Broken Pieces: A Novel (24 page)

CHAPTER FORTY

My birthday arrived a month later, but I couldn’t bring myself to celebrate. Instead, Ella and I walked along the river, continuing the tradition her mother and I had started.

My work continued on the opera house renovation. After the paneling reveal and Sydney’s death, the work had become therapeutic for me.

Ella worked most afternoons with me in the shop, and Albert had become a pro at sanding and applying stain.

Sydney would be proud.

My main priority, however, had shifted to school forms, lunches, homework, and braiding hair.

When he wasn’t with me in the shop, or working on our garden, Albert gave acting workshops down at the opera house. Nan Michaels had convinced him to join the garden club, and he sat for the occasional painting in Marguerite’s backyard.

While Marguerite claimed she was working on her portrait skills, the laughter I heard made me suspect their sessions were more about reminiscing than they were about actual painting. Their truce had finally allowed them to leave the shadows of the past behind.

Jackson Harding had taken to visiting Paris every weekend. He’d stay at the inn and take Ella to brunch at the Paris River Café on Sunday mornings. He’d sit in on Albert’s acting classes, and he’d watch me work.

I’d grown to enjoy his visits and his company, and although I’d had little dating experience, I was smart enough to know the man had ulterior motives. Thank goodness.

We’d marked Sydney’s grave with a custom-ordered stone. Not gray. Pale pearl, engraved with the image of a mother and daughter, hands joined, spinning.

“I keep forgetting she’s gone,” Ella said to me now, her hand tucked into mine as we walked. “I wake up and I forget. Then I remember.”

And while I wished I had words of wisdom or comfort or something to make sense of the senseless, I could only sigh and offer my love. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “Me, too, sweet pea. Me, too.”

A broken rock caught my eye. Slate gray. Someone had drawn on it in black pen, the mark looking like a teardrop or a semicircle, then positioned it beneath one of the many giant oaks that lined the bike path.

I pointed. “Is that one of yours?”

Ella scurried to pick it up, her sad pigtails flying in the early December chill. My hair skills needed work. Lots and lots of work.

She plucked the stone from where it had sat, turning it slowly in her hands, studying its every crack and crevice.

“When did you leave that one?” I asked.

“I didn’t.”

“Maybe your idea’s catching on.”

She gave a quick lift and drop of her shoulders and smiled, her moment of happiness so genuine it stole my breath. Love welled inside me, an ache deeper than I’d ever imagined possible.

The farther we moved away from Sydney’s death, the more Ella let herself smile.

I knew how she felt. I remembered how the ache of losing my mother had never gone away, and I knew the ache of losing Sydney would never completely disappear. But in time it would fade, and Ella would learn to live with the shadows she carried.

Ella pointed to the next giant tree. “Another one!”

She took off running and grabbed the second stone.

I closed the gap between us, and Ella worked to make the two stones fit together. While each had been broken at some point, they were not a match, likely coming from two separate larger stones. Yet, when Ella held them just right, the marks on each aligned to form a familiar shape.

My heart caught inexplicably, and I wondered when I’d morphed from tough guy to sentimentalist.

“A heart,” Ella breathed on a whisper.

“A heart,” I repeated.

“Wonder who left it?” Her dark gaze shimmered with life and excitement.

A wave of suspicion creeped through me. “Are you sure you didn’t leave these?”

“No, silly.” Ella bent at the waist and laughed as though I’d said the funniest thing ever. Then she straightened, handed me the stones, and pointed over my shoulder. “He did.”

For a split second, I wondered who she meant.

But then he spoke. “I had a little help.” The deep timbre of my father’s voice rumbled at the exact moment he squeezed my shoulder. “Happy birthday.”

He’d remembered.

The grin on my niece’s face appeared blurry beyond the sudden surge of moisture in my eyes.

“I’m going to go talk to the ducks,” she said. “Then Grandpa Albert says we’re going out for cake.”

“Don’t go too close to the edge,” I called out as she raced away. Then I looked down at the small stones. “These are from you?”

Dad nodded, then he shrugged. Both moves sincere, without a trace of melodrama.

My heart sang.

“The rocks reminded me of us”—he pointed back and forth between us—“broken together.”

I furrowed my brows, confused.

But my father simply smiled—a lovely, in-the-moment smile. “We’re broken. But we’re together.” He blushed, noticeably embarrassed at his own display of emotion. “You. Me. Ella. Our family.”

I held up my hands, cradling the two stones and the awkward heart they formed. “Broken together.”

My eyes filled with tears again, and I flashed back on my life before Albert, and Ella, and Sydney. The life in which I’d shut down my dreams of family, shut down my memories of how joyful life could be.

Then I gave silent thanks for my new life . . . and this moment.

Marguerite’s words from my childhood bounced through my brain.

You are enough.

And while that was still true, maybe this was better.

We
were enough.

EPILOGUE

My father’s garden exploded in color the following spring. Tulips. Daffodils. Hyacinths.

Even the daisies he’d planted grew tall and lush, promising blossoms as soon as the weather warmed enough to coax them forth.

I found one of Ella’s superhero stones early one morning as it pushed up through the dirt next to a freshly sprouted tulip.

The teal on the simple stick figure’s mask had faded, but her teal ballet slippers remained bright. She stood on her toes, arms over her head. If I had ever taken ballet, or if I had ever paid attention to dance terms, I might have known what the name of this particular superhero’s position was. But I hadn’t. And I didn’t. So I gave it the first name that popped into my head.

Joy.

That was what Sydney had felt when she’d danced with Ella. And that was what Ella had felt when she’d decorated the stone.

Joy.

Ella had forever captured the emotion in a stick figure painted on a stone. And there she stood—triumphant. Emerging from the soil beside all the new life Dad had planted.

Hope welled up inside me, pushing away a measure of my lingering grief.

Perhaps life was like a garden. Even though my mother’s flowers had been long dead and the soil had appeared barren, love and time had brought the space back to life.

My mother’s azalea, the shrub that hadn’t bloomed in twenty years, burst forth in vivid fuchsia flowers.

My father had been right. Some plants did sit dormant for years before they bloomed brighter than ever before.

And Ella’s stone sat in the middle of it all.

Joy.

Where my life—and house—had once been empty, it now sat filled to overflowing, and I suspected that was Sydney’s greatest gift of all.

Through her dying, she’d taught me how to live.

Where my life had once been nothing but pieces—Dad, Sydney, Ella, Marguerite, Jackson—it was now whole.

There were days in which I caught myself thinking Sydney had been lost, but the truth was, she’d been found.

Her love had united our crazy, fractured family.

Our broken pieces fit.

We weren’t perfect. We weren’t smooth. But we belonged.

In the end, wasn’t that all that mattered?

We’re all just walking each other home.

—Ram Dass

RESOURCES

SYMPTOMS OF OVARIAN CANCER

Ovarian cancer is difficult to detect, especially in the early stages. This is partly due to the fact that these two small, almond-shaped organs are deep within the abdominal cavity, one on each side of the uterus. These are some of the potential signs and symptoms of ovarian cancer:

• Bloating
  
• Pelvic or abdominal pain
  
• Trouble eating or feeling full quickly
  
• Feeling the need to urinate urgently or often
  

Other symptoms of ovarian cancer can include:

• Fatigue
  
• Upset stomach or heartburn
  
• Back pain
  
• Pain during sex
  
• Constipation or menstrual changes
  

If symptoms persist for more than two weeks, see your physician.

Source: National Ovarian Cancer Coalition,
www.ovarian.org

As I look out in the future, I dream of a time when women of all ages will have a reliable early-detection test for ovarian cancer and more humane treatment for those women with late-stage ovarian cancer.

—Colleen Drury

Source: Colleen’s Dream,
www.colleensdream.org

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

For Ingrid Tornari. With any luck at all, this book will release on your birthday. I only wish you were here to see it. Thank you seems so inadequate for the love and friendship you brought to my life. I miss the sound of your laughter more than you will ever know. I miss your faith. I miss your gorgeous smile. Thank you for showing me how to live.

For Desiree Hernandez, thank you for holding my hand on some of the saddest days of my life. Thank you also for encouraging me as I struggled to put this book into words.

For Danielle Marshall, thank you for giving me a chance to tell this story the way I wanted to tell it. The end result would not have been possible without your patience and your belief.

For Tiffany Yates Martin, thank you for your wise guidance and thoughtful contributions. Never have the words “I couldn’t have done this without you” been more true. You rock.

For Dan, thank you once again for supporting your crazy writer wife as she hid away in the office banging on the keyboard. You officially win the award for the husband most willing to order takeout . . . again. I love you.

For Annie, thank you for all the quiet moments you sat beside me in the office, keeping me company. Thank you also for the movie breaks, the dance parties, and the expertly prepared snacks. You, kid, are one in a million. I am the luckiest mom in the world. I love you.

For Mom, thank you for your unfailing support and your continued belief in my dream. Thank you for teaching me to never quit. Your voice in my head got me through this one. How lucky am I to call you Mom? I love you.

Finally, for my readers, thank you for your ongoing support and encouragement. Your notes, emails, and friendships fill me with gratitude. While Destiny’s journey may be darker than my previous stories, I hope her love, as well as her hope, will stay with you long after you turn the last page.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kathleen Long is the author of sixteen novels in the genres of women’s fiction, contemporary romance, and romantic suspense. Kathleen has won a RIO Award and is a two-time winner of the Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence. She has also been nominated for a RITA
^®
Award. Her additional honors include award nominations for National Readers’ Choice, HOLT Medallion, Booksellers’ Best, and Book Buyers Best, as well as appearances on the
USA Today
and
Wall Street Journal
bestseller lists. A native of Wilmington, Delaware, she now divides her time between suburban Philadelphia and the Jersey Shore. When Kathleen is not plotting her next book or teaching creative writing, she spends her time bribing her tween to pick up her clothes and begging the dog to heel. Connect with Kathleen at
www.kathleenlong.com
.