Shards of My Heart (The Forgotten Ones Book 2)

by Nellie K Neves

  Todd stares at me with expectant eyes. Do I really have another bargaining chip in my bag? It’s then that I realize how little Oliver means to him. I didn’t even tip the scales when I asked for full custody.

  “The ranch,” I say before I can stop myself. “You’ll sign it over to me. Full ownership, full deed, paid in full. It’s mine.”

  Todd draws in a breath through his nose. It’s painful that this request gives him pause. His own son? Not a hint of hesitation. But property? Property is money. Money matters.

  We don’t.

  “I’m selling the back five acres, Finley. It’s in escrow. There’s nothing I can do about that.”

  “That’s fine,” I say. “I’m keeping the house and the rest of the land.” I wish Mona could be here with me holding my hand and giving me strength, but Oliver is safe with her, and that’s what matters right now.

  “Fine,” Todd says, “but that’s it. The kid and the property. No child support, no alimony, we’re done.”

  Nothing will give me more pleasure than to cut ties with this sociopath, but I still don’t dare say it.

  “We’re done.” I sign the papers make my two wishes come true.

  I should have held out for one more, even genies give three wishes.

  But then, the devil isn’t well known for granting wishes.

  Chapter 2

  Two years later

  Funny thing about putting your life back together, you start to wonder who you were before it all fell apart. Coming out of that time, I had to scramble for some kind of career. Since Todd had scooped me up before I had a chance to do much more than graduate high school and get a menial retail job, it’s not like I had much to fall back on. Life after divorce is like tumbling into a pile of leaves raked high. Looks cushy enough, but it’s a fast fall and usually hides some dog poop you never knew about.

  But I found all my years of hiding bruises gave me a talent in cosmetology. I said it was a blessing in disguise. Mona calls it shining up last week’s garbage. I’m afraid she’s closer to the truth.

  I couldn’t have done cosmetology school without her. Though it’s not like it pays the bills either, not that I have many in this one-horse-nowhere-town. I get by on makeup, odd jobs, and farm work. Best of all, I haven’t heard hide or hair of my ex-husband since he signed us away like last week’s rent check.

  I toss another handful of scratch out to the chickens and laugh as three-year-old Oliver chases after the smallest hen, both of them squealing at the top of their lungs.

  Oli is winning.

  It’s a nice spread, darn near three acres even with the back pastures sold off. Didn’t need it. I have enough space to catch my breath and keep on keeping on. Mona and the garden shop ladies stop by at least once a week to check on Oli, and Mona watches him when I find odd jobs.

  Last time I dropped him off, she took out that big fairy tale book she used to read to me when I was a kid. Maybe I should be bitter, tell her not to fill his mind with all those stories, but too much of it is warm and fuzzy in my memory. The way she pulled me on her lap and tucked my blonde, stringy hair behind my ears. The soft cushion of her body, all of it sagging as she would say, but perfect for a kid to lean into. Especially a kid who never had anything soft her whole life.

  “You don’t have to call me Mama,” she’d say to me when I was still tiny. “I know that’s not who I am, but you go on and call me Mona. Everyone thinks you’re saying Mama anyway.” She’d wrap her arms around me, and I’d feel warmer than I’d ever felt in my life.

  In her scratchy voice, she’d read to me about Cinderella and Red Riding Hood, Hansel and Gretel and that nasty old witch. She’d do the voices, and I’d breathe in her baby powder and Jean Nate perfume she sprayed on after showers. No, she wasn’t my mama, not by birth, but she’d taught me more about motherhood than anyone ever had. If that meant reading Oliver fairy tales that might never come true, then I was fine with that.

  After all, a part of me still hoped I had a happy ending waiting for me.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  “Did you hear that little Jaimie McGuire is coming back to town?” Ester says while she wrestles some overgrown daylilies apart. “Hot shot that he is these days.”

  “I hardly think he’s little anymore, Ester,” I say from where I sit on the edge of the counter. “He’s gotta be getting near forty now.”

  “Oh, darling,” Mona presses dirt around a young hydrangea, “when you’re as old as we are, everyone is little.”

  Ester and Cecelia both laugh because it’s true.

  I guess they are old.

  I forget.

  These days gray hair is trendy anyway. It’s not like hair color marks true age. Cecelia’s gone purple twice. And Ester has had more boyfriends in the last year than I’ve had in my whole life. They constantly bug me to go find people my age, but I’m not interested in any of that. I trust these three. That’s not something that comes easy to a person like me.

  “Well, little or not, Mr. Bigshot is coming home,” Ester says. The lilies finally break apart and clods of dirt fling into the air like rain. “And it’s not even because he screwed up or anything.”

  Cecelia, always the Christian one in the lot of us, purses her lips until she’s got a lemon face. “Why must you assume the worst? Didn’t it cross your mind that he might have harbored fond feelings for—”

  “Ridgedale?” Mona interrupts her. “Oh honey, no one has fond feelings about this place. Especially not the ones who make it out.”

  That list is short. The ones who make it out, I mean. It’s pretty much Jaimie McGuire written line after line because no one can believe he actually made it as a real Hollywood director.

  “Well, as I was saying before y’all rudely interrupted me,” Ester sets in on the planter boxes, “little Jaimie is headed back to town, and word is he’s directing a movie out here in the woods.”

  I love that when Ester talks she says ‘directing’ more like ‘di-rectin’’, but I can’t dwell on it too long because all three of my old biddies are staring me down.

  “What?” I feel like a side show attraction. “I don’t act. It’s not like any of that’s going to do me any good.”

  “You don’t act,” Mona wags a loose begonia at me, “but you’re a makeup gal, aren’t you? All these actin’ types, they need one of you.”

  “I’m a makeup artist in a nothing town, Mona. They’ll bring their own people with them. The spot will be filled. I’ll stick to the prom queens and bridal parties,” I say, referencing my most common clients. “Besides, I don’t have any experience with show biz stuff.”

  “You did that play, the one for the Lutheran church. You did all those whip stripes on Jesus, didn’t you?”

  She has a point. I did learn how to make scars, but a neighborhood play at Easter is hardly Oscar-worthy material.

  “And what about Fiddler with the high school?” Mona adds. “You made that sixteen-year-old boy into a very convincing Tevvya.”

  “And remember the—”

  “Okay.” I slide off the counter and catch Oliver’s eyes through the greenhouse window. “I’ll snoop around a bit. I’ll try. Does that make you happy?”

  I motion to Oliver, and of course he runs the other way. He loves it here at Grannie’s Bloomers, the plant nursery these three lovely senior ladies own together. Oliver spends his time up to his elbows in mud or chasing Ester’s dog. What does he care that I still need to get to the grocery store? There are worms to dig up and leave in his mother’s shoes for her to find later... Priorities mom…

  I start for the door and wave my hand once to signify my retreat.

  “Wear something tight when you go see him,” Ester says before I can leave. “And shake your fanny a little while you walk. Guys like that.”

  I should be angry, but I’ve cracked a smile even if she can’t see my face.

  “Oh Ester,” Cecilia scolds her gently but with all the shame a good Christian should employ in this circumst
ance. “Besides, no one says fanny, it’s a booty now. Shake your booty for him, Finley.”

  Without turning back, I remind them, “Isn’t Jaimie like forty or something? Pretty sure he’s a bit old for me.”

  “Ain’t you heard of a sugar daddy?” Ester asks before she bursts into laughter.

  They’re cackling away at their own jokes, and I shove the door open laughing at the idea of shaking my booty to get a job. Wasn’t that why they helped me out in the first place? So I didn’t have to shake my booty for money? Sometimes it’s impossible to know who the adults are in the hodge-podge group we have going.

  Chapter 3

  It’s three days before Jaimie McGuire descends on the town, and there’s no missing it. Five vans, two tour buses, and a caravan of SUV’s lumber down Main Street just as I pull Oliver out of the grocery store. It’s hopeless to try for a job, but with all those three have done for me, I have to keep my word, even if it’s about to embarrass me to do it.

  With Oliver at Mona’s, I head to their ‘camp’ outside of town. It’s remarkably close to my spread, and I have to admit it’d be nice to hold down a job that doesn’t require much travel. While I’m not planning to shake anything for anyone, I wear something a little tight, without the intention of seducing him. But the rest of my wardrobe makes me look like a mom, and a pair of velvet leggings and body con tunic make me look a little more Hollywood.

  I wish I had pockets. Women’s clothes need more pockets. As I’m approaching the set, or what I assume is the set, I don’t know what to do with my hands, and pockets would calm my racing heart. That’s what the nuns told us to do when I lived in the orphanage.

  Put your hands in your pockets so the devil won’t tell you to steal.

  I’m not planning on thievery, but I feel a little more innocent if I can hide my hands away. As it is, I set them on my hips and pin my elbows back as if the pockets are actually there.

  “Get Glenda!” I hear a man shout. He’s wearing a headset and has three clipboards balanced precariously in his arms. “Has anyone seen Glenda?” My stare must burn him because he turns to me. “Are you Glenda?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m looking for someone about jobs—”

  I’m old news, and he’s started searching the crowd for the ever-mysterious Glenda he’s lost. “Full up, honey. Everything’s filled. Buy a ticket to the movie, that’s as close as you’re getting.”

  “Oh.” It falls out before I can trap it back in. “Yeah, I figured. I mean, I didn’t want to act or anything.”

  “Glenda!” The little man yells again.

  I’m a naturally helpful person, so I yell, “Glenda!” in the voice I use to call Oliver in from the fields. That earns me a sideways glance from Mr. Personality, but maybe he doesn’t mind the help because he carries on calling for Glenda again.

  We call another three or four times before he looks at me and says, “So if you don’t act, what are you looking for?”

  “I’m a makeup artist.” I cup my hands around my mouth and call her name again. “I’m local and stuff like this doesn’t happen real often. I thought I’d throw my hat in the ring. But if you’re fully staffed, I guess I can help you find Glenda.”

  His face screws to the side in a tight scowl, not an angry scowl, but a deep thinking who-the-heck-is-this-girl kind of scowl. His arm juts out to catch an attractive woman in a skintight dress before she escapes.

  “Marley, have you seen Glenda?”

  She shoots him a look like he’s got the IQ of a rock. “Glenda’s in labor.”

  Marley stalks away with that booty waggle Ester warned me about, and the short man stares at the ground like his life is quite a bit less perfect than it was five minutes ago.

  “Now that you know where Glenda is, I guess I’ll head out,” I say, wanting to extricate myself from his freefall into depression.

  “You’ll be the new Glenda,” he says in the place where I’m expecting a ‘good riddance’ or at least ‘goodbye’. “Yes, that’ll work brilliantly. I’m Anton, let’s get you hooked up with HR.”

  He’s taken off, and I’m left to stumble after him. “Wait, what? I’m the new Glenda? What’s a Glenda?”

  “Glenda’s a ‘you’,” he says as if it answers my questions. “And since Glenda is pushing a watermelon out of her,” he whistles and waves his hand, “you’ll be a nice stand in.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m still confused.” A crowd of people pass by us, actually, no, through us is a more apt description. I’m a fish swimming upstream as I call out to Anton. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “I need someone in makeup. We’re a barebones crew. Without Glenda, we have no one.” He speaks over his shoulder without slowing. Somehow the crowd parts for his five-foot frame while it shoves me around like I’m dodging boulders in rapids.

  “Don’t you need to interview me? See if I’m any good?”

  The crowd of extras, or who knows what, finally parts, and I’m left with Anton facing me.

  “You’re either good or you’re fired. Simple as that, but we need someone in here ASAP. We’ve shot what we can in the city, and we’re burning daylight.”

  I have a job.

  When did that happen?

  “Okay, I don’t have any of my—”

  “It’s fine.” He stops at a trailer on the perimeter of the field, “I’ll run a background check tonight to make sure you’re not a psycho, and we’ll start tomorrow. Have these filled out when you come back.”

  He thrusts a stack of papers at me and gives a tight smile.

  “Welcome to the team. Let me introduce you to Jay, our director.”

  Anton is off again, and this time I’m on his heels. Maybe it’s smart to stay in his wake so I don’t get thumped around. But my worries are unfounded because the crowd is on the other side of the mess of trailers.

  The trailers and busses make a perimeter that’s as tall as any wall I’ve ever seen. Equipment pops up here and there, new gear being pulled from trucks and trailers every minute. Ridgedale is a fairly unassuming town. Our biggest attraction is Mr. Tinney’s extra-creamy milkshakes. They’re good, don’t get me wrong, but I can’t help my culture shock at all the action in my one-horse town.

  “Jay!” Anton yells. “Jay, I’ve got a new hire.”

  The figure he’s yelling at, a spindly man with a fedora tilted at the front of his head, spins to face us. I’m surprised the hat stays on.

  I suspect glue.

  Or bobby pins.

  Little Jaimie McGuire sizes me up from head to toe, somehow simultaneously looking at me while also not seeing me. That level of arrogance takes practice, I imagine.

  “More turnover, Anton? Who is she?” he asks without looking away from me.

  His hair reminds me of oil, slick, murky and spilled over the top of his head until it ends at his shoulders like it’s still dripping. Lined with kohl liner, his eyes are dark, critical, like an eagle, and I’m a little worried I look too much like a mouse.

  “This is…” Anton stops, likely because he doesn’t know my name, “the new Glenda.”

  “What happened to the old Glenda?”

  “She’s in labor.”

  “She was pregnant? I thought she was fat.”

  “Me too. I wouldn’t have hired her otherwise.”

  My eyes widen. Those words could turn into a lawsuit.

  Jay points in my general direction. “Is she any good?”

  “Not sure. She’s a local, and we’re in a tight bind without Glenda.”

  “Local appeals to me,” Jay says, but somehow it’s not as positive when he says it. Like local is the only thing I have going for me. For the first time, he looks at me as if I’m standing here, which I am.

  “Did you go to school?”

  “Yes, I have the documents to prove it, and I’ve done local productions and weddings and—”

  “Fine,” his clipped word cuts me off. “You can work long hours? We have complicated characters with st
age makeup and tattoos that need to be hand-painted on. You’re the only artist on the crew. This will be strenuous. We’re looking at two months here in Ridgedale. Can you handle it?”

  I hate being away from Oliver, but Mona can take care of him. Despite my lack of mortgage payment, I’d really love a little breathing room with my finances.

  “Yes, I can do it.”

  “Are you pregnant?” Jay asks without skipping a beat.

  “He didn’t ask that,” Anton says to me. Turning to Jay he says, “You can’t ask that. She can sue us if you ask that.”

  He’s right. It’s another lawsuit waiting to happen.

  “What if she is, and we have another Glenda situation?” Jay asks.

  “She’s not fat,” Anton says as if that solves things.

  “You don’t have to be fat to be pregnant,” Jay adds.

  My list of lawsuits is growing by the second, as well as my reasons to avoid all this completely. To save the idiots from themselves, I blurt out, “I’m not pregnant. I have a little boy, but I have childcare.”

  Satisfied, Jay nods. “Bring in your paperwork tomorrow. Let Anton know if you need more supplies and send her home with the sketches from wardrobe and the script.”

  “Got it, Jay.”

  “It’s a tight ship because we have a strict budget. You’re part of the crew, just as important as any one of the actors. I don’t tolerate mistreatment of the support staff. Let me know if you get someone acting like a diva.” Jay adjusts his tipping fedora as he tries to remember what he knows he’s forgetting. “I don’t do romances either. Not between actors, not between crew, not the lighting guy, or the chick on the boom. I don’t have time for drama and bad blood. Can you handle that?”

  “Absolutely,” I agree without skipping a beat. Sounds like my life anyway.