Broken Pieces: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

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    Today’s outfit included a pair of vivid lime-green Capri pants, a loudly flowered top, and enough chunky jewelry to open her own boutique over on Artisan’s Alley.
    “No movement in or out,” she said, in her best secret operative voice.
    I knew her well enough to know she was trying to cool my anger before I walked through the door. After all, she’d spent the last two decades cooling my anger.
    “Did you get a look at the driver?”
    She nodded. “Young guy. Little bit older than you.” Her eyes widened. “Handsome.”
    I waved as I hurried past. As long as he was here to take my father back to New York, I didn’t care if the guy looked like the Creature from the Black Lagoon.
    As I pushed through the front door, a tall, apparently frustrated man paced back and forth across the width of the sitting room.
    Albert sat in his chair, appearing more annoyed than anything. His coloring had gone red and splotchy, and for one quick moment fear flickered through me. Was he all right?
    I shook off the question and focused.
    “What’s going on?” I asked loudly as I stepped inside.
    The man was as polished as his car was sleek.
    He appeared to be several years older than I was, yet his dark, close-cropped hair showed not a trace of gray. He wore crisp blue jeans, a T-shirt, and a tweed jacket, even though it had to be close to ninety degrees outside.
    “Jackson Harding,” the new arrival said, giving my hand one quick pump. He emitted an air of familiarity despite the fact he was a stranger standing uninvited in the middle of my home. “You must be Albert’s daughter. Your father speaks of you often.”
    The man’s statement took me by such surprise my anger slipped, and the warmth in his eyes left me momentarily speechless, but I held my ground. Found my voice. “And you are?”
    “Your father’s manager.” He gestured grandly to Albert, who remained sitting, arms crossed, eyebrows locked in a fierce scowl. “Surely he’s spoken of me,” Jackson continued.
    “Mr. Harding”—I shrugged and fisted my hands on my hips—“my father hasn’t spoken to me about anything substantial in years.”
    Surprise flashed across Jackson Harding’s classic movie-star features, yet he quickly regained his composure.
    The flush in my father’s cheeks, however, had morphed from a rosy pink to bloodred.
    Jackson raked a hand across his face. “Has your father shared with you that he moves closer to breach of contract each day he misses rehearsal?”
    “Do tell.” Here was a topic directly in line with my desire to end Albert’s visit.
    “Your father is scheduled to open on Broadway next week in a Howard Carroll classic, yet he’s chosen this moment to return to his roots.”
    I nodded. “I’m sure he’d be happy to drive back with you right now.”
    My father stood, shooting me a sharp glare. “I owe those people nothing.”
    His hostile tone stunned me.
    “You owe those people the return of your signing bonus if you don’t go through with this performance,” Jackson said, his voice steady, soothing.
    My father waved one hand dismissively, then turned his back. “Fine. Send back the money.”
    I may not have known much about my father, but I knew he took his reputation in the business seriously. Based on the rising color in Jackson’s cheeks, my father’s words had left him similarly surprised.
    “If you are truly unable to fulfill your contract, Albert, I will, but you haven’t even tried.”
    My father pulled himself taller, sucked in his gut, and spoke slowly and deliberately. “There are some things in life more important than money or reputation.”
    “Like what?” I asked before Jackson had a chance to reply.
    He turned to me, then pointed to the small, framed photos that sat on the table beside the chair. “Like family.” He gave an exaggerated shrug. “Perhaps there comes a time in every man’s life when he feels compelled to return home.”
    Home?
    Paris hadn’t been his home in