Broken Pieces: A Novel (5 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

I walked toward the Paris Inn Pub a little after seven o’clock that evening. The long afternoon sun had faded, and the night sky had begun to darken ahead of the coming sunset.

I’d spent the afternoon working in my shop, hoping for word from the selection committee, but I’d received none. No matter, I had two contracted jobs that, while not huge by any stretch of the imagination, were creative enough to keep me occupied.

I was used to spending much of my time alone, both at home and at work. Being alone didn’t bother me. As a matter of fact, I’d become fond of the silence.

Tonight, however, I was looking forward to meeting Jessica at the pub for our weekly night out. I was ready for the noise and the laughter, the singing and the inevitable storytelling.

Karaoke night at the pub was one of the many Paris traditions in which I found comfort. Even though I’d become what many people would call a loner, here in my hometown I was never truly alone.

As I walked down the steps toward the pub entrance, I hesitated for just a moment to appreciate the history of the place.

Perhaps it was the thought of how many others had passed through the massive oak doors before me—Pony Express riders, politicians, neighbors, friends. Perhaps it was the knowledge that once I passed through the doors I’d be surrounded by those who knew me best and welcomed me.

Perhaps it was just that I needed the relief of being here, tonight, away from thoughts of Albert, thoughts of the opera house job, thoughts of my thoughts.

Once inside, I made my way through the crowd, headed for my usual seat at the bar. Jessica stood waiting, and Jerry, the world’s best bartender, opened a bottle of my favorite beer as I approached. I gave him a nod of thanks and sat down.

“Kids with your mom?” I asked Jessica.

She nodded. “The plan was popcorn and movies for dinner.”

I grinned. “Doesn’t sound half-bad.”

Jerry, doing double duty, as he did every week, stepped to the microphone and called Jack Maxwell to the stage.

As the local mortician launched into a halfway-decent rendition of the Beach Boys’ “California Girls,” Jessica leaned close. “You owe me over twenty-four hours of updates.” She tucked her long hair behind her ears. “Start talking.”

I started with Jackson Harding’s visit, touched on the violet chairs and practicing lines with my dad, skipped all mention of the beer, and ended with my hot-dog lunch in Herald Square.

A grin tugged at the corners of her mouth.

“What?” I asked.

“Sounds like a cozy lunch.” Jessica wiggled her brows. “Anything else you want to tell me about this guy?”

“No,” I said, giving a quick lift and drop of my shoulders. “He’s just Albert’s manager.”

But based on the amusement in her face, Jessica wasn’t buying a word. “Moving on,” she said. “Anything from the selection committee? My sources at the lunch counter tell me one presentation was a perfect fit.”

I shook my head and took a long swallow of beer.

“And Albert?”

I met her gaze, warmed by the concern I saw there—genuine concern that had never wavered in all the time we’d been friends. “You may have been right about him wanting a second chance.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He gave up his apartment in the city. Said he wants to spend time here in Paris.”

“Whoa.” She sat back against the bar as if I’d dropped a bomb on her lap. “How do you feel about that?”

I squeezed my eyes shut, but before I could answer, the noise level in the pub fell to almost nothing. Jessica tapped my knee. “Look.”

In the doorway, looking more than a little bit lost, stood my father.

I held my breath, expecting a rush to greet him. A solid measure of surprise slid through me when only a handful of people stepped forward.

The music level rose with the next performance, and the conversation level returned to normal.

Albert shook hands with the three men that had stepped forward—the town pharmacist, Manny the barber, and Byron Kennedy.

“Oh, look,” I said with more than a little bit of sarcasm. “A reunion with Uncle Byron.”

But Jessica said nothing, leaning forward to rest her hand on my arm. “Albert looks lost.”

She was right. My father did look lost.

“He doesn’t belong here anymore,” I said. “And now he knows it.”

While she didn’t verbally agree with me, we shared a look that said she knew I was right.

Paris folks weren’t just loyal; they also had very long memories. If my father had thought he’d receive a hero’s welcome upon his return to the pub, he’d been wrong. Most everyone here still remembered how he’d walked away and left his ten-year-old daughter behind.

I hoisted my beer. “To old friends.”

“To old friends,” she said as she clinked her wineglass against the neck of my bottle.

Marguerite made her way toward me, then wrapped me in a tight hug. “You OK?”

I nodded.

She patted my cheek before quickly turning and walking away.

I understood why a moment later, as my father made his way toward me.

“How was the rest of your day?” I asked when he got close enough to hear me over the music.

“Interesting.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, shouting above the noise.

But before he could give me an answer, Byron Kennedy grabbed him by the elbow.

“Good evening, ladies,” he said as he steered Albert toward the end of the bar.

They settled at the far corner, and when Jerry picked up a bottle of scotch, the small hairs at the base of my neck bristled.

I relaxed when he set just one glass down. In front of Byron.

“I thought you came here to have fun,” Jessica said.

“You’re right.” I shifted in my seat to focus on the stage instead of my father. “For the next few hours, I don’t care about the opera house job or Albert.”

But I did care. More than I wanted to admit.

Jackson’s words about my father’s distraction had stuck with me, and I couldn’t help but wonder what Albert wasn’t telling me. Although we only saw each other once a year and knew little about each other’s lives, he was still my father.

As the night progressed, I continued to sneak glances at him, studying his body language, measuring his expressions.

“Stop it,” Jessica said, elbowing my side. “You’re staring.”

I shot her a frown just as Marguerite approached, heading toward the stage.

She slowed long enough to give my shoulder a squeeze. “Did Byron say anything about a decision?”

I shook my head, and she crossed her fingers.

Then she took the stage with a poise all her own. Her flamboyant skirt swirled, flashing violet as she swayed to the opening measures of the song she’d selected.

Her music choice was a slow melody, meandering and compelling, and I felt myself relaxing. The buzz of voices inside the inn grew quiet, and all eyes focused on her performance.

She and my mother used to sing in our kitchen as they baked cookies, pretending their wooden spoons were microphones. I would clap along, mesmerized by the two women who’d seemed invincible to me. Invincible, as though nothing bad could ever touch either of them.

Applause roared through the crowd as Marguerite hit her final note. But while every other patron inside the bar celebrated Marguerite’s performance, my father walked briskly past, headed for the exit.

“Albert,” I called out, but he didn’t hear me.

Wondering what might have set my father off, I glanced at where Byron Kennedy sat. Kennedy, however, showed no sign that anything was amiss. If anything, he looked more relaxed than usual, applauding with the rest of the crowd as Marguerite returned to her seat.

Had Marguerite’s performance brought back the same memories for my father as it had for me?

Seems like yesterday,
he’d said the night before.

I’d never stopped to think how fresh all the reminders of Paris would be for him, even after twenty years.

“I need to go,” I said, setting down my partially empty beer bottle.

“So soon?” Jessica frowned.

“Who are you kidding?” I said and then kissed her cheek. “You’ll be home with your babies before I can figure out where Albert went.”

She squeezed my hand. “Think about what I said. About second chances.”

As I headed for the exit, I did just that. But someone tapped my shoulder just as I reached for the door.

Byron Kennedy.

“Congratulations,” he said brightly as I turned around. “You were the selection committee’s unanimous choice.”

His pronouncement seemed so out of place for the moment that I remained momentarily silent, too surprised to respond.

He grabbed my hand, giving it a vigorous shake.

I snapped myself to attention, forgetting all about Albert.

“Thank you,” I said, returning his shake. “I’m thrilled. Thank you.”

I’d done it. I’d won the bid.

At that moment, I was sure my smile must reach from ear to ear.

“The committee would like to talk to you about a production schedule. Can you come in first thing Monday?” he asked.

“Absolutely.”

I stepped back into the crowd long enough to tell Jessica and Marguerite the good news; then I headed out into the Paris night in search of my father.

When Albert wasn’t at home, I backtracked the four blocks to the river, passing the Paris Inn on my way to the asphalt trail that ran along the Delaware.

I was concerned for his well-being, much as that realization left me a bit unnerved.

I spotted his silhouette as I stepped off onto the grass.

For a fleeting moment I thought about turning back, thought about minding my own business, but I wanted to know if he was OK.

I cared.

That revelation shook me to the core.

I didn’t have to like the man or what he’d done, but he was still my father. I’d spent the past twenty years hating the man, but the truth was, I still loved him. Flaws and all.

“Albert,” I called out. “Is that you?”

“Over here,” he answered, and I made my way across the dark expanse between us, scrambling up onto Lookout Rock when I reached him. “Checking on me?”

“You didn’t stay very long.” I shrugged. “I wondered why.”

He took his time answering. “Too much to take in.”

I thought about the beer the night before. “You and Byron did some catching up?”

He sat quietly for a moment. “It’s been a long time.” Then, anticipating exactly where my question was headed, he added, “I said no when he offered to buy me a scotch.”

“I’m glad.” I pulled my feet up, wrapping my arms around my knees.

Silence dropped between us.

“Do you remember how they used to sing?” he asked.

“Mom and Marguerite?”

He nodded, and I flashed on myriad memories of moments spent just like this, side by side atop Lookout Rock.

“I remember.”

“I actually thought Marguerite’s song might have upset you.”

He sighed. “It was easier not to miss your mother when I wasn’t here. I suppose that’s part of why I never really came back.”

I dropped my chin, staring at my lap. “It’s a lousy excuse.”

Another long silence stretched between us.

“I quit the show today,” he said flatly.

Quit the show?

Surprise and sadness wound their way through me.
Even the brightest stars dim eventually,
Jackson had said.

“Are you all right? Physically?”

He nodded.

“Were the lines too difficult after all?” I asked.

My father laughed, the sound more tired than amused. “That’s the crazy thing. As soon as I decided I was through, I could remember every line.”

“Jackson said he thought you might need a break.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just done.”

I inhaled deeply, then sat back, staring up into the dense trees, searching for stars in the summer sky. “What will you do now?”

“No idea.”

“Do you need to work?” I asked, letting myself settle into our conversation, not questioning the ease with which we’d set aside the past for a while.

“Are you talking about money?”

“Yes,” I answered. “Money.”

“I’m pretty well set in that department.”

“Great,” I said. I knew nothing about this man. Not how much he made or how many shows he’d performed. I knew nothing about where he’d lived or who his friends were.

He was a shadow of my past who had suddenly taken on solid form.

“How long are you going to stay in Paris?” I asked.

“I’m not sure.”

The familiar anger simmered inside me.

I’d expected him to say “for good” or something a bit more definite. Instead, his answer left me wondering not whether he’d be leaving again, but when.

If I let him back into my life and my heart, I was setting myself up for loss. Again.

Even so, I took a deep breath and said the thing Jessica would want me to say, the thing my mother would expect me to say.

“If you want to stay at the house until you figure out your plans, you can.”

Silence beat between us for several long seconds, during which I thought about changing my mind, thought about having my head examined, but I said nothing.