Broken Pieces: A Novel (7 page)

CHAPTER TEN

My father called me back downstairs later that evening.

He’d taken a long shower while I’d cleaned up from dinner, and while I’d been changing out of my work clothes into a favorite pair of shorts and a T-shirt, I’d assumed he’d gone to his room to read or downstairs to watch television.

Instead, he’d set up a small fish tank in the kitchen.

“What is that?” I asked, feeling a fresh wave of disbelief as I scrutinized the object on my counter.

“Isn’t she lovely?” he said, gazing at the smallest, most miserable-looking fish I’d ever seen. “I call her Scarlet.”

“Scarlet,” I repeated, stepping close to peer into the tiny tank. “Did you ever think you should ask me before adding a fish tank to my kitchen?” I asked, my tone more than a little bit annoyed.

My father straightened, his brows furrowing. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

“With a fish?” I frowned. “Where did she come from?”

“Harrington’s. I saw her when I was in town earlier. Kept her hidden until I had a chance to set up the tank.”

Harrington’s pet store had been one of my favorite stops back when my father and I would take our strolls through town. We’d peer through the window at the latest kittens or puppies, and I’d ask for a pet each time we visited.

“You always wanted a pet, and your mother and I always said no.” He gestured to Scarlet as though she were the grand prize on a television game show. “Here she is.”

Fatigue pushed at my incredulity. If the man was trying to win back my trust and affection, did he think he could do so with a
fish
?

“That was a long time ago.”

“She’s low maintenance,” he explained. “She has her own plant to sleep on, you feed her only once a day, and she’ll be right here”—he patted the counter—“each time you stop in the kitchen.”

I rubbed my face. “I don’t understand why you’d do this.”

His features fell, and as much as I briefly felt bad for crushing his enthusiasm, I also realized he was an actor, capable of donning whatever facial expression he chose for the benefit of persuading others. Myself included.

Then he simply said, “I thought you’d like her.”

“Well, I’m sorry.” I shook my head. “I can’t get excited about having a tiny aquarium in my kitchen. Can we return her?”

His eyes widened in mock horror. “She’ll hear you.”

We glared at each other for several seconds, during which I realized how ridiculous it was to be standing here debating the merits of a two-inch-long aquatic animal.

My father broke the silence first. “Bob Harrington said we can return her for a full refund should she pass during the next two weeks.”

Pass.
There was a term I’d loathed ever since my mother died, like dying were some sort of exam to be rewarded.

“Lovely.”

I leaned into the counter and stared into Scarlet’s tank. Then I shifted my gaze to the window. Marguerite’s porch light glowed from her back patio, and I realized she must still be out there, working on one project or another.

A bit of distance from Scarlet and my father was exactly what I needed.

“I’m going next door for a while,” I said. “Please leave the aquarium box where I can find it. I’ll return her tomorrow on my way into work.”

His features fell, and I thought about reconsidering. Instead I walked next door, desperately needing to decompress.

Five minutes later I’d brought Marguerite up-to-date on the fish, the garden, the pancakes—and the fact that I’d invited my father to stay with me temporarily.

“Sounds like you could use some art therapy,” she said, firm in her belief that art was the solution to the world’s problems.

She reached into one of her many supply baskets and pulled out a large, soft-backed book. Then she handed me a cup full of slender markers.

“Adult coloring books,” she explained. “They’re all the rage.”

“
Sea Creatures
,” I read before opening the cover. I shot her a look. “In honor of Scarlet?”

Marguerite smiled, but her expression had gone serious.

“I’ve known your father for a very long time,” she said. “Since your mother and I were girls at Paris Elementary.”

I sat quietly, watching her as she spoke.

Over the years she’d proven to be one of the fairest, most levelheaded voices in my life. She’d also never hidden her distaste for Albert Jones, which was why her next words surprised me.

“I was friends with Albert before he and your mother fell in love.” She sat back a bit, her brows lifting. “He was like a brother to me. Always was. Until your mother got sick.”

“And he left,” I said.

Marguerite nodded. “I know you want to believe he’s here for you, Destiny. You may tell me you know better, and you may think you know better, but deep inside that heart of yours there’s a little girl who still wants to believe he never meant to leave.”

Her words hit their mark, rocking me.

“You can’t trust him, honey,” she continued. “Not yet.”

I nodded. “I know that.”

Marguerite leaned forward, took my hands. “I know you think you know that, but just be careful. A few meals, a neat garden, and a new pet are not enough to make up for missing out on most of your life.”

Her words settled on my shoulders like a damp blanket, suffocating the seeds of hope that had taken root despite my best efforts to resist them. Yet, even though I knew intellectually that she was right, I couldn’t help but hope she might be wrong.

An hour later I pushed open the door to my kitchen, hearing nothing but silence in the big old house. No doubt my father’s hard physical work had taken its toll, and he’d gone to bed early.

The box from Scarlet’s tank sat beside her on the counter, just as I’d requested.

I thought about boxing up the tiny red fish right then and there and banging on Harrington’s door. After all, Mr. and Mrs. Harrington had lived above the shop on Bridge Street for as long as I could remember.

But when Scarlet stared back at me with her beady little eyes, something inside me softened.

My father’s phone chirped from where he’d left it next to the empty box, and I glanced at the screen.

New text message. Sydney Mason.

The simple notification served as a reminder that Albert inhabited a world of people I knew nothing about.

We might be father and daughter, presently residing beneath the same roof, but we’d lived separate lives for two decades. Chances were pretty good we’d be living separate lives for decades more.

“Good night, Scarlet,” I said, clicking off the kitchen light on my way toward the hall.

Whoever Sydney Mason was, she’d have to wait until morning for Albert’s reply.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I spent that weekend finishing and installing paneled French doors for Nan and Don Michaels, as well as completing Erma Leroy’s cabinets.

Albert toiled in the garden, as if he craved his hands in the dirt.

I’d taken him to the garden shop several miles out of town to select several Shasta daisy and coneflower plants, along with three bushes whose names I couldn’t remember, but which Albert assured me would grow with minimal care and return to full bloom each spring.

Scarlet remained where Albert had placed her on the kitchen counter. I’d put her box out for recycling, deciding one tiny fish couldn’t hurt the low-maintenance nature of my life.

First thing Monday morning, as promised, I met with the full opera house board to review the proposed budget and discuss their projected completion date.

If all went well, the opera house interior would be fully renovated and restored in time for next year’s spring festival.

After the meeting, I gave myself permission to indulge in something I rarely did.

I wandered.

Paris was beautiful in late summer. Honestly, Paris was beautiful year-round; I just wasn’t the sort of person to walk around and notice. I preferred to work, go home, watch my neighbors and friends sing karaoke every Wednesday night at the inn, and stop off for coffee every morning at the café.

I strolled past the Bainbridge Estate, following the grassy path that marked the end of town and the start of the bike path that ran along the Delaware. I turned onto Front Street, taking note of a small line of cars at Capshaw Funeral Home.

Henrietta Baille, the town’s recluse, had died a few days earlier. While I’d never met the woman, I was relieved to see that her out-of-town relatives had traveled to Paris to lay her to rest.

I had attended several services over the years, but it was my mother’s funeral I remembered anytime I walked past.

The line of mourners. My hand in my father’s. The faces. The condolences. The flower arrangements, their perfume heavy and haunting.

When I reached the Paris Library I hesitated, staring at the massive iron gates of the town cemetery just a few paces ahead.

During my childhood, when my grandmother had been alive, we’d visited my mother’s grave every Sunday after church. We’d sit side by side in quiet reflection, leaving behind flowers and whispered prayers before we headed home for French toast and fresh-squeezed orange juice.

I rested one hand against the cold, time-worn metal.

I hadn’t had French toast in a very long time.

The cemetery was fairly deserted at this time of the morning, though I imagined the funeral procession would find its way here before too long.

I skirted down two rows, turned left, and found my mother’s tombstone as though I’d been on autopilot.

The side of her stone had gone a bit dark with time and weathering, and guilt blossomed inside me. A good daughter would be here more often.

It was amazing how sharply the neglect of a person’s life came into focus once she stopped long enough to notice.

I brushed my fingertips against the engraved lettering of her name, tracing the dates of her birth and death.

“How was your meeting?”

Marguerite’s voice sounded close, sending me reeling. She held a spray bottle in one hand and clutched a brush and folded cloth in the other.

“You scared the hell out of me.” I clutched my chest, wondering just how fast a person’s heart could beat.

Her auburn brows lifted. “Sorry, I was cleaning the marker three plots over.” She pointed to an area behind her, then fell serious. “She was his life, you know.”

Regret washed over her face instantly, evidently realizing the moment her statement hit its mark.

“He’s made that abundantly clear.”

She sighed softly, at an uncharacteristic loss for what to say. She held up the spray bottle. “Want to spruce up her stone?”

I frowned, confused. “Spruce up?”

She leaned past me to spray my mother’s name and dates; then she handed me the brush. “Scrub,” she commanded.

And so I did, working gingerly at first and adding a bit more force as the stone brightened and the darkness faded.

“Do you make this a habit?” I asked once we’d finished the stone and wiped the entire surface clean. “Showing up at graves with your spray bottle in hand?”

She smiled and gestured for me to follow. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

We walked silently past several rows of stones and grave markers, coming to a stop in the farthest corner of the original section of the cemetery. Here the stones dated back as far as the early 1800s, yet it was evident Marguerite had been here this morning, doing her best to brighten the marble and granite.

“I like to look after the ones who have no one else to look after them.”

“Why?” I understood why Marguerite would clean the stones. She had a kind heart. Perhaps she needed something to do, but there had to be more to the story.

“One more stop,” she said, waving her hand in a follow-me gesture as she headed away, back toward a more recent section of plots.

Marguerite pointed to single stone, pristine in condition, heartbreaking in information. Joseph Connors. Born 1946. Died 1967.

“Vietnam,” she said softly. “He promised me he’d come back, but he never did.”

I hooked my arm through hers and drew her near. “I’m so sorry.”

Marguerite smiled, hesitating before she spoke. “I take care of the forgotten because it gives me hope that someday someone will do the same thing for Joseph.”

“Your sweetheart?” I asked.

“My fiancé,” she answered.

Her simple statement shocked me.

“I didn’t know,” I said slowly, staring at proof of the life I’d never known—Marguerite’s life before me.

She gave my arm a squeeze. “You had enough loss in your life.”

“You never met anyone else?” I asked.

She sighed, the sound a mixture of melancholy and joy. “I never met anyone else worth marrying.”

A sudden possibility filled my head. Had she not married because she’d been too busy filling in for my mother?

“Was it because of me?” I asked.

She pressed a kiss to my cheek. “Absolutely not. Although I could be asking you the same question.”

“What?”

“Why haven’t you ever talked about getting married?”

I shook my head and laughed, wishing my mother could be right there, laughing along with me.

“Married? I’ve never even been in love.” Hell, I could count the number of dates I’d had on one hand.

Marguerite tipped her chin and gave me a slight smile. “When you least expect it.”

I shrugged. “I’m happy how I am.”

“So you keep saying, dear girl. So you keep saying.”

We sat together beside Joseph’s grave for close to an hour. Marguerite regaled me with stories of their youth, and courtship, and life in Paris.

She fell silent after telling me about the day she learned Joseph’s helicopter had gone down. Then she stood and brushed traces of dried grass from the folds of her bright turquoise skirt.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Ready,” I answered.

I carried her cleaning supplies as she stopped periodically to straighten a flower arrangement or wreath.

The first of the funeral procession was pulling to the curb along Front Street as we stepped onto the cobblestone sidewalk and headed for home.

Then Marguerite stopped, faced me, and cupped my chin, the move so maternal it stole my breath.

“Sooner or later, dear girl, everyone comes home. It might not be how we wanted or when we wanted, but they do.”

But as we made our way back to Third Street, I couldn’t help but think how wrong Marguerite was.

Sooner or later, everyone left.