Little Broken Things

by Nicole Baart

  “I’ve had this for years,” Quinn said, standing on tiptoe and leaning over so that Lucy could admire her pendant. It was about the size of her thumb, an irregular orb cut through with dark veins and flecked with bits of copper.

  “Pretty,” Lucy said, turning it in her fingers.

  “That’s turquoise.” Quinn pulled back and turned to the stove so she could flip a pancake that was turning golden in the frying pan. “Not the same as blue at all.”

  Lucy murmured her assent gravely and popped another bite in her mouth.

  “Favorite food?” Quinn asked, still standing at the stove. It seemed almost ridiculous to act as if nothing was wrong, but what else could she do? So much better to keep Lucy in this sweet, curious state than worry her with all the ugly that waited for them outside.

  A beat of silence and then: “Blueberry pancakes.”

  “Oh really?” Quinn twisted, the second pancake balanced on a spatula. She flipped it expertly onto a waiting plate and slid Lucy a tired smile. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that you happen to be eating the world’s best blueberry pancakes at the moment, would it?”

  Lucy giggled. It was a rapid burst of sound, a gravelly rasp in the back of her throat that was over before it even began. But it was music to Quinn’s ears. She schemed, trying to come up with a way to make the girl laugh again. She could never tell a joke properly; she screwed up the punch line every time. And slapstick just wasn’t her thing. She’d have to simply keep talking—and hope.

  “Okay,” Quinn said. “My favorite food is maple-glazed doughnuts, with bits of crispy fried bacon on top.” She almost added, “Don’t tell Walker,” but realized at the last second that the mention of him might send Lucy into an emotional scurry.

  “That’s a thing?” Lucy asked, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t think you can put bacon on a doughnut.”

  “Oh, but you can. And you should. Everyone should. It’s the most delicious thing in the world.”

  Lucy was still unconvinced. “I would try a little bite.”

  “You’re very brave.” Quinn smeared a pat of real butter on her own pancake and drenched it in syrup. Walker would probably have a heart attack just looking at her breakfast. The butter melted and pooled on her plate, and she cut a big bite and dredged it through the glistening goodness. “And if you don’t like it, I promise to finish it for you.”

  “You’re very brave, too,” Lucy said sagely. “Two doughnuts at once is kind of a big deal.”

  So she had a sense of humor! “It’s true.” Quinn nodded. “But then I’m kind of a big deal.”

  “Me too.”

  “Yes, you are.” Quinn could feel her cheeks glow warm and was pleased in spite of the situation. In spite of everything. Darling girl.

  When the doorbell rang, Lucy froze, a forkful of pancake halfway to her mouth. “Who’s that?” she asked carefully, setting her utensil down on the side of her plate. Such manners for someone so young. Such vigilance.

  “I don’t know,” Quinn said. She didn’t know what to do. Walker had said they would be left alone for a while. Long enough, hopefully, to formulate a plan. To talk to Nora. What now? Should she ignore whoever was at the door? Ask Lucy to hide? Or pretend that the little girl in her kitchen was the child of a friend and she was simply babysitting for an hour or two? Each option seemed flimsy and fraught with risk. “Maybe you’d better …”

  But Lucy had already climbed down from the stool and was making her way to her bedroom. She shut the door, without once looking back at Quinn.

  The doorbell rang twice more as Quinn walked toward the entryway. “Hold your horses,” she muttered, attempting irritation, though what she really felt was a ripple of fear. You can do this, she told herself. Be firm. Send them away quickly.

  But when she turned the handle on the door, the person on the outside pushed it wide open.

  “Quinn!” Liz burst through the door and grabbed her daughter by the upper arms as if she intended to shake her. “I’ve been texting you and texting you!”

  “I think my phone is in my purse,” Quinn said, trying to pull away. Liz only held on tighter. “I haven’t checked it lately.”

  “That’s ridiculous! Who doesn’t check their phone? How are people supposed to get in touch with you?”

  “I’ve been a little preoccupied.”

  “What happened?” Liz looked frantic, downright disheveled. It was such an unusual state for her that Quinn wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

  “Is everything okay?” Quinn asked. A drop of panic seeped into her stomach and blossomed like blood in water.

  “Clearly not. What is going on here?”

  Over Liz’s shoulder Quinn could see an unmarked car still parked by the side of the road. Nearby, a small circle of men hovered over the crime scene. Two in uniforms. They were no longer combing the site of the fire, sifting through the ash as if it contained the secrets of the universe. Instead, they were talking determinedly, comparing notes, and apparently continuing to question her husband. Walker stood in their midst, sandals planted firmly on the scorched earth, arms folded across his chest.

  “There was a fire,” Quinn said. She reached around her mother and shut the door. Locked it.

  “At the shack? But there’s nothing there. No electricity, no wires, nothing.”

  “I know.”

  “Do they think … ?” Liz left the question hanging and Quinn nodded, against her better judgment.

  Liz rummaged around in her purse for a moment and handed Quinn a folded piece of paper. “This was stapled to my light pole this morning,” she said.

  Quinn knew it was Lucy the second she looked at that grainy photo on the flyer. No matter that the picture quality was poor (obviously taken on a cell phone and blown up) or that it was wrinkled and creased with folds. Lucy’s hair was long and silvery blond instead of short and red, but those eyes were unmistakable. “What are we going to do?”

  “Where’s Lucy?”

  Quinn shook her head as if to clear it and then tucked the flyer into her pocket. “She’s right here. She’s fine.” Quinn walked over to the guest room and opened the door. She gave Lucy what she hoped was a warm smile. “My mom is here. Remember her? You met her the other day.”

  Lucy looked skeptical, but she came out of the room and reclaimed her place at the counter. It seemed the pull of the pancakes was too much to resist.

  There was an awkward moment or two as Quinn watched Liz study Lucy. They were mother, daughter, granddaughter caught in some strange, bewildering rite. It shouldn’t have to be like this, the three of them circling one another like strangers, and Quinn felt a stab of anger at her sister. Nora. Sometimes it felt like everything came back to Nora. But she didn’t have time for spite.

  “Would you like a pancake, Mom?” Quinn wasn’t aware that she was going to say the words until they were out of her mouth. But the look of surprise on Liz’s face, and the accompanying half smile, made Quinn’s heart stutter. Such a simple kindness, and yet her mother looked as if Quinn had offered her the moon.

  “I’d love one.”

  They were silent as Quinn poured the batter into the frying pan and Lucy continued to make short work of her breakfast. By the time Quinn turned the pancake onto a plate for her mother and passed it over, the room was crackling with tension and unanswered questions. Quinn was sure she could feel them spark against her skin like living things. But she didn’t dare to talk about anything that mattered in front of Lucy. Not here. Not now.

  “Thank you,” Liz said quietly.

  Quinn watched as her mother poured the syrup and took a tentative bite of the warm pancake. It must have earned her approval because she cut off three squares in quick succession and lined them all up on the tines of her fork. “These are delicious,” she said, and for some reason she looked as if she might cry. “Did you make them yourself? I didn’t know you could cook!”

  “Of course I can cook. Very well, actually.”


  “But Walker’s the baker in the family.”

  Quinn felt like throwing her hands up in the air. When she had first told her mother about Walker’s aptitude with bread, Liz had smiled thinly and made a comment about how she had never before known a man who baked. As if baking bread was akin to collecting porcelain unicorns. “I’m not sure you’ve ever even tasted his bread,” Quinn managed, fighting to keep her tone civil.

  “And that’s wrong.” Liz’s eyes flashed with uncharacteristic fervor. “I would love to taste his bread.”

  Quinn was so taken aback her tongue was cemented to the roof of her mouth.

  “I’m sure he makes delectable bread. Can I buy some from you? Maybe a loaf a week or something like that? I’m not really supposed to eat carbs, but …” She trailed off.

  “Mom.” Quinn gave her head a little shake, trying to regain some of her composure. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “No, I’m not okay. I told you that already.”

  Quinn leaned her forearms on the counter so she could be face-to-face with her mom. “You need to tell me what’s going on. You’re not having a stroke, are you?”

  “Absolutely not! That’s a crazy thing to say.”

  “You’re not exactly acting like yourself.” Quinn searched her mother’s pale blue eyes. What were the ABCs of a stroke again? Wait. That was the acronym for a suspicious mole. FAST? Yes, that was it. Face drooping, something about the arms … Quinn couldn’t remember the rest. But it didn’t seem to matter anyway. Apart from acting like she had been the victim of the body snatchers, Liz looked perfectly fit and healthy. As always.

  “We need to talk,” Liz whispered. As if Lucy was deaf. As if she couldn’t hear the woman who was sitting right next to her. “Alone.”

  “Mom.” Quinn shot Lucy a quick, nervous smile. “I think that—”

  “You don’t understand,” Liz said, ignoring her. She looked pained, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy as if she, too, had hardly slept. “Honey, there are some things I need to tell you.”

  Saturday

  10:12 a.m.

  Quinn

  Mom knows about Lucy.

  Nora

  How could you let that happen?

  Quinn

  It doesn’t matter. He’s here.

  Nora

  What? Now? Is Lucy okay?

  Quinn

  We’re all fine. But we need you.

  Now.

  NORA

  PINE HILLS WAS a squat, uninspiring building in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. It had once been white but was now a dismal, dirty gray that would have made even the most cheerful person question her sunny disposition. Nora was by nature more prone to doom and gloom, and even driving past Pine Hills was often enough to make her mouth sag at the corners. She steeled herself as Ethan put on his blinker and turned into the mostly empty parking lot.

  “Why do old folks’ homes always have to be so depressing?” he asked, pulling through the roundabout in front of the main doors. “I hope I’m shot. Or die in a fiery blaze. Anything would be better than ending up in a place like this.”

  Well, Ethan certainly wasn’t helping matters. “That’s morbid.” Nora turned to him, her brows in a hard line over her narrowed eyes. She didn’t know it, but angry was one of her best looks. She was resolute and ethereal, remote and untouchable. Gorgeous was the term that an ex-boyfriend had once used as she was flaying him alive with her keen tongue.

  “No offense.” Ethan lifted a hand in surrender. “I didn’t realize you were so attached to the Key Lake convalescent home.”

  Nora waved her hand dismissively. “I’m on edge,” she said. But that was more than an understatement. Quinn’s text had unnerved her—all she wanted to do was get this over with and race to the A-frame, where she knew Everlee was waiting. And Quinn. And her mother. Nora resisted the urge to groan. How had Liz gotten involved? More important, what was Nora thinking? Why had she dragged her family into all of this? She sighed and gave Ethan what she hoped was an apologetic smile. “Don’t mind me.”

  “Do you want me to go in with you?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll be right here.”

  Nora didn’t bother responding.

  It was only a few paces from the car to the main entrance of Pine Hills, but the automatic doors swooshed open a bit late and Nora was left standing in front of the glass for a few seconds longer than was strictly comfortable. She could see the welcome desk and the receptionist who sat behind it, and as she waited for admittance they stared at each other. Nora thought she recognized the woman, but she couldn’t quite place her.

  “Hello,” she called in greeting when Nora was finally admitted. “I think you’re about the last person I expected to see walk through those doors today, Nora Sanford.”

  Nora waffled for a moment, slowing her steps as a generic smile spread across her face. Who? she thought, riffling through an outdated Rolodex in her mind. She could almost smell the dust of disuse. Memory lane wasn’t a place that she frequented these days.

  “Anika.” She came up with her name at the last second. They had attended Key Lake High for a couple of overlapping years, but Anika was almost unrecognizable. Frizzy hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, anemic scowl, unflattering scrubs printed with baby-blue squares that made her look washed out and pale. Nora swept a hand through her own short hair and wished that she had taken the time to apply a little makeup or at least work some mousse into her limp strands. Anika probably thought she had aged just as poorly. “It’s nice to see you.”

  They didn’t shake hands, but Anika did give her a small smile. “I can’t imagine what you’re doing here, Nora. We don’t have any of your friends or relatives in residence and you never struck me as the charitable type.”

  On second thought, Anika hadn’t smiled. She’d bared her teeth.

  Because Nora was in a hurry and not much in the mood for social convention anyway, she followed Anika’s lead and got down to business. “I’m actually here to ask about Lorelei Barnes.”

  “You know she’s gone, right? She passed early last week. I’m afraid you’re too late.”

  “I know.” Nora was suddenly overwhelmed by the scent of antiseptic and boiled eggs, chlorine with an undercurrent of staleness. It made her unaccountably sad. Lorelei had died here. Alone. The thought was enough to make her want to throw things, to pick up the heavy vase of silk flowers on the corner of the reception desk and hurl it at the Pollyanna-perfect Thomas Kinkade print behind Anika’s head. She imagined the sound it would make, the way the glass would shatter and rain down in a thousand pieces.

  Nora had loved Lorelei in her own way. She had been a strong woman. Brave and quiet and unflagging in her devotion to Tiffany. It wasn’t Lorelei’s fault that her niece was detached and desperate, defined by the death of a woman that she had barely known. Tiffany prickled at affection. Rebelled every chance she got. Marked Lorelei’s life with worry and disappointment. It wasn’t fair.

  Nora set aside her respect for Tiffany’s surrogate mother and offered Anika a half smile. She leaned forward, trying to seem conspiratorial. “I’m actually just wondering if Tiffany has been by to collect her mother’s belongings. Or maybe I could talk to one of the nurses who was here? Could you tell me who was with Lorelei when she died?” Apparently Nora wasn’t very good at separating her emotions about Lorelei’s passing from the task at hand. She wanted to know everything.

  “Did you stay in contact with Tiffany Barnes after high school?” Anika asked, ignoring Nora’s questions. “I didn’t think you two were friends anymore. Not after that fight.”

  Nora resisted the urge to groan. She had almost forgotten how small towns worked. The rumors and narrow-mindedness. The way that everybody knew everything about everyone. Who cared? Lorelei was gone. And all that nonsense had been a lifetime ago. “Yeah,” she said, trying not to be snide. “We’re still friends. Have you seen Tiffany lately?”

  “Nope.” Anika popped her lips
on the word, the sound an indictment of Tiffany’s inherent defects. We always knew she was a bad apple, Anika’s look implied. Which means, by association, so are you.

  “Look, it’s kind of important. Can I talk to whoever was with Lorelei at the end?”

  “No one was with her.” Anika examined the chewed ends of her ragged fingernails. “She died in the middle of the night and the night nurse didn’t realize it had happened until her body was starting to cool.”

  Nora’s mouth felt stuffed with cotton. What a terrible thing to say. What a god-awful way to die. But she pressed on. “And Tiffany hasn’t called or anything?”

  “She called every Saturday,” Anika said.

  “And who did she talk to?”

  “Me,” Anika said, sniffing a little as if the answer should have been obvious. “It’s Saturday today, Nora. Clearly I work the weekend shift.”

  It was all Nora could do not to launch herself over the counter to take Anika by the throat. She didn’t remember her being so bitchy. So bitter. But attacking Anika was hardly the way to get the information she wanted. She took a deep breath and tried a different tack. “What did you and Tiffany talk about?”

  “You might as well ask me to violate my Hippocratic oath.”

  “You’re a doctor?”

  “No,” Anika said almost petulantly. “But a private conversation is still a private conversation.”

  “Fine.” Nora rubbed her forehead with her hand and squeezed her eyes shut. She turned to go, adding as an afterthought: “Thanks for your help.” But, of course, Anika hadn’t been helpful at all.

  “Wait.”

  Nora could hear the shift and shuffle as Anika came from behind the counter. She faced her former classmate slowly, uncertain whether she had experienced a change of heart or was going to offer some rude parting shot. But Anika’s face was set and unreadable when she took Nora by the arm and pulled her outside. There was a stone bench near a dried-up fountain and Anika hurried there, taking a pack of smokes out of her pocket and lighting up as she walked.