Broken Pieces: A Novel (2 page)

I was due before the Paris Opera House Board of Trustees at ten the next morning. They’d put out requests for bids for the complete renovation of the opera house’s once majestic paneling, box seats, and trim. I intended to make the best presentation of my life, and I intended to win the bid.

The sudden appearance of Albert Jones was not going to derail those plans.

“One night,” I said, turning for the hall and my office.

“May I have a cup of tea?” he asked.

As much as the ghost of the ten-year-old inside me might want to please her father, recapture his affection, and race to fix him a cup of tea, I did nothing more than quicken my pace away from him.

“You remember where the kitchen is, don’t you?” I asked.

Then I steadied myself, silenced the unwanted memories, and shut myself behind my office door.

CHAPTER TWO

I’d worked most of the night, my mind a jumble of presentation plans and conversation snippets from my father’s sudden appearance. Sometime after four o’clock in the morning, I’d curled into the overstuffed chair in my office, where I’d attempted sleep.

I’d hoped Albert would be gone, but based on the noise that woke me now, he hadn’t gone anywhere except outside.

The morning sun slanted brightly between the blinds. Too brightly. I scrambled for my phone and pressed the screen to illuminate the time.

Nine o’clock.

I was due at the opera house in one hour.

Adrenaline spiked through my veins. I’d need every minute to get showered, dressed, and figure out who in the hell Albert was yelling at.

Based on the shrill yapping that answered every one of his baritone commands, I imagined that the object of his displeasure must be Picasso.

Albert’s luggage remained where I’d left it in the hall.

The front door, however, sat open wide.

Albert and Picasso faced off beside a bush that had marked the line between properties for as long as I could remember, their shouting-barking cacophony rattling my exhausted brain.

Where my father had looked only slightly unkempt the night before, he now looked completely disheveled.

His silver hair stuck out in choppy clumps, suggesting he’d recently dragged his fingers through the hanks. His shirt hung untucked from his trousers, which were wrinkled and creased as though his restless night had matched my own.

Good.

“What are you doing?” I shouted.

“This little pisser is going to kill your mother’s favorite azalea,” he called out over his shoulder, projecting his voice so loudly I was quite sure every one of my neighbors heard.

Mom’s azalea.

I pictured the once-vibrant fuchsia flowers and wondered exactly how many years it had been since the plant stopped blooming.

On cue, Picasso lifted his leg, then disappeared around the end of Marguerite’s hedge toward home.

Albert’s cheeks puffed out and reddened momentarily, and I couldn’t help but think he resembled a child—a spoiled child. Then his features smoothed, his composure returned, and he shifted his attention to me. His eyes narrowed as he studied me from head to toe.

My bare toes peeped from beneath the tattered hem of my jeans. I’d worked and slept in my favorite Derek Jeter T-shirt, and while I was grateful to my mother for the head of sable hair I claimed as my own, I shoved the violet-streaked strands behind my ears, not wanting to imagine what I must look like at this particular moment.

Then I reminded myself that I didn’t care. Albert Jones had no right to say a word about my appearance. Hell, the fact that I no doubt appeared more than a little bit haggard was due to his sudden visit just as much as it was to my impending presentation.

I held my ground as he walked toward me. He stopped so close nerves fluttered in my stomach.

Ridiculous.

Yet, even though we saw each other once a year, we hadn’t stood this close since we’d clasped hands beside my mother’s coffin decades earlier.

Albert took a hank of my purple-streaked hair between his fingers. “Did you know this was her favorite color?”

Something deep inside me cracked—something I’d thought long healed. “No,” I answered, working to keep my voice solid. “I don’t think I did.”

Silence beat between us. Awkward, uncomfortable silence.

The memory of how much I’d once loved him echoed through my mind. Haunting. Unbidden.

“I have a meeting,” I said, stepping away from his touch and the unwanted memory. “Have a safe trip back to New York.”

Then, before he could say another word, I tucked the loose strand of purple behind one ear and headed back inside.

A short while later I walked the four blocks to the Paris Opera House. I hustled past open shop doors and brightly decorated windows in the center of town, keeping my conversations brief and my feet moving.

I was determined to be on time. My presentation was polished, organized, and practiced.

A few years earlier I’d worked with a partner, but after his move to New England I’d reorganized my business into a sole proprietorship and never looked back.

I’d made a name for myself by designing and installing custom cabinetry and doing other carpentry work, but found myself wanting something more than residential contracts. Something bigger.

Landing the renovation and restoration at the opera house would provide just that. More. Much more. The stage renovation presented an opportunity for me to leave my mark on Paris, the chance to give back just a small measure of all the town had given me.

I’d prepped for today’s meeting by pulling my hair into a somewhat stylish topknot and trading my usual blue jeans and work boots for a long skirt, tailored blouse, and dress boots.

The morning had already turned hot, even for August, and a breeze had picked up, bringing with it the promise of a summer thunderstorm. The leaves on the trees along the Delaware River had flipped, showing their silver-toned underbellies.

“Rain coming,” Manny the barber called out from the door of his shop as I hustled past. “Knock ’em dead, Destiny,” he added.

I shot him a smile, my facial expression belying the nerves building inside me.

Most everyone in the small town knew how much landing this job meant to me. I’d researched historical photographs and documents, I’d made countless measurements of the space, and I’d interviewed town elders. The project was definitely a step outside my comfort zone, but I wanted my shot, and I intended to get it.

The Paris Opera House sat on the main thoroughfare at the corner of Bridge and Front, a location as beautiful as it was practical. The majestic spire rose into the heavy summer sky, and I held still momentarily, fantasizing about what it might be like to add my name to the list of architects, designers, and carpenters who had helped create and shape the structure over the more than 150 years the opera had inhabited this space.

The building had been fully restored back when I’d been in first grade. I could still remember watching the construction from the opposite sidewalk as I clutched my father’s hand. We’d visited weekly during the months of work—as the renovation came to life and we stood side by side, observing.

I often wondered if my six-year-old brain hadn’t decided then and there that carpentry would be my life.

That renovation had modernized the interior, and the historical society and opera house board had recently voted to restore the theater to its once ornate glory. That’s where I came in.

The fact my father had suddenly reappeared the night before my presentation was disconcerting, but I was more than capable of shutting off my emotions long enough to do the job I needed to do today.

My father had once performed here, and my mother and I had sat in the front row, applauding, just days before our lives turned upside down with her cancer diagnosis.

Perhaps part of me wanted to erase that memory. Perhaps part of me wanted to honor it by creating a work of beauty she would have loved.

A shiver whispered through me as I stood at the bottom of the steps and stared, as if the ghosts of my past were about to throw open the massive glass doors and invite me inside.

Instead, Nan Michaels appeared at the center door and yelled: “Hurry it up, Ring Ding. You’re three minutes late.”

The grandmother of one of my oldest friends and a proud Paris Opera Guild member, Nan had a tendency to call those she knew by the names of the sugary treats Doc Malone had made her give up years earlier.

She studied me with kindly eyes, and I wondered if she knew how forcefully butterfly wings beat inside my belly.

Nerves.
I mentally berated myself.

I didn’t do nerves.

I’d once been afraid of thunderstorms, dark corners, and shadows in the night, but after my mother’s death I’d sworn off fearing anything ever again.

I wasn’t about to start again now.

I anchored my portfolio beneath my arm, sucked in a steadying breath, and headed inside.

I’d been told to report to the executive offices, where I found the rest of the Paris Opera Guild gathered around a long conference table, collating newsletters. The group met weekly to label envelopes, organize mailings, and gossip.

“Good morning,” I said, using my perkiest voice.

Because most guild members had known me since birth, and perk was not part of my usual repertoire, my tone was met by several pairs of raised eyebrows.

“Leave the acting to your father.” Mona Capshaw, another beloved, albeit grumpy, Paris grandmother, pointed to the large clock on the wall. “Chop, chop.”

I hesitated, wondering if they knew about Albert’s unannounced visit. Then I realized there was no need to wonder. There were no secrets in Paris. Never had been. Never would be.

“Feeling all right, dear?” Nan asked.

“You’d better hurry,” Mona added. “Byron doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Byron Kennedy . . . a fixture in Paris for as long as I could remember. Descended from one of the town’s founders, he’d been the president of the opera house board for several years, complementing his luminous career as the foremost expert on regional history.

“Don’t let him rattle you,” Millie Carmichael chimed in from the far end of the table. “You’ve got talent.”

I’d done a whole-house renovation on Millie’s original floors, baseboards, and wainscoting, and she’d been bragging about my work ethic ever since. Bless her heart.

“Thank you, Mrs. Carmichael.”

There’d been a time in my life when I’d called the man
Uncle Byron
. I’d seen him at family brunches and backyard picnics. I’d seen him at my father’s shows and sitting at our kitchen table playing chess late at night. I’d seen him sober. I’d seen him drunk.

He and my father had belted out drunken songs and laughed uproariously late into the night on many occasions.

Yet after my mother died and my father left, Byron Kennedy had never so much as checked in on the daughter of his supposedly closest friend.

And while I wasn’t one to hold grudges, I also wasn’t one to hide my true feelings.

The man was a blowhard, more worried about appearances and social connections than people. I might not like him, but I’d never let Byron Kennedy rattle me.

At that moment the conference room doors opened, and Byron Kennedy emerged.

A hush settled over the gathering of guild members, and all collating and envelope-stuffing activity fell silent. Spines were straightened and hair smoothed.

Byron Kennedy fancied himself town patriarch, and most everyone in Paris treated him with a respect to match that title.

While I wasn’t one for bullshit titles, I was smart enough to know I had to play the game if I wanted to work with the board of trustees.

“Destiny,” he said warmly.

“Mr. Kennedy.”

He twisted his features. “Whatever happened to Uncle Byron?” he asked.

Good question, I thought.

Outwardly I merely chuckled, pretending I found his words amusing. Then I shook his hand, centered my thoughts, and stepped inside the conference room.

The selection committee sat along the far side of the conference table. Jack Maxwell, owner of Maxwell’s Mortuary; Polly Klein, of Polly’s Klip and Kurl; and Erma Leroy, of the Leroy Inn.

Byron sat at the head of the table and gestured for me to begin.

Even though I knew everyone at the table, a frisson of anxiety zipped to life inside me. I did my best to tamp it down as I set my portfolio on the empty end of the table and opened the long edge.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen of the selection committee,” I began. I carefully set out my designs, talking as I positioned each in precise order.

“Thank you for the opportunity to address you today. I am confident the renovation concept I am about to present captures not only the history of this fine building, but also the character and personality of Paris itself.”

I worked flawlessly through my presentation, not needing to refer to the index cards I’d prepared. I spoke from memory, and I spoke from the heart.

I loved carpentry and the art of shaping a whole from what had once been pieces of wood. The Paris Opera House would be my largest project to date. It would also be my most creative.

“If you’ll notice,” I said, holding up my artist’s rendering of the massive panels that framed the stage, “I’m proposing something I believe the committee and the town will find spectacular and fitting for the opera house. Reclaimed maple from the Paris Mill.”

Abandoned for twenty years, the mill had become more than an eyesore along the river just outside Paris city limits: it had become a danger.

Originally constructed in the 1920s, the building boasted spectacular rough maple planks throughout, wood that, for the most part, had withstood the invasion of the elements, time, and the occasional family of squirrels.

Having already made plans to salvage as much of the mill’s maple flooring as I could, I reached into my portfolio to pull out a small piece of sample wood I’d refinished to a spectacular sheen.