Broken Pieces: A Novel (22 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Jackson Harding was working beside my father in the garden the next morning when I stepped outside with two piping-hot cups of coffee.

To say I was startled would be an understatement, considering I’d just thought about him the night before.

For a moment I simply stood on the top step, watching the two men work.

Jackson’s standard blazer had been tossed aside, and he’d shoved the sleeves of his pale blue sweater up to his elbows. My father had apparently launched into a detailed explanation of something garden related, and Jackson absorbed his every word, his attention fully focused on Albert, until he spotted me.

“Excuse me,” he said to my father and then he stood, never taking his eyes from me.

His expression shifted from surprised to amused, and at the precise moment he smiled, I remembered something.

I was bald.

I instinctively wanted to put a hand to my head and wished I’d grabbed my ball cap that morning. Then I realized I hadn’t worn my ball cap since Manny had buzzed my hair.

“Let me help you,” Jackson said.

He jogged to the steps and took the coffees from my hands.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning.” I tipped my chin toward the garden, where my father stood, watching our every move. “Getting an early start on next year’s crop?”

“Actually, I missed Scarlet. Figured I was due to check on her.” Then he shifted his gaze to my head. “This is a new look for you.”

I stiffened. “Surprised?”

He shook his head. “I’m not surprised at all.”

I furrowed my brows.

“It’s exactly what I’d expect you to do.”

An odd sense of humility warmed me deep inside.

“And I think you’re even more beautiful than you were the last time I saw you.”

His words left me speechless, and he knew it, amusement dancing in his eyes.

The warmth he’d inspired spread, flaring up into my cheeks.

“Here”—he handed back my coffee mug—“this is yours. I’ll give your dad his, and then I need to hear all about my fish. How’s she doing?”

His fish.

I gestured toward the open door and the hallway. “Why don’t you come in and see for yourself? And then you can stay for breakfast.”

He hesitated. “I’m not sure I should. I mean, can you cook?”

I laughed then, amazed at how happy seeing him made me. Frightened a little, too. And surprised.

My father, who had walked up behind us, clapped a hand on Jackson’s back. “Her pancakes can’t hold a candle to mine . . . or her sister’s . . . but she can scramble the heck out of a dozen eggs.”

As crazy as it sounded, his simple, easy praise touched me as if he’d shouted it to the world.

They climbed the steps together, and Jackson paused beside me just long enough to shoot me a sideways grin. “Let’s do it, then.”

Jackson visited with Sydney while Dad and I cooked breakfast. We moved together in the kitchen like old pros, passing ingredients back and forth, shifting pans, reaching over one another for utensils.

We were a team, a team I’d once thought lost to me forever.

Ella ran next door to invite Marguerite over to our feast.

From upstairs I could hear Sydney’s soft laughter, and I couldn’t help but wonder what might have possessed Jackson to pull an early morning pop-in with my father and his family.

As though he’d read my thoughts, Dad spoke, his words casual as he manned the bacon skillet. “You seem pleased to see Jackson.”

“I think pleased might be too strong a word. Surprised, actually.”

Dad grinned. “I may have called him a time or two. Good man, that one.”

I chose not to ask any probing questions about Jackson’s intentions, choosing instead to simply enjoy the slow pace of the morning.

After Dad took breakfast up to Sydney, and Marguerite and Ella assumed dish duty, Jackson and I stood in the foyer staring at each other.

“Thanks for being here today,” I said. “It’s been a nice surprise.”

“I can’t seem to get your family out of my mind.” He hesitated. “And I wanted to see how you were.”

The simple kindness of his statement brought me to my emotional knees, but I held it together, keeping the tears that burned the back of my eyes at bay.

“Sydney tells me you like to walk,” he said. “I think she’s afraid you won’t go if you’re by yourself.”

By myself.

It’s just science, Destiny.
Her words rang through my brain.

She was going to leave me by myself, Ella by herself, and there was nothing any of us could do to stop it from happening.

Jackson cupped his palm to my elbow. “Walk with me?”

We headed for the river. I pointed out the opera house on the way, detailing the progress I’d made on the restoration with the help of my family and my subcontractors.

He didn’t say much, simply walked beside me, listening, letting me ramble. Oddly enough, I felt comfortable, uncharacteristically able to talk about anything.

When we reached the pathway that wound along the banks of the Delaware, he came to a sudden stop.

“What’s this?” he said, squatting down to scoop up a painted rock from a crook among the roots of an old maple tree.

Ella.

I smiled as he studied the oval stone in his palm, every inch of surface covered in hearts and rainbows. One of the early designs.

“It’s a smile,” I said.

Jackson tipped his handsome face toward me, the morning sun lighting the brown of his irises, making them appear to glow. “A smile?”

“Weeks ago, Ella had this idea that if she painted rocks and left them where people might find them, she could make them smile—when they least expected it.”

“Huh,” Jackson said, as he carefully replaced the stone where he’d found it. “Pretty selfless.”

I nodded. Selfless. He had no idea how right he was.

“That’s Ella,” I said. “All Ella.”

“Special kid.”

“One in a million,” I said a bit too loudly, as though I needed to prove my point. But when it came to Ella, there was nothing to prove. There was only the truth.

“What’s going to happen?” he asked.

“There’s no family back in Ohio,” I said matter-of-factly. “Sydney and I have decided she’s better off here, with me.”

I realized I hadn’t uttered the statement to anyone outside our immediate family before that moment, and although the words still made me nervous, they felt right.

Jackson nodded. “Lucky girl.”

I shook my head. “Lucky me.”

I dropped my focus to the ground, but Jackson wasn’t about to let me avoid his gaze. He brushed two fingers lightly beneath my chin, turning my face toward him.

His touch ignited a longing deep inside me, a desire to know this man well beyond his role as manager to my father, or frequent visitor to my family.

“All my life I wished for a family,” I said, forcing my words through the tangle of emotion in my throat. “I had my grandmother, sure. And I had Marguerite and all of Paris, but I saw my dad at Christmas. I’d pretty much forgotten my mom—her voice, her laugh—and then Sydney showed up with Ella.

“They rocked my world,” I continued, drawing in a deep breath, fighting to maintain my composure. “I promised myself I’d never let anyone in and—”

Words failed me, and I squeezed my eyes shut, refusing to cry.

Jackson took my hand between his and held on tight. “And life threw you a curveball.”

I nodded.

“And now you’re facing the same heartbreak you promised you’d never face again.”

I nodded again.

“But this time”—he shook my hand, willing me to look up—“this time you get to be the family for Ella that you never really had.”

“What if I’m horrible at it?”

He shrugged. “What if you’re not?” He grinned. “What if you’re the best aunt any artistic little kid who paints rocks for strangers ever had?”

“Thanks.”

Suddenly I felt self-conscious, afraid I’d shared too much, exposed too much of my heart.

I blew out a breath, wiped my face, and stood, pulling my fingers free from his.

“I should probably be getting back to the house,” I said.

“OK. And I need to get back to the city,” he said. “But I’ll try to drive over again soon.”

And although I knew a man like Jackson Harding probably said things he might not always mean, I trusted him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Although her time in Paris had been short, Sydney had spent four long years battling her ovarian cancer. Four years.

When her turn for the worse came, it seemed sudden to those of us who loved her, yet I’d come to know Sydney well enough to appreciate she’d understood this day was coming from the moment she’d received her diagnosis.

She was a survivor . . . and a realist. She’d gotten more time than many expected she would, and yet the cancer had been relentless, recurring each time she’d beaten it back down.

This time was too much, even for Sydney.

She was the mother of a young girl who needed family, and she’d tracked us down, packed up her life, and road-tripped partway across the country to find us.

I sat beside her on another blustery afternoon. This time the trees outside her bedroom window had been stripped bare, and Sydney slept more than she was awake.

Albert and Jackson had taken Ella into the city to catch a matinee of
Aladdin
, after I’d promised my niece I’d stay by her mother’s side every moment she was away.

Marguerite had been summoned by the Clipper Club to teach the art of relaxation through adult coloring books. If Sydney had been awake, we would have laughed about how ridiculous that request was, like grown women needed someone to tell them how to pick up a crayon and color?

“Let yourself be happy,” Sydney said, her voice barely discernible.

She grimaced, and I reached for her hand, startled by her sudden statement. “Are you in pain?”

“A little.” She worked to force a smile.

“Want me to hit your pump?”

She frowned. “Want you to live the life you want to live.”

“Don’t you find these wisdoms ironic, considering you showed up in town with your kid in tow and turned the life I wanted to live upside down?”

The beauty of Sydney was that she understood what I meant, what I was doing, and she smiled. Then she struggled to form her next words. “Tough shit.”

Her pump hummed, and I knew she’d be lost to sleep within seconds. I pressed my forehead to hers and swallowed against the sob in my throat.

Not now,
I thought.
Not yet. Please.

“I love you,” I said.

Then she smiled sweetly and gave one gentle nod of her head as the meds pulled her under.

By the time Ella, Jackson, and Albert returned from New York, Sydney had been asleep for hours. Marguerite had stopped by to sit beside me. We said little to each other, our faces drawn, fatigue and grief weighing us down. Sydney’s breathing had gone deeper, slower, and I couldn’t wait until the nurse’s visit the next morning to pepper her with questions.

The front door burst open with a blast of excited chatter and laughter.

Life.

Ella burst into the room before Marguerite and I could push to our feet.

“Momma, Momma,” she called out. “It was amazing, and Grandpa Albert says he once acted on the very same stage.”

I raised my finger to my lips to shush Ella, but Sydney stirred, struggling to force her eyes open and lift her head. “Pillow,” she said, and Marguerite and I scrambled into motion, simultaneously lifting her and tucking two pillows behind her back. “Thanks.” She smiled. Then she looked directly at Ella, her eye contact solid as the excited little girl hopped onto the side of the bed. “Tell me.”

And Ella did.

She rambled on about the music and costumes and lights and scenery as Sydney worked to keep her eyes open and focused. The more animated Ella became, the harder Sydney fought to stay in the moment, and I realized this was all she’d fought for—all she still fought for—to be present for her daughter.

Jackson and Albert stood in the doorway, listening to Ella’s retelling of their day. Marguerite pushed past them, her pat to Albert’s shoulder not going unnoticed by me. “I’ll start some dinner,” she said. Sydney winced, and I reached for Ella’s hand. “Why don’t we let your momma rest?”

“Thanks for telling me,” Sydney said softly.

Ella pressed a kiss to her forehead and bounded to my side, taking my hand. “Want to watch
Aladdin
with me?”

“Didn’t you just watch
Aladdin
?”

“The movie, silly.”

I scrunched up my face. “I don’t have it.”

Jackson held up a DVD case and shook it. “Made a stop on the way back.”

I hesitated, reaching one hand for Sydney’s, part of me not wanting to leave her, part of me wanting to run and hide. “I might be too old for fairy tales.”

“Never,” my father said, his voice booming inside Sydney’s bedroom. Then he met my gaze, his eyes urging me to go, to escape for a little while.

Sydney wrapped her delicate fingers around my wrist. “Never,” she repeated, her voice no more than a raspy whisper.

Ella’s features fell, and her brown eyes went huge. I was sure the time would come in which I’d have to say no to the kid on a regular basis, but this was not that time. Plus, I found myself so desperate for a happy ending I began to nod. “Where shall we watch it?”

“In the nook.” Ella clapped her hands. “Jackson bought a tiny DVD player for my nook.”

“For your
reading
nook?” I shot him a glare and he shrugged.

A few moments later, I waited in the hall as Jackson and Ella readied the nook, and I thought about Sydney, her words bouncing through my mind.

Live the life you want to live.

Ella and Jackson appeared in the doorway, gesturing for me to come inside, and I realized that while I’d imagined many lives, I’d never imagined this one.

I studied Ella’s sweet profile, and Jackson’s five o’clock shadow and the creases that framed his dark eyes. I thought of my father, who had run in fear during my mother’s dying days but now sat beside Sydney, reading aloud to her from
The Velveteen Rabbit
.

Down in the kitchen, pots and pans rattled about, and I knew Marguerite was creating one of her culinary concoctions. Heaven help us.

Even though I had thought I’d been living the life I wanted to live, this life—a life I’d never imagined—was perfect beyond understanding. Perfect in all its imperfections, and challenges, and heartbreaks.

So I settled inside Ella’s nook, Ella nestled between me and Jackson, and let myself be present in the moment.

I’d never been one for fairy tales, but for the first time in my life I understood their allure. They offered the hope that just beyond the next bend in the road, beyond the next mountain, there hid a discovery so magical it might change a person’s life.

For the first time, I thought about my father’s career on stage, the roles he’d played, and the worlds he’d helped create as more than just his escape. He’d helped others feel exactly what I was feeling now. He’d provided a respite for the weary, hope for the hopeless, laughter for the brokenhearted.

I closed my eyes and listened to Ella and Jackson’s laughter, my father’s soft voice down the hall, and Marguerite’s distant conversation with Scarlet. Then I realized something far beyond a new understanding of my father and his love of performing.

I realized how lucky I’d become.

After all, a person didn’t always discover her magical life.

Sometimes a magical life discovered her.