Little Broken Things

by Nicole Baart

  “Him?”

  “Donovan. The guy who showed up at the Grind yesterday.”

  Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “What’s he got to do with Everlee?”

  “He’s the closest thing she’s got to a dad. And if Tiffany is gone, he’ll fight for her.”

  “And?”

  “He’ll win.” It was barely a whisper, but Nora knew it was true. Donovan got what he wanted. And he wanted Everlee.

  It looked like Ethan knew the answer before he voiced the question, but he asked it anyway. “That’s a problem?”

  “You have no idea.” Nora squeezed her eyes shut and rested her head in her hands for a moment. And then, before she could stop to consider what she was doing, she started to talk.

  She told him everything. Almost.

  LIZ

  AS LUCK WOULD have it, Lorelei Barnes’s funeral visitation was from three to six on Friday afternoon. Liz only knew this because she slept well past her alarm and woke with the local news setting a drowsy soundtrack for her disjointed dreams. Usually when the old clock radio clicked to life, Liz was already wide awake and watching the pastel sunrise flirt with her sheer curtains. But after her late-night Walmart run, Liz had slept through the familiar click as well as an entire hour of Hawk Country radio programming. Lady Antebellum, Sugarland, The Band Perry, and a little throwback Sawyer Brown mixed in for variety (the morning host obviously lacked both imagination and the desire to diversify).

  At the top of the hour, nine to be exact, the Key Lake “Community Minute” cut through the sleepy fog and Liz heard, clear as day: “Lorelei Barnes’s visitation will be at the Thatcher Funeral Home this afternoon, from three p.m. until six p.m.”

  Liz dragged herself out of bed with a feeling of cotton in her mouth and a knot of consternation in her chest. She couldn’t decide if knowing about Lorelei’s visitation was a good thing or just a stroke of very bad luck. Poor timing? It didn’t really matter. She knew, therefore she felt obligated. And there was nothing so motivating in Liz Sanford’s world as a healthy dose of obligation.

  People would start to arrive at the house around six, but at 2:00 p.m. Liz found herself slipping into the black sheath she had worn to Jack Sr.’s funeral. It seemed indecent somehow that she was wearing the same dress to mourn both her husband and a woman she barely knew. But black wasn’t a color that Liz frequently wore. It was too boring. Too drab and depressing and dark. Her closet was a soiree of fuchsia and cobalt, persimmon and turquoise. When it came to sober occasions, she didn’t really have a choice.

  The dress had three-quarter-length sleeves and an itchy lace overlay, and Liz looked longingly at her cute party sundress even as she fastened the clasp on her single-pearl necklace. “You had flowers delivered,” she reminded herself. “You didn’t really even know Lorelei.”

  But it was no use trying to talk herself out of going. She had bumped into Tiffany, which had set off a chain reaction that culminated with Liz believing she could right past wrongs with a suitable mix of contrition and social convention. If only she could fix the brokenness in her family so easily. The flowers she ordered were exquisite, the few lines on the card inspired. And yet it wasn’t enough. Liz felt that she had to be there. To press Tiffany’s bony hands between her own and say, with heart, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  It wasn’t a lie. She was very sorry for loss of any kind because Liz Sanford knew what it meant to lose something. Each loss was a thorn in her flesh, a wound that pierced like a needle at first then faded to a blunt, insistent ache. When Liz was little, her mother taught her to cover up her wounds with a Band-Aid and a smile, and though such shrouding worked to hide pain from the rest of the world, it only taught Liz how to live with the hurt. Sometimes, when she was tired or sick, fragile or just incapable of keeping her smile sweet and straight, Liz was stunned by just how much her heart throbbed. She was the walking wounded.

  Oh no. Speaking of misty eyes … Liz snatched a tissue from the bathroom counter and dabbed carefully beneath her eyelashes. She didn’t have time to redo her makeup, and it wouldn’t do to host a party with blotchy skin and puffy eyes. No time to cry. And certainly not about Lorelei Barnes. Or Tiffany or whoever or whatever had set her off. Liz had things to cry about, but strangers were not one of them.

  Put the tomatoes on the counter, Liz texted Macy as she hopped into her car. The door is unlocked. I have to run an errand.

  Today?!?!?!

  Macy was all about lavish punctuation. And emojis. Liz particularly hated the one with the little yellow face grinning and crying at the same time. She couldn’t think of a single instance in her life when she had laughed so hard she cried. Did people actually do that?

  Yes, today. There’s basil on the counter and mozzarella in the fridge if you want to be helpful.

  I’m on it!!!!!!

  Although Macy’s culinary expertise was limited to grilled foods and particularly adventurous salads with quinoa and pomegranate seeds, Liz doubted her friend could screw up caprese skewers too badly. In her limited experience, overuse of exclamation marks was rarely a barometer of competence in the kitchen.

  Thatcher Funeral Home was located in the heart of Key Lake. The tree-lined streets were wide, the houses old and, for the most part, lovingly restored. The funeral home was one of the largest, an impressive Victorian with crenellated trim and lush hanging baskets that made it appear almost storybookish. From the front, the only indicator that the home was anything other than a particularly exquisite family residence was a tasteful brass plaque by the front door. Of course, in the back, the yard had been turned into a small paved parking lot and an oversized garage had been attached to the house. It accommodated the hearse and, Liz assumed, the rooms where they prepped the bodies. It gave her a little chill, both the thought of the burial preparation process and the parking lot in the middle of such a lovely neighborhood. Clearly the city council had been asleep at the wheel when that building permit had been approved.

  Liz avoided the lot and parked on the street in front of the funeral home. There were no other cars around, and, shouldering her purse, Liz congratulated herself on beating the rush as she hurried up the front walkway. She let herself in the carved antique door with a thin-lipped smile of satisfaction.

  Thatcher’s had handled Jack Sr.’s funeral, but Liz hadn’t stepped foot over the threshold since the day she saw her husband’s lifeless face for the very last time. And she hadn’t paused to consider how it might make her feel. Consequently, she wasn’t at all prepared for the barrage of memories.

  The entryway was close and warm, the heady aroma of lily-scented candles overpowering. Heavy rugs muffled sound and a crystal chandelier sparkled overhead, though the fixture wasn’t even turned on—the light was refracted from the high transom window above the front door. The prisms winked and danced so furiously Liz had the impression of being thrown underwater. She squinted at the onslaught, her throat constricting as if she were drowning.

  Liz had stood in this exact spot while Christopher Thatcher (not the original Chris Thatcher, but his thirtysomething grandson who was as wobbly chinned and pasty white as a corpse himself) explained the finer details of the family visitation process. The funeral would happen at the church, but the viewing was here, in a large room that took up most of the main floor of the converted house. “People will file in through this door,” Christopher had told her. And she hadn’t heard much else. Stand, sit. You will be there. The body will be here. I’ll put tissue boxes on every available surface should you need them.

  I need you to blow out those damn candles, Liz had thought, rather ungraciously. It smells like a funeral home in here. And, I need a stiff drink.

  Rum. She would have sold her soul for a tumbler of good, dark rum in that moment. On the rocks. Please, oh please, the rum that Jack Sr. had spent a small fortune on one year when they were in Jamaica. A teardrop bottle of liquor as thick and rich as caramel. She could almost feel the burn of it sliding down her throat.

&n
bsp; It was so unlike Liz to crave something like that, to long for it, that she tucked her hand through her son’s arm. Jack Jr. mistook her gesture as sorrow and patted her hand clumsily, a moan catching in his own throat. No, no, she wanted to say. You have it all wrong. But she didn’t say anything at all. How could she begin to explain the way she felt for her husband? The pretty layers that peeled back to reveal something dark and rotting beneath? They had lived a good, solid, respectable life. But that didn’t mean that she loved him. That she would mourn his loss. And yet.

  Good God in heaven. What was she doing here?

  Liz swayed a bit in the foyer, her heels missing the rug and clicking on the restored wood floors as evidence of her presence. She could feel the door handle at her back, and she steadied herself, taking the crystal knob carefully in her fingertips. If she turned it softly, if she tiptoed, it might be like she had never come at all. No one would ever have to know.

  “Mrs. Sanford?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. Swallowed a sigh. A sob? “Christopher Thatcher,” Liz said, pulling herself up to her full height and extending her hand to the funeral director who had appeared from somewhere deep inside the house.

  Christopher stepped from the shadow of the hallway and took just her fingers, touching them lightly as if in another era he might have raised them to his lips. Liz hated limp handshakes. “It’s a pleasure to see you,” he said. But it was obvious to Liz that he was more surprised than pleased.

  “I suppose I’m a bit early, aren’t I?” Liz checked the delicate face of the watch on her left wrist. It was a quarter to three. Fashionably late wasn’t a thing in her books. If you wanted to be fashionable, you were punctual. Early, even. Liz had always considered herself a trendsetter. “I can wait,” she assured him. “Or maybe if I could just have a moment with Tiffany? I’ll be gone before a crowd starts to gather.”

  “Tiffany? I’m not sure …” Christopher fumbled, glancing over his shoulder as if an answer might emerge from the hallway behind him.

  In that moment, Liz realized several things. First, and most important, that the funeral director was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Not a black suit and tie. The candles weren’t lit. The door to the chapel where the viewings were held was bolted shut with an antique latch and catch, and there wasn’t even a sliver of light seeping from the gap between the floor and the bottom of the door.

  “I have the wrong day,” she whispered, mortified. “The visitation for Lorelei Barnes isn’t today, is it?”

  “Oh!” Understanding settled on Christopher’s sallow face. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Sanford. It was an error on the community events sheet. Our secretary does all the scheduling and she didn’t realize … I didn’t think it would be a problem. I mean, I didn’t think anyone would notice.” He blushed as he heard the words come out of his mouth, an unattractive pink that put Liz in mind of Silly Putty. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “Lorelei was a lovely person,” Liz said, offended for a woman she barely knew. “I’m sure everyone noticed.”

  “Yes, of course—”

  “When exactly is her visitation? I, for one, will be here with bells on.” Too late, Liz grasped just how stupid that sounded. Bells on? For a funeral visitation?

  But she didn’t have time to be embarrassed. Christopher was still waffling.

  “Well?”

  “There isn’t a visitation for Lorelei,” he finally managed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She didn’t want one.”

  “When is the funeral?”

  Christopher’s chin sagged even farther toward his chest. “No funeral either. She was cremated several days ago.”

  Liz wasn’t sure why she felt so indignant, but she battled an almost overwhelming urge to slap Christopher Thatcher’s droopy face. “That’s ridiculous. Is that what Lorelei wanted? What about Tiffany?”

  “Who’s Tiffany?”

  Now Liz was just plain mad. “Her daughter!” she said, throwing up her hands. It wasn’t accurate, not quite, but she didn’t want to nitpick with him, to waste time explaining what she knew (and didn’t know) about the situation between Lorelei and the girl who had been, for all intents and purposes, her only family.

  But Christopher wasn’t paying attention anyway. He was shaking his head slowly. “There is no daughter,” he said. “Besides her caretakers at Pine Hills, no one has inquired about Lorelei at all.”

  For once, Liz was speechless. She was angry and confused and sad. A sadness that settled deep down in the marrow of her bones and made her feel like she could sit on the ugly rug in the foyer and weep. “That’s terrible,” she whispered.

  “It is,” Christopher agreed solemnly. And then after a moment he added: “And we still have her ashes.”

  Liz didn’t say anything.

  “I, uh …” Christopher cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose you would like to take them with you?”

  Because he looked so hopeful and because the whole situation made her so very outrageously angry, when Liz drove away from Thatcher Funeral Home, the remains of Lorelei Barnes were buckled into the passenger seat beside her. It was absurd. Bizarre. A completely preposterous situation that would require her to single-handedly track down Tiffany, shoulder the young woman’s grief, save the day. It was exactly the sort of thing that Liz excelled at.

  In some ways, it was the least that she could do. She owed it to Tiffany. A little recompense for the way her husband treated Nora’s best friend. Although Liz tried to pretend otherwise, the truth was Jack Sr. had been downright nasty to the girl. Stony silences, a cold, hard stare that seemed to have been created for Tiffany alone. Liz had never seen her husband respond to someone the way he reacted to Tiffany Barnes.

  “What is your problem?” she hissed one night when his icy dismissal of Tiffany—and the casual demand that Nora give up their pathetic friendship—had sent Nora out the door into a building snowstorm.

  “She’ll be fine. She’s going to Tiffany’s house.” Her name sounded ugly on his lips.

  “I’m not talking about Nora,” Liz said. “What is your problem with Tiffany? She’s just a kid.”

  Jack Sr. snorted. “She’s no kid. She’s a slutty little thing. I don’t want JJ anywhere near her.”

  The memory made Liz’s fingers tighten their grip on the steering wheel. That word in Jack’s mouth made her want to slap his face—and she prided herself on the brisk surety of her own self-control. But, of course, she did no such thing. Instead of hitting her husband for his filthy language, his callous treatment of a teenage girl, Liz set her jaw so tight her teeth ached. She turned and walked away.

  “I’m sorry,” Liz said, to no one in particular. Or maybe she was talking to the memory of Lorelei, whether or not the poor woman could respond and absolve her from a sin long forgotten.

  Of course Lorelei’s ashes were in the ugliest urn imaginable. A brassy gold thing that Christopher Thatcher had undoubtedly chosen and Elizabeth Sanford would definitely replace.

  It galvanized her, the urn and the experience. The memories. She slid her phone out of her purse at a stop sign and dialed 4-1-1. If he worked for the city of Key Lake, she would have had him on speed dial. As it was, she knew the receptionist, but not the seven digits that would patch her through. She waited for the operator.

  “Marla?” she said, pressing the phone in between her shoulder and her cheek as she clicked on her blinker. “Connect me to the police department, will you?”

  And when he answered, she knew his voice. Even after all these years. If anyone could offer a little perspective, change the game, it was him. “Bennet? Honey? I need to ask something of you.”

  Friday

  2:59 p.m.

  Liz

  I need to talk to you.

  Nora

  Now’s not such a good time.

  Liz

  I never ask you for anything. I’m asking now.

  Nora

  What is this about?
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  Liz

  We should talk in person. What if I drove up to Rochester on Sunday?

  Nora

  I don’t know, Mom.

  Liz

  I’m not sure you have a choice.

  QUINN

  WALKER WASN’T RESPONDING to her texts. True, Quinn had been subtle all day. Nothing too insistent or alarming. Nothing that really required a response, now that she considered it. But she was starting to get stir-crazy. Her thoughts and the ever-intractable Lucy made for troubling companions. She craved a little adult conversation. Someone stable and supportive and warm. Someone who would listen to all her crazy theories about just who “he” was and why Lucy was so scared of him.

  “I think it’s time to start cleaning up,” Quinn said. They were sitting at the round dining room table, the pastels Walker had brought arranged in a cup between them. Paper was scattered across the glass in a carousel of color and would-be art. Among the sheets were Quinn’s feeble attempts at a tree, a sunset in blended hues of red and yellow, and a rainbow-petaled flower.

  Lucy’s work was, in Quinn’s opinion, much better—and more disturbing. The little girl had also drawn a tree, but hers was black with spidery, leafless branches. Another piece boasted her own small hand, traced and shaded entirely in a dark, shocking red. But what worried Quinn the most was the picture of Lucy’s family. At least she assumed that’s what it was; the pastel drawing had all the trappings of a child’s homemade family portrait. There were four people scattered across the page, each character drawn separate from the others. Solitary and alone.

  Quinn reached for that picture. “Is this your family?”

  A shrug.

  “Let me see …” Quinn studied the drawing carefully, giving it her full, flattering attention. When she was a kid, that kind of fawning made her purr like a kitten. “This is just lovely, Lucy. I’m going to guess that this girl by the fence is you?”