Broken Pieces: A Novel (8 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

I stared at Scarlet’s tank the next morning, wondering what had gone wrong.

She hadn’t eaten her food, so I’d removed it using a tool that looked a lot like an old-fashioned turkey baster. I suctioned out about twenty-five percent of her now-murky water, then added fresh springwater.

The fish looked happier momentarily, if that was possible.

I stared at her, wondering how it had come to be that I was standing in my kitchen at six thirty in the morning obsessing over the health and mental status of a fish.

I’d worked late the night before, cleaning and reorganizing my shop, wanting to clear the deck to focus completely on the massive job ahead of me. Albert’s bedroom door had been closed by the time I got back to the house, although I’d heard him during the night, pacing, restless.

A half-empty pot of coffee sat waiting for me on the counter, leaving me to wonder exactly how early he’d awoken and where he was now.

I headed for the front door, correctly suspecting I’d find him digging in the garden. I watched him through the sidelights, his lips moving in apparent conversation with the plants.

Perhaps I should be more concerned with his health than with Scarlet’s.

“Good morning,” I said, stepping outside onto the front porch. He looked pale when he turned around and my heart caught, a frisson of guilt sliding through me. Perhaps I should have checked on him when I’d heard him during the night. “You OK?”

He frowned, nodded, then shook his head, his brows furrowing.

I stepped close, laughing nervously at the sight of him, covered in dirt up to his elbows.

“What is it with you and this garden?”

He looked at me then, eyes bare of all pretense, all façade.

“Dad?” I said, dropping to my knees next to him.

His gaze brightened momentarily, and I realized what I’d called him for the first time since his return. His eyes glistened, and he dropped his chin, squeezing his eyes tight.

Fear danced through me.

Was he having a breakdown? A heart attack? Should I call Doc Malone?

“Dad?” I repeated. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

He shook his head before he spoke, his words barely audible. “You’ll never forgive me.”

My pulse quickened. “Forgive you for what?”

“Not telling you the truth.”

“About?”

“The full reason I’m here.”

I braced myself, my mind running through the possibilities.

He was broke. He was ill. He’d been run out of New York.

“You have a sister.”

His words hit me, bounced off, failed to compute.

“She’s here in Paris. I met her last night.”

I scrambled backward, away from him, wanting to put space between me and the man I so wanted to trust. “What the hell are you talking about?” Then I thought about my conversation with Jackson Harding, and my voice rose to a screech. “Do you have a second family?”

“Of course not.”

A buzz started in my ears, high-pitched and intense. I wondered if this was how people passed out, or had strokes, or went insane.

Albert pulled himself to his feet, brushed off his pants, and drew himself taller. Before my eyes, he transformed into his stage persona.

Rage raced through me, heating my blood. “Don’t do that. Don’t act with me. Don’t you dare treat me like a person who paid to see you pretend to be someone you’re not.”

He visibly sagged beneath the weight of my words.

“Your mother and I got pregnant before we were married. Before we’d even planned to get married. Placing the baby for adoption was the best decision for everyone.”

My head felt like it might explode, but I managed to say, “How long before you were married?”

“A year.”

A
sister.
My mind raced in a million directions, most of them impossible, unimaginable. “You’re telling me I have a sister four years older than me?”

He nodded. “She’d like to meet you. Her name’s Sydney.”

“Sydney Mason,” I said, picturing the text that had come in the night he’d come home with Scarlet.
Sydney Mason.

Albert didn’t question how I knew her full name. He merely stood there, watching me.

“How long have you known?” I asked.

“What?”

“That she was coming”—my voice broke on my next word—“here?”

He furrowed his brow, looking guilty. “A few weeks.”

“Weeks? Are you kidding me?”

He hasn’t been the same lately,
Jackson had said.

“Before you hit your head?” I asked.

He nodded.

Distracted.

“Where is she now?”

“Staying at the Leroy Inn.” He started to say something else, but stopped short.

“What?”

“With her daughter.”

I was under the impression he had a granddaughter.

Anger roared inside me—anger I’d fought to control for as long as I could remember, anger fired anew by the reality that I’d been lied to my entire life.

“She’s the daughter you talked to Jackson about, isn’t she? Not me.”

And then it hit me, the reality of why Albert Jones had quit his job and come back to Paris. To be with her. With them. Not me.

My chest tightened, my head hurt, and panic filled me. I had to get away from him. Now.

I moved to stand, but went dizzy.

He reached for my arm to steady me, but I pushed him hard. He staggered backward, falling into my mother’s azalea.

His revelation had shattered every illusion I’d held—that he’d come back to Paris for me, that he’d painted Mom’s chairs for me, that he’d gardened for me, bought a fish for me—

“Was it all for
them
?”

Venom seethed through my words, and he took a backward step. He swallowed, his throat visibly working.

“I trusted you,” I continued. “I let you into this house and back into my life, and you weren’t even here for
me
!” I screamed, my voice shrill and unrecognizable, rage tearing through me.

Every broken piece that had begun to mend inside me shattered apart.

I turned away.

“Destiny,” he said, as if he might actually try to explain himself. But I wasn’t having it. I didn’t want to hear another word from his lying lips.

“You bastard,” I said, fighting against a wave of nausea that came out of nowhere.

And then I was walking, as fast as I could, headed anywhere but where he was.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Although I thought about running straight to Jessica or Marguerite, I found myself headed for Lookout Rock instead.

I needed to calm down before I could face the crowd at the café, and I had to believe Marguerite had kept the truth from me all these years as well.

She’d been my mother’s closest friend since first grade. Surely she knew about the pregnancy and the adoption. And she’d never told me.

Why?

I trembled so hard I thought I must be about to collapse.

Aside from a handful of joggers, the park along Front Street was deserted. I made my way to the giant boulder and scaled the side. I sat hugging my knees to my chest, the smooth stone cool beneath the seat of my jeans. I shivered, even though the morning had dawned and the air was warming quickly.

I stared at the Delaware rushing past and tried to sort my thoughts, finding them too random, too surreal to grasp.

I had a sister—a sister my parents had placed for adoption a year before they married.

Denial battled the anger that held such a firm grip on my heart. Maybe Albert was mistaken. Maybe he’d made up the entire story. Maybe he’d lied.

Maybe he was looking for a way out of my life, and this was it.

In a town as small as Paris, surely someone would have remembered my mother’s pregnancy. Someone would have told me before now if what Albert said was true.

But what if it was?

What if Sydney Mason
was
my sister?

Somewhere out there she’d lived a life I knew nothing about.

I was thinking crazy, desperate thoughts—thoughts I had to struggle to control, thoughts I needed to escape.

I slid down from the rock and headed toward the café, wanting the reassuring presence of my best friend, needing the familiar buzz of conversation and the security of the known, wanting to ease the disbelief and sadness spiraling through my mind.

A few moments later, after Jessica had poured my coffee, she leaned close across the counter. “You look like hell,” she said. “Want to come in the back and tell me what’s up?”

And so I did. She remained silent, her eyes going wide, then narrow, as I sat at her desk and she perched beside me, absorbing every detail of that morning’s explosion with Albert.

When I ran out of words and fell silent, she took my hands in hers and held them tight.

“Your mother never told you, either. I know you were young when she died, but she and your dad must have had their reasons. Maybe they were smart enough to know they weren’t ready for parenthood, and maybe they didn’t want to disrupt Sydney’s life once they were.”

Jessica’s words struck me.

I’d been so ready to place the full blame on my father I’d blocked all thought of my mother’s role. The one person I’d trusted all my life had never told me the truth.

Why?

The pain in my heart became almost more than I could bear.

“Listen.” Jessica tightened her grip on my hands. “I have two customers who came in a few minutes before you did. One of them was here last night. Your dad sat with her for a little bit.”

“Where?” I asked, my heart rate quickening.

She took my hand and led me out of her office and into the kitchen. Together we peered through the small window in the swinging door.

“Over by the wall.” Jessica pointed toward the farthest row of booths. “She’s got a child with her, so take your time and think this through before you do something you might regret.”

I started to argue with her, but she knew me better than most anyone else in my life.

She put her hands on my shoulders and held me back momentarily. “If that’s your sister out there, Albert may not be the only one in your family looking for second chances.”

Second chances.

I couldn’t begin to process that now. All I could do was stare in utter disbelief at the young woman who bore such a striking resemblance to my mother, I found my head momentarily empty of thought.

Sydney Mason.

My sister.

She’d lived a completely different life somewhere else—different parents, different friends, different town. Yet there she sat.

We were part of the same, yet completely separate.

Did she have a good life? A happy childhood? Were her parents as mesmerizing as mine had been during the first ten years of my life?

I could still close my eyes and picture my parents dancing in the garden. Albert singing, my mother twirling, laughing as she held my hands and spun us as one, spinning, spinning, spinning—until we all fell down.

Had Sydney Mason known that sort of happiness? That sort of joy?

And why was she here? Why now?

I put my hand to the door to press it open, and Jessica whispered in my ear, cautioning me. “Think before you speak.”

I pushed through the door and walked toward the booth, vaguely aware of several voices calling out greetings.

Reacting to the sound of my name, the woman lifted her head, recognition lighting instantly in her dark eyes.

She watched warily as I approached, as I extended my hand.

The young girl sitting across from her kept her head down, focused on some sort of drawing. Her thick hair had been tamed haphazardly in a slender headband, and I flashed on a memory of my mother attempting the same style on my hair once upon a time.

“Destiny Jones,” I said to the woman. “I’ve heard . . . about you.”

She took my hand without standing, her smile forced, her eyes nervous. “Sydney Mason,” she said, her voice almost identical to my own.

Looking into her eyes was like looking into my past. Bedtime tuck-ins. Shared laughter. Long-cherished games of peekaboo.

My mother’s ghost reached into my heart and squeezed tight, threatening to wring me dry.

A tremor ran through me, a combination of disbelief and anger, relief, and shock. “I just wanted to say hello,” I said, barely able to speak. “Since you’re here,” I added awkwardly.

We stared at each other. She made no offer for me to join them, and I didn’t ask.

Her dark hair fell across her shoulders, stopping just below her shoulder blades. She was as slight as I was strong. She tapped the tabletop nervously after she shook my hand, her fingers long and slender. Delicate.

I could only wonder how different my life might have been if I’d grown up with a sister.

I stared at the same cheekbones and chin I saw reflected each morning in the mirror, and I knew. Albert hadn’t lied.

I had never really been alone.

The woman looked nervously from me to the young girl sitting across the table from her, the child’s head still dipped low as she sketched an image on the back of the place mat.

The daughter. My niece.

The girl looked up at me briefly, checking her surroundings before she returned to her art. In that split second I was transported to my past and my own young face, complete with chunky blue glasses.

“This is my daughter, Ella,” Sydney said. “Ella, this is Ms. Jones.”

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Jones,” the girl said, a forced smile showing two crooked front teeth.

“Nice to meet you, Ella,” I parroted, my knees suddenly feeling like jelly. “I . . . have to go to work . . . but I wanted to introduce myself,” I said, shifting my attention back to Sydney. “Perhaps we’ll see each other again.”

“I’d like that,” she said.

And then I bolted from the restaurant, not stopping to say good-bye to Jessica or to thank her for listening, wanting only to get outside, where I could breathe, and to my shop, where I could escape.

My father showed up with sandwiches from the café a little after noon.

“Get out.” I pointed at the door as soon as he crossed the threshold.

He set the take-out containers on one of my worktables, but didn’t turn to leave.

“No.” His features tensed, as though he were struggling to push through a wall. “I was wrong and I should have told you, but you need to listen to me now.”

“Listen to you?” I couldn’t believe the man’s nerve. “I don’t have to listen to you ever again. And why would I? You’ve done nothing but cast me aside all my life.”

“Let me make this up to you.”

I crossed to the door, held it wide, and pointed to the stairs. “Get out. Now.”

But Albert held his ground.

“I wanted to tell you years ago, but I’d made a promise to your mother.”

Now he’d gone too far.

“She didn’t want you to know,” he continued.

“Don’t you dare blame this on Mom.”

He opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated, visibly composing himself.

“Your sister was well loved and well cared for. It was everything your mother had wanted. We thought it was better for everyone if you lived your separate lives.”

This was unbelievable. Then I realized the ramifications of what he’d said.

“You stayed in touch?”

He shook his head. “Not really. They sent photos every now and again, but I never communicated with her until your sister reached out . . .” His voice trailed away. “Until two years ago,” he finished.

“So you stopped by to see me once a year at Christmas, but became pen pals with her?”

He stared at me, his expression blank. Had he never fully thought his actions through? “I suppose I did.”

I studied him, the man I’d thought I was beginning to know again, and realized I didn’t know him at all. Sadness crept into my anger, but I shoved it away. I was not about to go sentimental or weak. Not now.

I grabbed my anger and held it close, knowing it was the only way to protect myself.

“All these years,” I said. “I thought you couldn’t possibly do anything worse than what you’d already done, but this . . .
You knew
, and you never told me.”

I moved toward him swiftly, but he held his ground. “How could you do that? How could you let me think I was alone in this world when I wasn’t?”

I pushed against his chest, and he faltered, taking a backward step to regain his balance.

“And now you knew she was coming here, to my town, and you still didn’t tell me.” I paced wildly. “Screw you, Albert Jones. You can go to hell.”

He nodded, visibly swallowing. “I should go.”

Moisture welled in my eyes—tears of anger, heartbreak, and frustration. I couldn’t understand what the man who was supposed to be my father had been thinking.

I dropped my gaze to the floor, refusing to let him see my emotion.

I’d let him back in, and he’d done it again. He’d taken my heart and then thrown me away.

“If you’d told me before you came, even when you first got here, I might not hate you.”

“But now?”

Disbelief tangled with my rage. “What do you think?”

He nodded once, stepped back outside, and closed the door.

I waited until his footfalls went silent, until he was truly gone. Then I sank to the floor of my shop and cried, letting the sorrow and the heartache and the pain of his confession wash over me.

And then I realized Albert Jones wasn’t the only person who owed me an explanation.

“Did you know I had a sister?” I asked Marguerite after I found her on her patio adding touches of light to a still-life canvas.

I’d left my shop not long after Albert’s visit, dropping off the lunch he’d brought with the florist downstairs before I headed for Third Street.

“I did,” she said with a nod. “And based on the argument you had this morning with your father and the hum of gossip downtown, I’d say you now know too.”

The bottom fell out of my stomach.

For the majority of my life, Marguerite had cushioned my blows, soothed my wounded spirit, and encouraged me to be strong.

Finding out she’d kept this secret from me during all the years I’d known her was almost more than I could fathom. I expected betrayal from Albert. I had never expected it from Marguerite.

Her features softened. “I’m sorry you found out like you did. I’m sorry Albert didn’t give you a little more warning.”

“I can’t believe you never told me.”

“The funny thing about children,” she said, “is that no matter how old they become, they fail to realize their parents had lives before they were born. Your mother had dreams, and heartaches, and mistakes, and decisions bigger than any young girl should have to make.”