Painting will be okay.” Hunter stuck his hands into his overall pockets and tossed his red hair out of his eyes. The kid needed a haircut badly.

Owen took a deep breath, and Hunter followed him to the living room, where the paint supplies were laid out on a tarp. “Okay. Let’s get going then.”

Hunter opened a can of creamy enamel, stirred it carefully, and dipped the paintbrush. Owen lingered and watched him for a minute. The boy leaned close and made slow, straight strokes along the baseboards, some of which Owen had replaced. “Those new ones will probably need an extra coat.”

Hunter nodded but kept his eyes on the paintbrush and his hand steady. After another minute or so, Owen headed to the bedroom to work on the closet.



Hunter painted for three hours before he put the paintbrush down. He walked into the bedroom where Owen was hammering and waited until Owen finished pounding a nail in. “Where’s the bathroom?”

Owen pulled two nails from his mouth. “There’s one right outside this room, plus a little half bath right next to the entryway. Also one upstairs, but it’s kind of a work in progress.” He laid the hammer on the bed. “Let’s take a break. I’ll get us some iced tea. Meet me on the front porch.”

Hunter nodded, then proceeded down the hall. He couldn’t imagine living in a big, fancy house like this. Even though it needed lots of work—and some furniture—Hunter could tell it was gonna be real pretty someday, the kind of place you’d have a bunch of kids. He thought about Jenny, the girl he’d been talking to online for the past few weeks. She lived in a real small town called Flatonia that wasn’t too far away, and she had a car. They’d been talking about meeting in person soon.

He walked onto the porch, and Owen handed him a glass of tea. “I checked out your work in there. You’re doing a great job.”

“Thanks.” Hunter sat down on the porch step and took several gulps of the cold, sweet tea. “You the only one who lives here?”

Owen sat on the porch swing. He kicked his foot until it started to move. “Yep. Just me.”

Hunter rolled up the pants of his overalls. They were dragging the ground. “Why’d ya buy such a big house just for you?”

Owen shrugged. “Long story.”

Everybody’s got a story.

Hunter finished his tea, stood up, and was going to go put the glass in the kitchen. He could remember his momma knocking him silly for not putting dirty dishes in the sink. He’d never really understood that, since those same dishes usually stayed in the sink for a long time.

Owen reached his hand out. “Here, I’ll take it.”

Hunter handed him the glass, then went back into the cool living room. He could get used to working in air-conditioning.

“We’ll break for lunch at noon.” Owen waved his hand, then disappeared down the hallway.

Hunter’s hands were occupied, and his mind was filled with thoughts of Jenny. She didn’t know everything about him the way folks around here did. And last night he’d been proud to tell her online that he’d gotten himself a real good job. Jenny worked at a clothes store for ladies in Houston. The picture of her online was beautiful—long blond hair and big blue eyes. He’d talk to her more, but he had to get Internet from the Johnsons next door, and their signal wasn’t always too good. Hunter was using an old laptop he’d found in his parents’ room. It hadn’t worked when he first found it, but once he’d got it running, he’d realized he could pick up the Johnsons’ signal sometimes.

It was almost noon when Hunter felt something press up against him. He jumped. Luckily, he didn’t have his brush on the wall when it happened. He looked around to see a big old black cat pressing its head against him. “Where’d you come from?” Hunter reached his hand out, and the cat tipped his head and rubbed against Hunter’s hand. He scratched his ears for a few minutes.

“Well, I can’t believe it.” Owen walked into the living room and crossed his arms across his chest. Hunter figured he was about to get fired.

“Sorry.” He pulled his hand away from the cat and hurried to dip his brush in the paint.

Owen took two steps into the room, and that cat ran past him, nails clawing at the wood floor like he was trying to get out of a burning building, his tail puffed and hair standing on end. Owen jumped out of the way, and Hunter hid a smile.

“I can’t believe that cat came up to you like that.” Owen sat down at one of the assorted chairs grouped around a little table in the living room. “He runs from me, hides upstairs, and won’t even come near me.”

“Cats know if a person likes ’em.” Hunter eased the brush along the very bottom of the baseboard, extra careful since Owen was watching.

“Maybe. I don’t really like cats, but that fellow has been hanging around for a while.”

“What’s his name?” Hunter dipped his brush and kept his eyes on his work.

“Cat, I guess.” Owen chuckled.

Hunter wasn’t sure how to act around this guy. He was treating him like a regular person. “You could call him Scooter.” He paused, pulled the paintbrush from the trim, and shrugged. “I had a cat named Scooter once. I named him that ’cause he was fast, scootin’ all over the place.” Hunter squeezed his eyes closed for a few seconds as he recalled the black-and-brown tabby he’d befriended when he was ten. Dad had shot Scooter in the head one night for getting into the trash can outside and spreading garbage on the sidewalk.

“Scooter it is, then,” Owen said. “And feel free to take him home if you want. He doesn’t seem to like me too much.”

“Wish I could.” Hunter didn’t think Grandma would like that. Another mouth to feed. He thought about all the money he’d be making if Owen kept him on for a while. Maybe he would take Scooter home then—or even be able to save enough for a cheap car.

“Well, I say we break for lunch now. I think I can have the closet done by the end of the day, then tomorrow I can paint it while you keep going on the trim in here.” Owen walked out of the room, motioning for Hunter to follow him to the kitchen.

Tomorrow. So far, so good.



Tuesday morning Brooke watched as Meghan lifted the black marker and put a big X on the calendar, then scrawled in “25.” Brooke flipped the switch on the coffeepot to Off and gathered up her purse and keys.

Once she and the kids got to the store, Meghan went to the back office with Juliet, but Spencer stayed with Brooke at the register, fidgeting. He rubbed his fingers together and paced.

“What’s up, Spence?” Brooke loaded the register with cash.

“I was just thinking about Dad’s stuff at the Treasure Chest.”

Brooke finished counting the bills, then looked up at her son, who was staring across the street. “And what do you think? Did you think of something you want to keep?”

“Yeah. The plane.”

Brooke swallowed hard as she wondered what she was going to do with everything else. “Of course you can have the plane. We’ll go over there again and see what else we want to keep, but eventually we’re going to have to sell at least some of it. Dad would want someone to enjoy those things.”

“I guess.” Spencer sat down on the extra stool beside Brooke. She’d been teaching him to run the cash register. They both looked toward the door when someone knocked on the glass. They didn’t open until nine, but when Spencer saw that it was Owen, he ran to the door and turned the key that was in the lock.

Brooke hadn’t seen or talked to Owen since the previous Friday, and she was okay with that. She’d analyzed her conduct since then and decided she’d been due for some bizarre behavior, but she still felt a little embarrassed. Her mother had called again, and Brooke was starting to feel guilty for squashing Mom’s happiness, but she didn’t think she’d ever be able to look at her father. She’d never understand how her mother could remarry him after all these years. Patsy Miller must be the most desperate woman on earth.

Owen walked toward her, Spencer at his side. He looked rather goofy in overalls and a white T-shirt, but the outfit did nothing to take away from his good looks. She wondered if Tallie Goodry had seen the overalls yet.

“Hello, Mr. Saunders.” She tipped the rim of her baseball cap. “What can we do for you today?”

Spencer spoke up before he could answer. “Did you find the hidden bunker yet?”

“Not yet. You’re not there to help me look.” Owen grinned and rubbed the top of Spencer’s head. Her son didn’t pull away the way he did when Brooke got near him.

“How about Friday night? We could come over Friday night and look some more?”

“Spencer!” Brooke stood up from her stool. “You don’t just invite yourself to someone’s house like that.”

Owen scratched his head and avoided Brooke’s eyes. He turned to Spencer. “Actually, buddy, I have some plans Friday night. But I promise that you and I will do some looking around again soon—and eat more pizza.”

Brooke instantly wondered who those Friday-night plans were with. Tallie Goodry was as pushy a woman as she’d ever known. And she could picture Judy giving Tallie the go-ahead to pursue Owen “because he’s not interested in Brooke.”

“Can I help you find something?” Brooke sat back down and lifted her eyes to his. Before he answered, they both heard footsteps coming from the back and turned to see who it was. Big Daddy came into view and raised an eyebrow in Brooke’s direction. She nodded, letting him know that everything was fine.

“Uh, I just need some more finishing nails. I know where they are.” Owen glanced at Big Daddy, then hurried away down the second aisle. Spencer followed him, and Brooke could hear them talking, but she couldn’t understand what they were saying.

Owen found the nails quickly, paid with cash, and made a dash for the door. Wow, did Big Daddy spook him? Or maybe it was me the other night. She still cringed a little remembering her clumsy attempt to be a little reckless. But hadn’t everything ended on a good note? They’d talked. A lot.

“So . . .” Brooke kept her head in a tool catalog, flipping the pages and trying to sound casual as she addressed Spencer. “I heard you and Mr. Saunders talking. Did he mention what his plans were for Friday night?”

“You like him.” Spencer narrowed his eyes.

Brooke looked up. Tread carefully. “Of course I like him. I thought you did too.”

“No. I mean you like him, like him.” Spencer lifted himself onto the stool beside Brooke and hung his head. “I like him too.”

Brooke closed the catalog and twisted on her stool to face him. “Spence.” She lifted his chin until he was looking at her, glad he didn’t pull away. “It’s okay to like Mr. Saunders. You don’t have to feel bad about that. He’s a nice man.” She paused. “But I don’t like him the way you’re thinking. Mr. Saunders and I are friends, that’s all.”

“Yeah, I know.” Spencer dragged the words out. Brooke could tell that he was disappointed, which was both good and bad. She waited to see if he would say what Owen’s plans were for Friday night. When he didn’t, she decided to push a little.

“I’m sure you’ll get another chance to scope out Mr. Saunders’s house.” She waited, but Spencer said nothing. “Maybe . . . maybe another Friday.”

“Maybe.” Spencer picked up a pencil and started doodling on a scrap piece of paper. “This Friday he said he’s taking someone to a baseball game in Houston.”

Brooke took a deep breath.

“He’s taking some other kid to the baseball game.” Spencer stood up, crammed his hands in his pockets, and mumbled, “I’ve never been to a baseball game in Houston.” Then he walked toward the back of the store.

Hmm. Both Brooke and her son were jealous over a man that neither one of them wanted.

Brooke felt bad for Spencer, but she was incredibly relieved that Owen didn’t have a date with Tallie Goodry on Friday night.

Whatever that meant.



Patsy refilled Harold’s coffee cup, then sat down at the kitchen table across from him. He hadn’t said a word in almost an hour, but he’d been writing steadily. They’d both agreed that a letter might be the best way for him to approach Brooke. Maybe if their daughter knew the truth, she could find it in her to give Harold another chance. Patsy was praying about that constantly these days. It was the only way she could bear her separation from Brooke and the kids.

“How’s it coming?” She held her breath and bit her bottom lip.

Harold took off his reading glasses, rubbed his eyes, and put the pen down. He tore one page from the yellow pad and pushed it toward her but didn’t look up.

Patsy pushed her glasses up on her nose.

Dear Brooke,

I can still see the look on your precious face when I walked out the door all those years ago, and it’s an image that has haunted me. I wish I could have seen you grow into the beautiful young woman that you are today, and I deeply regret the choices I made back then. Your mother has shown me pictures of you from the time I left until you were married. You were a beautiful bride, and I will always regret that I never got to know Travis. Your mother says he was a wonderful husband and father. And now you are a mother yourself. How I long to be a part of your life and Spencer’s and Meghan’s.

As I write this, I can feel your anger and hurt, and I know that no words will give you comfort. But if you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make it all up to you. My heart is filled with love for you and your mother. It always has been, despite the mistakes I have made.

I suppose I could tell you that I’ve punished myself enough, but I doubt you’d understand or believe that. And you’re probably right. What is ample punishment for a man who has done what I’ve done? But the Lord is giving me a second chance, and I will continue to pray that you will too.

Brooke, I love you very much. I always have and I always will.

With my love always,





Daddy





Patsy pulled her glasses off and rubbed her eyes, then put the glasses back on and shook her head. She reached across the table and put her hand on Harold’s.

“That’s only a partial version of the truth. You omitted two important things.” She swallowed back a lump in her throat, knowing that one of those things involved her own actions. “Why didn’t you tell her everything?”

Her beloved husband swiped at a tear that rolled down his cheek. “Because I just can’t.”

Then he reached for the letter and tore it into pieces.