Broken Pieces: A Novel (10 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The next morning, Sydney deposited Ella at my shop.

I’d stopped for coffee and a bag of doughnuts—pink iced with sprinkles. Ella, however, wasn’t interested.

“I don’t eat pink things,” she said without making eye contact.

She’d come prepared for a long haul, with several bags of Goldfish crackers, a bottle of water, and a gigantic Harry Potter novel.

“Which one is that?” I asked, pointing my ruler at her book.

“The seventh,” she said, drawing the last two letters of the word ‘seventh’ into their own syllable.

“Is it good?” I asked.

“Quite,” she replied.

Quite.

I laughed to myself. What a pip.

“I have to plan some cuts for today,” I explained. “But I thought you might like to help me later, or design something of your own to make.”

I’d planned to give her a tour of my shop and offer her everything she might need—pencils, paper, bathroom.

But Ella had already turned her attention to her book, her head buried between the pages, glasses pushed up on the top of her head, seemingly determined to interact with me as little as possible.

I understood exactly what she was doing. I’d once been a master of appearing uninterested when I was, in fact, taking in every detail.

As much as I wanted to know more about my niece, I decided to take my time. After all, she probably wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of being left with a stranger for the morning.

“Are those for distance?” I asked, leaning back in the chair at my drafting table.

She looked up without moving her head, the effect borderline chilling, yet I smiled.

She could pretend all she wanted, but I had a fairly good sense that Ella Mason was as curious about me as I was about her.

“Are what for distance?” she asked.

“Your glasses.”

She nodded, then dismissed me with a dropped gaze.

While I was willing to go slow, I wasn’t willing to give up.

“How do you like Paris so far?” I asked.

Another lift of the eyes. “The people seem very nice,” she answered. Eyes dropped.

“And Mrs. Leroy’s bed-and-breakfast? Comfortable?”

“Quite.”

I grinned, turning my attention down to the grid I’d drawn of the panel designs I intended to cut, piece, glue, and pin.

“Are you a loner?” Ella asked, taking me completely by surprise.

Was I? “I suppose I am.” I shrugged. “Who said that?”

She sucked in her lower lip. “Nobody. Just wondered.”

“Are you a loner?” I asked.

“Quite,” she replied, and I smiled again.

Ella tucked her wild, dark-brown hair behind her ears as she read, the thick waves fighting her and slipping free every few minutes.

“Do you want a ball cap?” I asked.

This warranted a full lift of her chin so she could squint at me directly.

“For your hair.” I pointed to my own head and the ball cap that kept my hair in a ponytail and out of my face.

Ella frowned, obviously considering my offer. Then she simply said, “No, thank you.”

“OK.”

I returned to my project and she to her book until a few minutes later, when my glasses slipped down my nose as I marked measurements for a test cut.

As I pushed the frames back up to the bridge of my nose, Ella’s pert voice broke through the silence of the shop.

“How old were you when you started wearing glasses?”

I looked up from my work.

I remembered the day my mother took me out of school and to the eye doctor’s office two towns over.

We’d stopped at a roadside stand on the way home and licked small twists of frozen custard as trails of chocolate and vanilla found their way over the waffle cones and down our hands.

This time, instead of brushing away the memory, I held it close and met Ella’s waiting stare.

“Second grade,” I answered. “You?”

“Same.”

She smiled ever so slightly, and I wondered if we’d forged our first common bond. One tiny corner of the armor I kept anchored around my heart cracked.

By the time Sydney arrived a few hours later, Ella had watched me make test cuts to tool the scrollwork for the stage façade. I’d let her guide the saw, and I taught her how to select the necessary bits to produce the final product.

She’d warmed to me gradually, telling me anecdotes about the home and school they’d left behind.

And while I was out of practice in working alongside someone, I had to admit the nine-year-old and I made a pretty good team.

“I just need to use the ladies’ room before we head home,” Sydney said to Ella a short while after she’d arrived to pick her up.

Ella had proudly shown her mother our work, and Sydney had seemed pleased, although a bit distracted.

When she hadn’t emerged from the restroom several minutes later, I made a show of walking toward my wall of photos to make sure there wasn’t some sort of problem with the door lock or plumbing.

Ella sketched a drawing of the old suspension bridge over the Delaware, her lines precise and her strokes confident, apparently unfazed by her mother’s absence.

“Sydney,” I called out, next to the bathroom door. “You all right in there?”

The door popped open, and Sydney emerged, frantically scratching at the top of her head.

I frowned, curiosity dancing through me.

She made a face. “Sorry, it’s driving me crazy.”

I narrowed my gaze. “What?”

“This itching.” She pivoted to look back to the bathroom mirror. “My head’s been itching like crazy all day.”

She walked out to where I stood, her eyes bracketed by frustration.

“How was your thing today?” I asked, not wanting to pry, but wondering exactly where she’d gone for three hours when she’d only been in town for a handful of days.

“Good,” she answered. “It was a doctor’s appointment. And it was good.”

“For the itching?” I asked, knowing her health was none of my business.

But Sydney reached to the nape of her neck, hooked her fingers into her hair, and pulled her wig free. She shook the dark hair as she removed it, then ran one hand over the hair beneath.

Wavy and short, Sydney’s coarse hair sat thin against her scalp.

I recognized the look, the sight tapping into one of my earliest memories, tucked away long ago into the far recesses of my mind.

In Sydney’s eyes, I saw the same fatigue I remembered from my mother’s eyes.

Our
mother’s eyes.

She said nothing as she raised her gaze to mine, watching for my reaction.

“You’re sick,” I said, barely able to believe what I was seeing.

Sydney nodded.

“Cancer?”

“Ovarian. Stage four.”

My head spun momentarily, but I held on, fighting for composure even as I longed to sink onto a stool and press my hands over my ears.

Not cancer.

Not again.

“Second recurrence,” she continued. “Before I left Ohio I made sure to lock in appointments with a new oncologist here.”

“That’s where you were today?” My throat had gone tight, and my calm question sounded phony and forced.

Questions scrambled for position in my mind. Was she in active treatment? Was she tired? Did she feel sick? How long would it take her hair to grow back? Was she cured? Did she need help?

Tears appeared in Sydney’s dark eyes, then disappeared quickly as she corrected her response, bit down her emotions.

She waved her hand apologetically. “Yes.”

My heart pounded in my chest, a fresh wave of disbelief threatening to pull me under.

“I have another appointment tomorrow,” Sydney went on, oblivious. “Up in the city. New clinical trial.”

I studied her, looking for heartbreak in her eyes, defeat in the set of her shoulders, but finding neither. Nothing but serenity.

Meanwhile, my new reality—the reality that included a sister and niece—shifted into one that included a sister with cancer.

Just like my mother.

Suddenly the very heartache I’d vowed to never again allow into my life stared me in the face.

“Do you need a ride into the city?” I asked, going through the motions of maintaining normalcy, when there was nothing normal about the moment at all.

“Ella, honey,” Sydney called out. “We should get going. I’m sure Miss Destiny’s got a lot of work to do.” Then to me, “I’m OK, but thanks. Albert’s going to drive me in my car.” Then she cut a look to where Ella still sat sketching. “I don’t suppose you could take Ella for another day? It shouldn’t take long.”

“Of course,” I said. Then, even though my mind was reeling from the bombshell she’d dropped, I added, “My pleasure.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Albert and I walked together to the Leroy Inn the next morning. He, to pick up Sydney and her car. Me, to pick up Ella.

He’d been at a garden-club meeting the night before, and I’d gone back to my shop after eating a quick dinner. I’d worked until well after midnight, and Albert’s closed bedroom door had shown no sign of light by the time I’d returned home.

Even though I was still hurt and angry, I took full advantage of our time together that morning to ease my curiosity.

“Did you know she has cancer?” I asked.

My father nodded. “That’s why she reached out to me. To find out about the family medical history.”

My mother had died of cervical cancer, and I wondered if there might not be some genetic link.

“And you suggested she come to Paris?”

He rolled his neck, as if he could deflect my line of questioning. “She mentioned how alone she was, and I thought this town might do her good.”

“Did you ever think, at any point there, that perhaps you should have filled me in or sought my opinion?”

“Sorry.” He spoke so softly, I barely heard him.

“Is there anything you
have
been up-front with me about since you moved back to Paris?”

He studied me for a moment, his eyes sad. Then we walked the rest of the way to our destination in silence.

A short while later, Sydney and Albert were on their way to New York, and nine-year-old Ella Mason and I were strolling through Paris almost as though we’d done so countless times before.

I’d worked late the night before so that I could show her around town today, perhaps stopping by the house and introducing her to Marguerite.

We looped down Artisan’s Alley, then past the opera house. I pointed out the river and the park that ran along its banks as she hopped from cobblestone to cobblestone, doing her best to avoid the cracks.

She told me about their home back in Akron, but for the most part remained reserved.

I’d brought her a Trenton Thunder baseball cap, and this time she’d expertly pulled her ponytail through the opening in the back of it and started walking beside me, peak pulled low.

We stopped at Jessica’s café for bagels to go, then, instead of heading for my shop, we headed for Third Street and my home.

She’d seen where I worked. I thought she might like to see where I lived.

I waited for her on the top step of the house as she lollygagged by Albert’s garden, commenting on the azalea and asking specifics about what had been planted.

I shrugged. “You’ll have to ask Albert when he and your mother get back.” Then I added, “Do you like gardening?”

She mimicked my shrug, then climbed the stairs.

She was lanky, with legs like a colt, and slender, as though the rest of her body hadn’t caught up to her height. Just the sight of her inside my house seemed unbelievable, a mirage that could vanish without warning.

She cut her eyes at me periodically as she roamed from room to room, corner to corner, trailing her fingertips along table edges and the backs of chairs.

“Did you grow up in this house?” she asked.

“All my life.”

“Lucky.”

I felt sorry for her then, wondering how it must feel to be uprooted from your childhood home. “Were you always in the same house in Akron?”

Ella pulled a face. “We moved a lot. Apartments. We lived with my grandparents for a little while.” She smiled slightly, sadly. “That was nice.”

She stepped into the sitting room and came to a standstill in front of my favorite pictures of my mother and grandmother.

She pointed to the photo of my mother. “Is this her?” she asked, her voice going soft.

“My mother, yes,” I said. “Your mom said she explained everything to you?”

Ella nodded. “Your mother placed my mother for adoption.”

She spoke the words as if her mother’s adoption had been a good thing, and I realized I wasn’t sure why a person would expect anything different. I’d imagine adoption into a loving family was just about the best thing that could happen to a baby, and for all I knew, Sydney’s childhood had been far happier than my own.

Ella faced me, tearing her gaze from my mother’s beautiful smile. “You never met my Mom-Mom Rose, but she was the best. She always smelled like lemons.”

I worked to maintain eye contact when I wanted nothing more than to look away from the child’s intense brown gaze, suddenly uncomfortable with my thoughts and questions about what it might have been like to have been raised by a mother, a father, and grandparents.

“She was cool,” Ella said. “So was Pop-Pop.”

The kid had a certain something that came solely from being raised with confidence and love. Sydney and her parents had obviously done their job well.

“They died in a motorcycle accident.”

She spoke the words as though she’d said them countless times before, flatly and without emotion.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too,” she said.

She hesitated for a moment, her unrelenting stare never leaving my own. I feared she might broach the subject of her mother’s health, but she turned away to resume her meandering exploration of my home, slowing only when she came to the bookshelves that lined the hall between my dining room and kitchen.

“Do you like to read?” I asked, wondering how in the hell anyone carried on a conversation with a kid.

Ella exhaled and rolled her eyes, and I remembered the tome she’d brought with her the day before.

I had to laugh. “Right. Dumb question. Follow me,” I said, stepping toward the kitchen. “Did you know Mr. Albert got you a fish?” I asked, stealing my father’s thunder and not caring in the least.

“Grandpa Albert?”

Grandpa Albert.

The phrase took me by surprise, but I shook off the reaction I wanted to have, the one where I raised my voice and shouted, “Are you kidding me?”

Instead, I plastered on a smile and said, “Yes. Grandpa Albert.” I held out a hand. “Want to see her?”

“My momma used to have hair like yours,” Ella said as we cleared the bottom step and headed for the kitchen. “She even had a stripe like yours, except hers was blue.” She wrinkled her nose.

“But now she has shorter hair,” I said, one of those statements adults make to children when they really can’t think of anything but the obvious to say.

But Ella’s attention had been captured by the fish tank on the kitchen counter. “Scarlet,” she breathed on a gasp. “How did you get here?” Then she spun on me. “Is this Scarlet?”

Albert’s words bounced through my brain.
She looks like a Scarlet, don’t you think?

I nodded, at a loss to say anything more for fear I might blurt out the truth: that this was some random red fish her grandfather had brought home—zero relation to whatever fish she’d had back in Ohio.

Ella pressed her nose close to the aquarium wall, her cobalt-blue glasses brushing against the plastic. “I came home from camp and she was gone. Momma said sometimes the people we love have to go away, but here she is.” She tipped her head. “Though she looks a little different. Her water looks weird.”

“Maybe that’s it,” I said, pressing my palm to the small of her back. “New Jersey water is weird. Let’s go to the back patio and see if Marguerite is outside.”

“Who’s Marguerite?” she asked as we stepped out onto the patio. Then she said, “Whoa,” as she took in the fence and long expanse of yard.

I pointed over the fence. “There she is.”

Marguerite sat on a stool in one corner of her yard. Before her sat a blank canvas on an easel, and she stared at the stand of trees in the opposite corner of her yard, appearing to expect them to perform a miraculous trick. On a small table to her side sat a glass of lemonade, a bowl full of crayons, and a small dish of cookies.

“What is she doing?” Ella asked in a whisper so loud neighbors two blocks away must have heard her.

“She’s waiting for someone to come draw these trees,” Marguerite answered.

Ella gasped in surprise and I smiled, remembering what it felt like to be on the receiving end of Marguerite’s special brand of kindness.

“Do you think you might be able to help me?” Marguerite left her stool and sauntered over to where we stood, caught red-handed, peeking over the top of the fence.

“Me?” Ella asked, her voice climbing in hopeful expectation.

I hoisted her into my arms. She stiffened, but wrapped one arm around my neck.

“I don’t think she’s talking about me,” I said. “You ready?”

Ella nodded and I lifted her clear of the fence, setting her down on the other side.

“This is Miss Marguerite. Miss Marguerite, this is Ella.”

Marguerite folded one arm around her waist and hoisted the other in the air as she bowed dramatically. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Ella, and please, simply call me Marguerite.” Ella giggled, and somewhere deep inside me, a jagged edge mended. I remembered Marguerite saying the exact line to me back when I’d been even younger than Ella.

“What do I call you?” Ella said, turning her attention to me.

“What do you want to call me?” I asked.

She drew her dark brows tightly together. “Auntie D? I’ve never had an aunt before.”

My breath caught, and emotion knotted in my throat. “I’d love that.” Then I shrugged, doing my best to keep my voice from cracking. “I’ve never had a niece before.”

I’d filled Marguerite in on Sydney’s cancer, and her expression now was a mixture of pride and sadness, obviously hoping Ella and I might find our way to friendship together, even though heartbreak threatened down the road.

“Auntie D it is,” I said, and then I added, “I’ll be right over. I just have to walk around.”

Ella nodded as she pointed to the table. “Who are the cookies for?”

“Well, they’re for the visiting artist, of course,” Marguerite answered.

“And the lemonade?”

I was still grinning as I headed back through my house and out the front door. Albert had planted three new azalea bushes along the property line, and I had to give him credit for making the property look homier than it had in years, even though every addition he’d made—right down to the fish—had been for Sydney and Ella.

I hesitated before I stepped through Marguerite’s gate, wanting a moment to simply watch Ella in action. She chomped on a cookie while Marguerite gestured wildly to the trees.

I remembered many an afternoon spent sitting in almost the same spot, painting or coloring with Marguerite while my parents tended to the garden.

After Mom died and Dad left, I’d continued to sit in the same spot, coloring, yet somehow the moments were never again so magical as they had been before my world had shifted.

“These crayons are broken,” Ella said, her voice full of disappointment as she fished four fractured pieces out of the bowl on Marguerite’s table.

“Ah,” Marguerite said, giving a wiggle of her eyebrows, “that’s the funny thing about crayons.” She leaned close and met Ella’s gaze head-on. “Even the broken ones still color.”