Broken Pieces: A Novel (6 page)

Maybe he did deserve a second chance.

“I’m sorry I left.” Albert’s words bridged the space between us, his voice cracking.

His blunt statement shocked me, and I swallowed against the tightness in my throat.

He’d never apologized before, never acknowledged what he’d done.

“I don’t think I knew how to stay without her,” he continued.

His words cut me to the core. “What about me?”

“You had your grandmother . . . and Marguerite.”

He took my hand, interlacing our fingers. I surprised myself by not pulling away.

“Didn’t you ever think I needed you more?”

He said nothing, did nothing. He held my hand, tightening his grip, and stared at the darkness over the river.

After a few moments, I extricated my fingers. “Ready to go?” I asked, when it became apparent he wasn’t going to answer my question.

I climbed down from the rock, thought about holding out my hand to steady his descent, but took a backward step instead.

I distanced myself and said nothing on the walk toward Third Street, working to quiet the small voice inside me that wondered if I hadn’t just made a mistake.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I heard the rattle of dishes and pans from the kitchen as I headed downstairs a little after seven thirty the next morning.

I’d slept later than normal, but supposed my exhausted brain was trying to make up for the restless nights since my father’s arrival.

He stood at the kitchen counter, frowning, a measuring cup in one hand, a large mixing bowl on the counter in front of him.

“Pancakes?” he asked, a smudge of flour on his cheek.

I took a moment to ground myself. In a little more than forty-eight hours, I’d gone from wanting the man in the next car back to New York to inviting him to move in, albeit temporarily.

“Pancakes,” I repeated, a sudden image of my mother’s coffee-stained recipe card flashing through my mind. “You know how to make pancakes?”

He nodded. Then he grimaced. “In theory I do. I mean, it’s been done, but not in a long while. Plus, I found a box of Bisquick in the pantry.”

I headed for the coffeepot, where a full glass carafe sat waiting. “You made coffee? I should have invited you to move back years ago.”

I winced, then chalked up my overly familiar remark to the fact that I hadn’t yet had any caffeine. I filled my favorite coffee mug and leaned back to watch Albert cook, hoping he hadn’t given too much weight to my words.

“I looked for some fruit,” he said, “but I couldn’t find any.”

“I work a lot.” I shrugged. “And then I eat at Jessica’s.”

“What about breakfast?” he asked.

“What about it?”

“Most important meal of the day.”

I pulled open the refrigerator, pulled out a gallon of milk, and poured two glasses. “You’re not seriously going to lecture me on my dietary habits, are you?”

He fell silent then, concentrating on the puddles of batter he’d poured onto a large frying pan.

“I don’t suppose you have a proper skillet somewhere?” he asked.

I shook my head, surprised to be enjoying the moment, watching him fumble his way through my poorly appointed kitchen.

“These will be up in a minute. I set the table out back.”

Considering that my typical morning consisted of a shower, a quick cup of coffee, and a brisk walk to Jessica’s café, I gave my arm a pinch as I headed outside to see the table for myself, just to make sure the past few days hadn’t been a dream.

Albert followed on my heels, balancing our plates and a dish of butter with the finesse of someone who’d been serving breakfast for the two of us for years.

I settled on one of my mother’s now-violet bistro chairs, doing my best to ignore the echo of earlier times in this same spot.

Instead I focused on the moment, on the man I’d once known so well but now knew not at all.

“Do you want to talk any more about your decision?” I asked, as he set down our plates and sat across from me. “Now that you’ve had a chance to sleep on it?”

He shook his head. “I wanted to ask
you
a question.”

For a moment I imagined he might ask about my work, my friends, my life, but instead he said, “Would you mind if I replanted the garden?”

“The garden?” I blinked, having expected a slightly deeper breakfast conversation after our heart-to-heart the night before.

“I thought it might be nice.”

“Nice,” I repeated, my thoughts whirling.

“Your mother loved that garden.” He spoke around a mouthful of pancakes, answering my question before I’d given it voice. “I thought you might enjoy having it restored.”

Even as he spoke the words, I saw through them.

“None of these things will bring her back,” I said, setting down my fork, losing my appetite.

He looked at me then, studying my face, seemingly searching for something.

“I’m doing this for you,” he said. “I thought you’d like it.”

I wanted to believe him, but fought the urge to do so. I’d invested too much time in my self-preservation.

“Thanks,” I said, doubt blatant in my voice. I pushed away from the table and moved to clear my still-full plate.

Albert frowned. “You’ve barely touched your breakfast.”

“I have to get to work.” I slowed as I walked past him. “If you want to replant the garden, go for it.”

After all, I hadn’t touched the bed that ran along the property line between my house and Marguerite’s in years. I spent my days adding charm and personality to the homes of others, but I suddenly couldn’t remember the last time I’d worked on my own.

I took my usual route to work, walking west on Third Street, then south on Stone Lane the two blocks to Bridge. I followed the cobblestone sidewalk until I crossed the street a half block later, where Artisan’s Alley jutted off on a diagonal.

The sights and sounds of the summer morning enveloped me, soothing the melancholy I felt after my conversation with Albert. Birds sang, a pair of seagulls circled overhead, vibrant pots of impatiens lined the street, and the scents of coffee and the café mingled to create the magic that was Paris.

Manny swept the step outside his barbershop, deep in concentration.

“Great duet last night,” I called out. He nodded and gave me a quick salute.

Polly Klein looked up from the chalkboard outside her Klip and Kurl to call out her congratulations. “Way to go, Destiny. I have every confidence you’ll bring back the charm of the opera house.”

“Thank you, Polly.”

Pride welled up inside me as I made the turn down Artisan’s Alley.

My father might not show an interest in my work or my latest news, but my fellow Paris residents did. They’d been my family for most of my life, not Albert Jones.

My carpentry shop sat partway down the alley, situated back from the street in an old converted two-story garage. The local florist occupied the first floor, and my work area occupied the second. There I designed and cut the pieces for my custom jobs, assembling the projects and their sections for transport to their destinations.

The building had long ago been painted a deep red—a color I’d loyally maintained over the years. I’d chosen a pop of green for the giant shutters that framed the second-floor window.

There was nothing quite like the view of Paris I enjoyed from the double-wide, floor-to-ceiling window, or the feeling of sunlight and fresh air streaming in whenever I opened the panes. There was also nothing like the sense of accomplishment I felt each time one of my creations exceeded a customer’s expectations.

Restoring the ornate woodwork that had once graced the box seats and stage of the opera house would be my greatest challenge to date—a challenge I couldn’t wait to meet.

I climbed the outside steps and unlocked the brilliant violet door to my shop.

Had I painted the door to match my mother’s favorite color? Perhaps subconsciously. All I knew was that the door, the shutters, and this space never failed to make me smile.

The wind chimes sounded as I pushed through the door, and the smell of sawdust tickled my nose. I relaxed a notch as I stepped inside, the tension between my shoulders easing.

I’d been working on two projects prior to the opera house presentation: custom-made panel doors for Don and Nan Michaels, and kitchen cabinets for Erma Leroy’s private suite in her B&B.

Both projects were nearing completion, and if I worked through the weekend I’d be able to finish one installation and schedule the other for the following week to make way for the opera house work.

I stepped to the back wall of my shop, where before-and-after photos hung beside sketches I’d completed as I planned various jobs.

Pride welled inside me. Pride for all I’d accomplished. Pride for the business I’d built on my own.

I shifted my focus to materials I’d gathered for the renovation project.

Thanks to the quality of records kept by the Paris Historical Society, I’d been able to find documentation of how the opera house had appeared prior to its last major overhaul. I’d photocopied pictures from the historical journals, and images of the original interior now hung on my shop wall, waiting hopefully for my work to begin.

I sighed happily, tracing my fingertips over the copies. Like a kid with a new toy, I wanted to start now. Wanted to measure and remeasure, sample wood selections, and run a few practice cuts on my equipment.

But not today.

Even though today and the next several days were about finishing up the old to make room for the new, they were also about creating the best cabinets and panel doors I could fashion. They were about keeping my focus on the jobs at hand.

Yet even as I turned away from the opera house photos, I couldn’t help but remember how my father had once commanded that stage. Strong. Confident. Riveting.

I’d been mesmerized watching him, so proud to call him Dad.

I wanted so badly to wash away all the years since then, to go back to how things had once been, but did I dare?

If ever there was a time to listen to my head and not to my heart, this was it. For my own good.

I put on a fresh pot of coffee. Then I shut my father, the opera house, and the past out of my head, and focused on the work at hand.

CHAPTER NINE

The temperature had soared well above ninety by the time I returned home.

I watched my father from across the street, his face beet-red, his gray T-shirt drenched with sweat.

He hoisted a pile of dead weeds from the garden into a lawn-refuse bag, not realizing he was being watched.

He’d pulled out yards of dead shrubbery and overgrown weeds, and although the garden was all but bare, the property appeared transformed.

How had I not seen how overgrown and neglected the garden had become?

My grandmother had once used weekends in the garden as therapy for me, a way to help me survive grief and middle school at the same time, and I’d spent every Saturday morning trying to replicate the care and attention my mother and father had devoted to the flower bed.

At first I’d carefully tended to every plant’s individual needs; then I’d shifted to merely pulling weeds. Before long, my attention and interest faded away completely. My grandmother lost her interest in the garden, too, never nagging me to resume my Saturday chore.

Perhaps the reminder of all we’d lost had been too much. Perhaps it had been easier for us both to pretend the beautiful garden had never existed.

Albert straightened, brushed his hands against his dirt-encrusted chinos, and met my gaze.

I braced myself as I crossed the street, remembering how faithfully my mother and father had tended to the annuals and perennials they’d planted.

“Looks amazing,” I called out, expecting my father to say something about how badly the garden had been let go.

But he merely stood and accepted my compliment. “Now we’ll plant,” he said, “but I’m glad you like it so far.”

He said nothing about the neglect. Nothing about the garden’s sorry state, the fact that none of the original beauty remained.

The only surviving plant was the azalea, which stood untouched.

“Are you leaving that?” I pointed.

Albert shot me an incredulous look. “That was your mother’s favorite.”

“But it hasn’t bloomed in years.”

“Some plants can sit dormant for years and survive.”

Picasso rounded the corner, headed straight for my father’s work.

I scooped him into my arms and stepped toward Marguerite’s house before the poodle and my father could start a fresh round of turf wars.

“Let me carry Picasso home,” I said. “Then I’ll order pizza for dinner.”

“Already have a casserole in the oven,” Albert answered. “Went grocery shopping.”

“No kidding,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief.

I followed the path to Marguerite’s backyard, considering everything my father had done in a day.

Gardening. Grocery shopping. Cooking.

As much as I’d like to believe otherwise, I couldn’t help but think his efforts were part of some act.

I found Marguerite painting in the middle of her backyard, her turquoise stool pulled close to her easel.

Beneath her brush, a house had taken shape. My house. Not the way it appeared now, but as it had once been. Full of life. Brightly painted shutters framed every window, and vibrant gardens trimmed every edge of the canvas.

“I remember,” she said, her voice barely audible.

In the painting, lush swirls of color surrounded my house, filling the canvas with light and life. The ache inside me deepened, and I flashed on how the house had looked long ago, during the years in which my mother and father had spent their spare moments weeding, planting, trimming, singing.

I thought about how my father labored now, working to give a second life to the garden, and perhaps to us.

Second chances.

I wanted to believe this might be ours. I wanted to believe that the garden and I wouldn’t return to precisely what we’d been for the past twenty years.

Forgotten.

“I can’t believe you know how to make Mom’s tuna casserole,” I said a short while later as my father and I sat at the kitchen table. “I wish I could find her recipe cards.”

I’d always wanted them and had actually searched for them weeks after her death. Grandmother had helped me, but she’d told me some losses never could be understood.

Sometimes things simply disappeared.

My father ignored my statement, and we ate in companionable silence.

I found myself remembering all the meals my mother had once made, how she’d always insisted she wasn’t a good cook, when the truth was, she’d been amazing.

My mind wandered through our shared past, then veered into the years my father and I had spent apart.

Perhaps it was time to explore the mystery of the last twenty years.

“Were you successful right away when you went to New York?”

Albert choked on his mouthful of casserole. “Heavens, no, but I was lucky. By my third job I’d landed a speaking role, and by my seventh I’d landed a lead.”

“On Broadway?”

He shook his head. “Off. But Broadway soon followed.”

He told me stories as we ate, about his first apartment and his last. About how it had felt when he first saw his face on a Broadway poster.

I studied him as he spoke. His features had softened with age, and lines etched character around his mouth and eyes, signs of a man who’d smiled a lot.

Had he smiled a lot?
I wondered.

He used to smile. He used to smile all the time.

The joy in his voice carried me back to when he’d woven stories of adventure and bravery, convincing me I could become anything I set my mind to.

“Do you remember the day I climbed Marguerite’s tree?” I asked.

Albert closed his eyes and smiled, as though the scene were playing through his mind. “I’d told you that you could do anything, and you decided to fly.”

He laughed, the actor’s mask falling completely away. “I thought your mother might kill me. Do you remember falling?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I remember you catching me.”

His smile faded, and his bright eyes dimmed.

Sadness and confusion knotted inside me. I’d never understand how he could go from that father to the father who sat before me now.

“Did you ever wonder about me?” I asked. “About my life? My work?”

“We were together every Christmas.”

Christmas.

My mother’s most cherished day.

I’d often wondered why he bothered to visit at all, but I suspected the real reason: somewhere in his mind, he’d convinced himself that if we were together at Christmas, he hadn’t totally let her down.

The ache deepened. “But we never talked. Not like this.”

He shook his head. “No. No, we didn’t.” He set down his fork, took a drink of water, and changed our conversation completely, apparently having had enough exploration of our family dynamic.

“Byron told me about your presentation to the opera board. Said you had some forward-thinking ideas about using the salvaged lumber from the mill for your renovation.”

I narrowed my gaze, wondering why he hadn’t shared this sooner. “Did he tell you I’d been selected?”

Albert shook his head. “I heard that today in town. Congratulations. You should be proud.”

No,
I thought, even as I said, “Thanks.”
He
should be proud.

But did it matter?

I was no longer the ten-year-old who needed her father’s approval. I was no longer the girl who’d climbed a tree to prove she could fly.

I’d built my business without him. I’d built my life without him. Hearing his praise now only served to remind me how long I’d survived without it.