Broken Pieces: A Novel by Kathleen Long

SEVEN
    I walked toward the Paris Inn Pub a little after seven o’clock that evening. The long afternoon sun had faded, and the night sky had begun to darken ahead of the coming sunset.
    I’d spent the afternoon working in my shop, hoping for word from the selection committee, but I’d received none. No matter, I had two contracted jobs that, while not huge by any stretch of the imagination, were creative enough to keep me occupied.
    I was used to spending much of my time alone, both at home and at work. Being alone didn’t bother me. As a matter of fact, I’d become fond of the silence.
    Tonight, however, I was looking forward to meeting Jessica at the pub for our weekly night out. I was ready for the noise and the laughter, the singing and the inevitable storytelling.
    Karaoke night at the pub was one of the many Paris traditions in which I found comfort. Even though I’d become what many people would call a loner, here in my hometown I was never truly alone.
    As I walked down the steps toward the pub entrance, I hesitated for just a moment to appreciate the history of the place.
    Perhaps it was the thought of how many others had passed through the massive oak doors before me—Pony Express riders, politicians, neighbors, friends. Perhaps it was the knowledge that once I passed through the doors I’d be surrounded by those who knew me best and welcomed me.
    Perhaps it was just that I needed the relief of being here, tonight, away from thoughts of Albert, thoughts of the opera house job, thoughts of my thoughts.
    Once inside, I made my way through the crowd, headed for my usual seat at the bar. Jessica stood waiting, and Jerry, the world’s best bartender, opened a bottle of my favorite beer as I approached. I gave him a nod of thanks and sat down.
    “Kids with your mom?” I asked Jessica.
    She nodded. “The plan was popcorn and movies for dinner.”
    I grinned. “Doesn’t sound half-bad.”
    Jerry, doing double duty, as he did every week, stepped to the microphone and called Jack Maxwell to the stage.
    As the local mortician launched into a halfway-decent rendition of the Beach Boys’ “California Girls,” Jessica leaned close. “You owe me over twenty-four hours of updates.” She tucked her long hair behind her ears. “Start talking.”
    I started with Jackson Harding’s visit, touched on the violet chairs and practicing lines with my dad, skipped all mention of the beer, and ended with my hot-dog lunch in Herald Square.
    A grin tugged at the corners of her mouth.
    “What?” I asked.
    “Sounds like a cozy lunch.” Jessica wiggled her brows. “Anything else you want to tell me about this guy?”
    “No,” I said, giving a quick lift and drop of my shoulders. “He’s just Albert’s manager.”
    But based on the amusement in her face, Jessica wasn’t buying a word. “Moving on,” she said. “Anything from the selection committee? My sources at the lunch counter tell me one presentation was a perfect fit.”
    I shook my head and took a long swallow of beer.
    “And Albert?”
    I met her gaze, warmed by the concern I saw there—genuine concern that had never wavered in all the time we’d been friends. “You may have been right about him wanting a second chance.”
    “What makes you say that?”
    “He gave up his apartment in the city. Said he wants to spend time here in Paris.”
    “Whoa.” She sat back against the bar as if I’d dropped a bomb on her lap. “How do you feel about that?”
    I squeezed my eyes shut, but before I could answer, the noise level in the pub fell to almost nothing. Jessica tapped my knee. “Look.”
    In the doorway, looking more than a little bit lost, stood my father.
    I held my breath, expecting a rush to greet him. A solid measure of surprise slid through me when only a handful of people stepped forward.
    The music level rose with the next performance, and the conversation level returned to normal.
    Albert shook hands with the three men that had stepped