Broken Pieces: A Novel Read Online Free PDF

two decades.
    Anger burst to life inside me. How dare he stand here and pontificate about home as though his life here had mattered?
    “This isn’t your home,” I said. “You made that abundantly clear twenty years ago.”
    Albert looked as though I’d slapped him, a reaction I was sure he’d perfected in one role or another.
    Jackson, however, jumped through the window I’d opened.
    “Your daughter is correct,” Harding said. “New York is your home. Broadway is your home. I understand if you’re nervous about the time you’ve missed because of the accident, but they aren’t going to wait for you much longer.”
    Annoyance simmered in my father’s eyes, an annoyance I’d seen in my own reflection many times. “I do not get nervous.”
    His words echoed the internal dialog I’d had earlier at the opera house, and I realized his was the voice I carried in my head. Back when he’d been my hero, he’d taught me to be brave, to be strong.
    Well, I was strong now. Without him.
    As quickly as he’d bristled, Albert shrank before my eyes. “I just need more time.”
    The momentary light at the end of the tunnel dimmed.
    “To do what?” Jackson’s voice went gentle, the exact opposite of the reaction I’d expected. “You can’t hide forever. Either you learn your lines and go back, or you don’t.”
    Learn his lines? Some of my clearest memories of time spent with Albert had been watching him learn his lines. The man had been a natural, making each role his own within moments of opening a script.
    Since when had he had trouble learning his lines?
    My father slapped his chest, pulling himself taller. “I am an artist. I will not perform until I feel ready to give my audience my best.”
    “I’ll run your lines with you,” I blurted before I could stop myself.
    My father’s actor façade slipped, and for the briefest moment I saw him, the dad I’d once known. Surprised. Proud. Genuine.
    I flashed back on the images of my childhood, back when my mother had helped my father run his lines. When she’d grown too weak to continue I’d taken over her role, sitting out on the patio or in this very room with my father, helping him rehearse.
    I’d never felt more important.
    That was the only explanation I could think of for my ridiculous offer.
    Jackson clapped my father’s shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow at ten. I’ll send a car.
    “Miss Jones,” he said, reaching to shake my hand, “I apologize for the intrusion. It was a pleasure to meet you.”
    He was partway down the front walk when he turned and jogged back up to the top step, stopping several inches from where I stood. “Perhaps you’d like to come with your father tomorrow—see where he works his magic?”
    Works his magic.
    The words tapped into a loss and longing I’d worked to deny, but in spite of that I found myself nodding.
    I did want to see where Albert worked his magic, where he’d chosen to make his life instead of here. “No need to send a car, then,” I said. “We’ll see you at ten.”
    I stood in the doorway until Jackson Harding’s car drove out of sight, then I turned to face my father.
    “OK,” I said. “Let’s run your lines, but first I need you to tell me the truth. Did you come here to see me? Or was this just a convenient place to hide?”
    Albert sank back into the chair, going pale.
    I shut the front door and stepped into the sitting room. “For God’s sake, don’t act.”
    His gaze snapped to mine. “What is that supposed to mean?”
    “That means I’m fairly confident everything you’ve said since last night has been said in character. Everything,” I added, “except for that one quick moment back there when I saw you. The real you.”
    My father stood and turned his back to me, plucking the photograph of my mother and me from the end table. I fought the urge to tell him to set it down.
    “I’m having trouble with my lines.” He returned the frame to its place on the table and pivoted