Little Broken Things

by Nicole Baart

  Praise for The Beautiful Daughters

  “Oh, the dark secrets that can be hidden in the openness of the Iowa landscape. Nicole Baart has given us such fully drawn characters and compelling relationships that only the hardest of hearts wouldn’t be won over by The Beautiful Daughters.”

  —WILLIAM KENT KRUEGER, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF ORDINARY GRACE AND MANITOU CANYON

  “Compelling and exquisite… . Baart has crafted an unforgettable novel filled with characters and places so rich, they spill from the pages in beautiful, slow motion passages that you’ll savor again and again … one of those special novels that will stay with you long after you’ve turned the last page.”

  —ROBERTA GATELY, AUTHOR OF LIPSTICK IN AFGHANISTAN AND THE BRACELET

  Praise for Sleeping in Eden

  “Baart expertly unravels the backstory of her intriguing characters, capturing the nuances of both life-tested relationships and the intense passion of first love. Ripe with complex emotion and vivid prose, this story sticks around long after the last page is turned.”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  “Baart’s eloquent prose draws the reader into the tragic tale. At times a love story, other times a mystery, this is overall a very purposeful piece of fiction.”

  —RT BOOK REVIEWS

  “A taut story of unspoken secrets and the raw, complex passions of innocence lost.”

  —MIDWEST CONNECTIONS PICK, MAY 2013

  “Intense and absorbing from the very first page. Written in lovely prose, two seemingly different storylines collide in a shocking conclusion.”

  —HEATHER GUDENKAUF, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE WEIGHT OF SILENCE AND MISSING PIECES

  “Bittersweet and moving … will haunt you from page one. Nicole Baart writes with such passion and heart.”

  —SARAH JIO, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF BLACKBERRY WINTER AND THE VIOLETS OF MARCH

  “Emotionally gripping and perfectly paced, Sleeping in Eden’s taut story line and profound characterizations will keep you turning the page until the richly satisfying end.”

  —AMY HATVANY, AUTHOR OF OUTSIDE THE LINES AND IT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME

  “Vivid storytelling with a temporal sweep. In Baart’s cleverly woven mystery, the characters’ intertwined fates prove that passions transcend time—and secrets will always be unearthed.”

  —JENNA BLUM, NEW YORK TIMES AND INTERNATIONALLY BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  Praise for Far from Here

  “Nicole Baart is a writer of immense strength. Her lush, beautiful prose, her finely drawn characters, and especially her quirky women, all made Far from Here a book I couldn’t put down.”

  —SANDRA DALLAS, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF PRAYERS FOR SALE AND THE LAST MIDWIFE

  “A rare journey to a place that left me healed and renewed… . A tribute to love in all its forms—between a man and a wife, between sisters, and among mothers and daughters—my heart ached while I read Far from Here, but it ached more when I was done and there were no more pages to turn.”

  —NICOLLE WALLACE, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF EIGHTEEN ACRES

  “Nicole Baart’s tale of the certainties of absolute fear and the uncertainty of love whirls the reader up and never lets go.”

  —JACQUELYN MITCHARD, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE DEEP END OF THE OCEAN AND TWO IF BY SEA

  “Gorgeously composed … a candid and uncompromising meditation on the marriage of a young pilot and his flight-fearing wife, their personal failings, and finding the grace to move beyond unthinkable tragedy… . Pulsing with passion and saturated with lush language … will leave an indelible mark.”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY (STARRED REVIEW)

  “Nicole Baart is a huge talent who has both a big voice and something meaningful to say with it. Far from Here is a gorgeous book about resilient people living in a broken world, finding ways to restore hope and even beauty in the pieces.”

  —JOSHILYN JACKSON, AUTHOR OF GODS IN ALABAMA AND THE OPPOSITE OF EVERYONE

  Thank you for downloading this Simon & Schuster ebook.

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  For Eve

  Broken things are loveliest

  —Sara Teasdale

  THE LITTLE GIRL’S HAIR is fine as cornsilk. It pours through the scissors like water and spills to the floor, a waterfall of white.

  “Beautiful,” I breathe, squeezing her narrow shoulders with hands that tremble. My voice wavers, too, and I swallow hard. Not now. “You look like Tinker Bell.”

  “I don’t want to look like Tinker Bell.” One small hand reaches up and up, searching for the fountain of curls that cascaded down her back only moments before. Now ringlets frame her ears, perfect curlicues that tickle the nape of her neck and flirt with the greening Hello Kitty earrings she’s been wearing day and night for at least a month.

  The earrings will have to go. And the telltale glimmer of her almost silvery-blond hair.

  “Look what I have,” I say, trying to distract her. Circling her tiny waist with my hands, I spin her on the kitchen stool so that we’re nearly nose-to-nose. I press a quick, awkward kiss to her damp forehead, sweaty from the game of hide-and-seek I used to set the stage for all that is to come. Children are not my specialty, but somewhere along the way I learned that they’re just like adults in one regard: they purr when petted just so. It feels wrong to use kindness as a tool, but I’m doing what I have to. “It’s a surprise.”

  “What?” A thin eyebrow quirks knowingly, skeptically. The girl is only six, but she’s an old soul. A single word can flip the tables. Make me feel as if we’ve switched places and I’m the child, the kindergartener before me a grown woman. So much wiser than I was at six and sixteen and twenty-six.

  “You have to pick.” The boxes are on the counter and I grab them quickly, one for each hand, and hold them behind my back. “Chocolate mousse or ginger twist?”

  The girl’s nose crinkles, confused. “We already had ice cream,” she says. “Cookie dough.”

  Of course she’s bewildered. There isn’t often ice cream in the freezer. Or bread in the pantry, or milk in the fridge for that matter. And now: Chocolate? Ginger? After ice cream and hide-and-seek and undivided attention? It’s as magical and mystifying as the haircut, the flaxen curls that tumbled in lacy patterns across the dirty linoleum floor. We’ve slipped into a fairy tale, but she has yet to realize that we’re stumbling down a thorny path, lost in a dark and wicked wood.

  “Chocolate mousse?” I press, because fear is creeping in. I’m going numb and will soon be paralyzed, incapable of doing what I have to do. The list of my weaknesses is long and varied, but none so great as my tendency for inertia. At the moments I most need to go, I find myself crippled and terrified. Trapped. That isn’t an option now.

  “Ginger twist,” the girl says. To be contrary.

  “Good choice,” I force myself to say. “I always wanted to be a redhead.”

  Another nose wrinkle, but I can’t explain. She wouldn’t understand anyway. I just yank the tab on the box and fish around for the clear plastic gloves that wait inside. There is also a disposable cape and I sweep it around her with what I hope is a flourish. I’m starting to quiver, my entire body seizing as if I’m on the verge of hypothermia. Never mind it’s August and there is a thin bead of sweat slipping down my
spine. “You’ll look just like Annie.”

  “I thought I looked like Tinker Bell.” There is a hitch in her voice now, a dark shadow on the horizon that forecasts tears.

  No. If she cries it’s over. I won’t be able to follow through. “We’re going to play a game.” I sound insistent, maybe even desperate.

  “I don’t want to play a game.”

  “It’ll be fun, I promise.” I squeeze the dye into the little black bowl and add the developer. The odor of ammonia rises in the kitchen, the tang of chemicals and cat urine reminiscent of things I’ve worked hard to forget. It’s a trigger I wasn’t expecting, so overwhelming I have to grip the edge of the counter, squeeze my eyes shut against the mushroom cloud of emotions that turns my heart toxic. “You love games.”

  “I said, I don’t want to play a game.” The girl slides off the stool with a grunt, but I whip around and catch her under the arms before she can get too far.

  “Sit still, damn it!” Shouting at her won’t help matters at all, but I’ve never been very good at keeping my temper. I thrust her back onto the stool. Feel guilty that I don’t feel guilty about it. “I told you to sit still.”

  “No, you didn’t.” But it’s nothing more than a whisper.

  Vaseline would stop her delicate hairline from flushing with the hint of an angry rash, but there isn’t time for that. Or for waiting the full twenty minutes for the color to develop. And when I push her small head down beneath the stream of cold water gushing from the rusty faucet in the kitchen sink, I only allow myself a teaspoon of remorse. We don’t have a choice. I can’t let myself forget that. Not even for a second.

  “There you go,” I say, after it’s all over. I towel her cherry-colored curls with more force than necessary, ignoring the dye that bleeds onto the white towel and ruins it. “I don’t even recognize you.”

  Of course, I do. There is nothing that can be done for her eyes, stone-colored and distinctive simply because they are every color and no color at all. They’re eyes that require a second glance: creamy smooth as a latte when she’s calm, dark as a thunderstorm when she’s upset. Grayish now, and sad, but as I watch, her eyes seem to change. It’s the hair color. It has to be. Her gaze is suddenly unfamiliar beneath the fringe of red. A bright, suspicious green that is so shocking it turns the kitchen cold.

  “I love you,” I say abruptly, surprising myself. It’s not something I say. Not often. And certainly not with the depth of emotion behind it that I feel in this moment.

  I reach out tentatively and take a single coil of her bright hair between my thumb and forefinger. It’s the only way I dare to touch her. I long to pull her into my arms and never let go, to press her against me and run. “You’re my brave girl,” I tell her.

  It’s the closest I come to saying goodbye.

  Day 1

  *

  Wednesday

  Wednesday

  4:48 p.m.

  Nora

  I have something for you.

  Quinn

  Sounds mysterious.

  Give me a clue.

  Seriously, Nora. Don’t be a tease.

  Nora?

  QUINN

  KEY LAKE WASN’T DEEP. It wasn’t particularly lovely either, but the tree-lined shores fit together like a jigsaw puzzle, and there was something dusky and mysterious about the slant of light when the sun began to set across the water. The lake had a beauty all its own, and Quinn tried to remind herself of that as she sat on the edge of the dock, her toes ringed by specks of bright green algae. If she leaned over far enough she could see not just the bubbles from Walker’s submerged snorkel but the shape of him, too. Murky and indistinct beneath the slightly brackish water. But there he was. Diving. Hers.

  When he broke the surface, Quinn stretched out her foot, toes curled like a ballerina en pointe, and he placed a piece of smooth glass on top of it with a smile. “It’s not a slipper,” he said after taking the mouthpiece of the snorkel out from between his teeth. “But we could call you Cinderella all the same.”

  “Does that make you Prince Charming?”

  “Not even close.” Walker palmed the piece of glass and moved through the lake as silent and smooth as the little waves that lapped at the posts of the old dock. Then he pulled himself up and out, spilling water from the fine lines of his body, naked but for the boxers. He settled himself on the dock beside her, cool and dripping.

  “I wish you’d put on a proper swimming suit,” Quinn protested, but something deep in her stomach knotted at the sight of him. Her husband wasn’t handsome so much as he was striking. It was impossible to meet Walker Cruz and not stare. It was the breadth of his strong hands, the ropy muscles of his dark forearms. The five o’clock shadow that he let curl into an honest-to-goodness beard when he was too preoccupied with a project to shave. Most appealing and confusing to Quinn was the intelligent, peculiar flash of his copper-flecked eyes. Sometimes, when he looked at her, Quinn felt like he was a stranger. Even though she slept beside him every night.

  “Your boxers are practically see-through,” she told him. “My mom has a telescope, you know.”

  Walker shook his head and scattered droplets of water over Quinn. “Mrs. Sanford can look to her heart’s content.” He laughed, dismissing the house across the lake with a flick of his fingers.

  Quinn didn’t have to look to know that the windows of her childhood home winked black as the sun slipped behind its brick walls. Maybe her mom was watching. Maybe not. She tried not to care either way, but it was hard not to. Indifference was for people who had no reason to care. Unfortunately, Quinn had many reasons. For starters, the fact that she and Walker were living in her mother’s rental. Or that they were both—temporarily, she hoped—unemployed. And, of course, there was Walker himself. It didn’t matter that Quinn loved him; her mother thought he was unsatisfactory—and she made little attempt to hide her disdain.

  “Hey.” Walker put a damp finger under her chin and tugged her face toward his own. His kiss was wet and warm. He tasted of lake water and the Chardonnay they had with grilled chicken for supper: buttery and crisp. “It’s temporary,” he reminded her.

  “Define temporary,” Quinn murmured against his lips, but he was already pulling away.

  “You didn’t like Los Angeles.”

  Quinn made a noise in the back of her throat. “It’s better than here.”

  But Walker would not be so easily disregarded. “We’ll be gone before winter.”

  “It’s August,” Quinn said as if that was proof. That winter was coming. That they had already lingered here too long. Paying her mother half of what a summer vacation rental normally brought in and validating Elizabeth Sanford’s many warnings about the financial instability of marrying a struggling artist.

  “My piece will sell,” Walker said, and the glint in his eye was almost enough to make Quinn believe. Almost.

  “Can I see it?”

  He shook his head but held up the polished, cloudy glass between his thumb and forefinger. “A hint,” he said, and the smile that played on his lips was enough to make Quinn grin back in spite of herself.

  “You’re crazy,” she said.

  “Crazy genius? Or just crazy crazy?” Walker pushed himself up and offered his hands to Quinn, the glass still clutched between his last two fingers and his palm. She could feel the cool smoothness of it pressed between their skin when he lifted her.

  “Just crazy, I think.”

  Quinn could have argued, but she wasn’t in the mood. Walker’s feet made a set of perfect footprints on the worn boards of the dock, and she followed them carefully, her own small feet swallowed up by the dark silhouette of his. Their life wasn’t crazy. Not exactly. It just wasn’t what Quinn had always hoped it would be.

  At the edge of the dock, Walker stopped and slid his feet into the ratty flip-flops he had kicked off earlier. Between the dock and the house was a stretch of shorn grass that refused to grow properly because of the sandy soil beneath. It was rough and s
prinkled with thistles, but it was perfect for bocce ball and lying on a towel in the sun, the two pastimes that had dominated their summer routine—if the lazy, haphazard way they filled their days could be called a routine.

  They were waiting. Waiting for something better. Waiting for inspiration to strike. But lately Walker had been too busy in the boathouse he had transformed into an art studio to play or lounge with her. To wait. Quinn was happy for him, truly she was, but she didn’t like being locked out of any area of his life. Walker’s art was the worst. She felt small in the bald-faced hunger of his need for texture and color and light. The way he shivered at the sight of prairie grass bent by a storm or a branch that had fallen askew, crooked and disturbing as a broken limb.

  Quinn wasn’t nearly so deep. She felt lost in her husband sometimes. Like she was drowning.

  “You coming in?” she asked, trailing a finger down his damp arm. “You’ll need to change.”

  It was an excuse. She craved him like water, the almond slant of his eyes, the way his skin was as dark and fine as sun-warmed soil. He had a slight accent from summers spent in Mexico City with his father’s family, and a lilting softness that rounded his consonants courtesy of his Ghanian immigrant mother. Quinn loved it all.

  Her husband was so extraordinary. Set apart. Quinn ached for him, for something more than a mere wedding band to bind them together. She was his, heart and soul and body and mind and anything else she had to give. Quinn just didn’t know if he was hers in the same way.

  “I have clothes in the boathouse,” Walker said. He was already distracted, his gaze on the high windows of the old, box-shaped building that housed his fever dream. It had been many long months since Quinn had seen him this way, but now he was a man consumed. There was little room for anything else. Even her. She let her hand fall to her side.

  “Okay,” Quinn said. “Don’t be too late.”

  He took several steps away from her, dismissed, his mind obviously on whatever awaited him in his makeshift art studio. But as Quinn watched, he caught himself and paused, gave his wife a final second of his attention. “You all right?”