Little Broken Things

by Nicole Baart

  Yeah right, Quinn thought. Friend, my ass. But she took Donovan’s hand anyway. It was cool and dry, oddly smooth and uncalloused. It gave her the creeps. “I’m Quinn,” she said, even though she hated sharing her name with him. It made her feel dirty, exposed. Being near him made her long for lovely things: the tang of a sour lemon drop, the summery, coconut scent of suntan oil, a thick book. She pulled her hand away as quickly as she could.

  “I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve seen you before,” he said, and gave her a wink that shot straight through to her bones.

  NORA

  QUINN WAS GONE, and for the moment, that was all that mattered. The thought that Donovan was here, in Key Lake, that he knew her sister’s name, had touched her skin, made Nora’s vision blur at the edges. If he had started the fire in the shack—and Nora had no reason to doubt that he had—Donovan knew what type of car Quinn drove and where she lived and what exactly she looked like when her guard was down. When she was alone. Never mind that Quinn was decades older than Donovan’s preferred type. She was young and lovely, still softly round in the way of someone much younger than her years.

  Nora had seen the way he looked at her.

  “I have an order of onion rings and a mineral water here.” A waitress hovered at Nora’s elbow, eyeing the empty seat where Quinn should have been.

  “Yeah,” Nora said, grateful for the brief interruption. Her mind was spinning. How had Donovan found them here? It wasn’t a coincidence. Nothing with him was a coincidence.

  The waitress plopped down a green bottle of Perrier in front of Nora and stuck the metal tower of onion rings in the middle of the table.

  “Thanks, Nor.” Donovan plucked the top ring and dredged it through the little cup of sauce.

  Nora didn’t know what to say.

  “Your sister’s a real looker. How old is she?”

  What was he trying to do? Scare her? Make her angry?

  Unnerve her.

  After Tiffany found Donovan touching her daughter in a way that no grown man should ever touch a child, she tried to find as many excuses as possible for Everlee to have sleepovers at Nora’s house. She didn’t dare to just run; their lives were too entwined, her dependency on Donovan and his paycheck absolute. Her surrogate mother was dying, her lover was terrifying, and when she gave the cops an anonymous tip in an effort to get Donovan out of the way, nothing came of it. What was he capable of? They just didn’t know.

  So while they laid their plans, Tiffany started bringing Everlee over to Nora’s apartment. Hours at a time. Sometimes overnight. Nora gave the child warm baths and toast for breakfast. Peanut butter and Nutella, milk with so much Nestlé’s Quik she could practically stand a spoon up in it. But bubble baths and food couldn’t erase the things Everlee had seen. The things that had been done to her? Nora couldn’t bear to think about that.

  One night when Everlee was supposed to be sleeping over, Donovan had shown up at Nora’s door. His eyes were rimmed in red and watery, but his hands were almost preternaturally steady. And his intent was clear. “Hey there, big girl,” he said, pulling Everlee into his arms. “Time to come home.” She was exhausted, already in her pajamas and on her way to bed, but she didn’t protest. Donovan held her close, arms wrapped full around the child, and he fixed Nora with a look that told her clearly: Know your place. She’s mine.

  “You can’t have her,” Nora said suddenly, louder than she meant to on the patio where everything seemed sunny and bright.

  “Excuse me?” Donovan had a mouthful of onion ring but that didn’t stop him from talking. And though the food in his teeth took the edge off his words, his entire countenance shifted at Nora’s proclamation. He arched like an animal catching a whiff of his prey. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Her birth father hasn’t signed away parental rights.” It wasn’t something Nora and Tiffany talked about. Ever. At least, not since Tiffany told her the truth about what happened that night. And they had promised each other never to speak of it again. To pretend that Everlee was immaculately conceived and wholly theirs. They were stupid, young. They had made a decision that would affect the rest of their lives when they were emotional and irrational and barely nineteen years old.

  “She doesn’t have a daddy,” Donovan said, picking at one of his teeth with a fingernail. “At least, not yet.” He gave her a Cheshire grin, but it was menacing.

  Nora felt Ethan’s hand brush against her leg beneath the table. If he was trying to comfort her or warn her, she couldn’t tell.

  “I know who Everlee’s real father is.”

  “You do.” It was a statement, not a question, and Donovan sat back again, folding his hands behind his head as if preparing himself for a good story. A funny one.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “So what?”

  “So I’m going to tell him the truth.”

  “You think he’ll believe you? You think he’ll care after all this time?” Donovan sneered at her, warming to his own narrative. “I think he’ll slam the door in your face. You can’t prove a thing.”

  “DNA.”

  He waved his hand, dismissing her. “Consent, sweet cheeks. DNA tests require a signature from the person whose samples are submitted.” It sounded rehearsed, memorized.

  “He’ll consent.”

  “I’m not sure he can.” Donovan leaned forward, hands flat on the table, and glared at her. But there was an emotion behind his eyes that Nora couldn’t place. Glee? He was delighting in this, but she couldn’t figure out why. “It’s been a long time, Nora. Things have changed.”

  “Listen.” Nora angled forward, too, erasing the space between them until they were nearly nose-to-nose. “I know exactly what you are. And if you think I’m going to let you have Everlee, you’re dead wrong.”

  “No need to be so nasty, Nora. I thought we were friends.” He reached out and ran a finger along her jawline before she could jerk away. “Besides, I don’t think you have a choice in the matter.”

  She knew she shouldn’t take the bait, but Nora couldn’t help it. She felt like she was careening out of control, fierce and dazed as she spun round dizzy corners and tried to chart a new path, though the terrain was unfamiliar. Savage. “Of course I do. Everlee is my—”

  “What?” he hissed. “Everlee is your what? I’ll tell you what. She’s not yours and she never was. You have no claim to her—or Tiffany. Tiff is that girl’s mother and she will call the shots.”

  “Yeah, well, Tiffany’s not here right now, is she?”

  Donovan pushed himself back roughly and stood, tugging the sleeves of his shirt as if he had just been in a fight and needed to right himself. “Funny you should mention that.” He smirked. “Turns out she’s not in New Ulm at all. Turns out Tiffany is right here.”

  As Nora watched, he pulled a phone out of his back pocket and unlocked the screen. It was an old smartphone with a hot-pink case. Nora didn’t have to see the rhinestones or the skull and crossbones to know that it was Tiffany’s phone. A sense of dread slid through her, cold and sharp as a blade.

  “How—”

  “We’re soul mates,” Donovan told her, his lip pulled back in an ugly sneer. “Till death do us part.”

  Nora spun around in spite of herself, scanning the crowd at Malcolm’s for a hint of the familiar. Please, God, she begged. Let Tiffany be here. But even before her desperate gaze had skittered over half the crowd, she knew that her search was futile.

  When Nora turned back to Donovan, he was gone.

  LIZ

  “YOU’RE BACK EARLIER than I expected,” Liz said, not even bothering to look up from where she was bent over Lucy’s little feet. She had propped up the girl’s heels on a fat pillow in her lap and was holding one tiny toe between her thumb and forefinger. With her other hand she carefully applied Pixie Dust Green in quick, light strokes. Funny, but Liz couldn’t remember doing this with her own girls. Probably because Nora had been such a tomboy. And by the time Quinn came around, Liz
was just plain tired. But really, who could blame her? Three kids and one man-child. Sometimes Liz thought she deserved a medal for surviving those years. And sometimes, like now, when she held Lucy’s perfect, miniature-sized foot in her hand, Liz worried that she had let them slip through her fingers.

  “We need to talk.” Quinn’s voice was choked, and Liz looked up quickly, smearing polish on Lucy’s toe.

  “Shoot. Hand me a Q-tip, will you?” Liz asked, straining for normalcy, but over Lucy’s head her eyes searched out Quinn’s. Her daughter looked ragged, her face pinched and drawn.

  Quinn complied and Liz dabbed at the skin around Lucy’s pinky toenail. It was roughly the size of a fresh green pea and was now the same approximate color.

  “There you go,” she said, giving Lucy’s feet a gentle pat. “All done. Just sit still while they dry for a few minutes, okay? Then you and your lucky toes can hop down.”

  “Look,” Lucy said, swiveling her torso so she could wriggle her fingers in front of Quinn’s face. “My fingers look like Princess Frostine.”

  “They do.” Quinn tried to smile, but it flickered out before it formed. “And your toes remind me of Tinker Bell.”

  Liz could feel Lucy stiffen at the mention of Tinker Bell. Her slight body went still, rigid beneath Liz’s hands still cupping the arches of her feet.

  “Hey, you okay?” Quinn asked. But Lucy ignored her. She shook her feet out of Liz’s grip and slid off the stool. Then she walked carefully toward the living room, favoring her freshly painted toenails even as she disregarded Liz’s instructions to sit still. Liz opened her mouth to stop her, to tell her to be extra careful not to get nail polish on anything, but Quinn laid a hand on her mother’s arm. Let it go, her touch warned.

  “So,” Liz said, picking up the bottle of green polish and twisting the cap on. She made sure it was tight and then wrenched it one more time just to be safe. Her hands were trembling. “How’d it go?”

  “It was nothing,” Quinn whispered, waving the question away. Louder, she called to Lucy: “You can turn the TV on if you’d like.”

  The four-note measure of the television powering on tinkled through the air.

  “Where’s Walker?” Liz asked.

  “Putting a dead bolt on the boathouse.”

  “But—”

  “He has one for the cabin, too.” Quinn lifted her chin defiantly, daring Liz to object.

  She didn’t.

  “I saw Nora,” Quinn said.

  “You did? When?”

  “Just now. She’s in Key Lake, but we didn’t have much time to talk.”

  Liz didn’t know what to think. “Did she at least admit that Lucy is her daughter?”

  “About that.” Quinn’s gaze flicked over to where Lucy sat clicking through channels on the TV. The girl was thin-lipped, and Liz thought maybe even a bit pale. Why? What had set her off? But she didn’t have time to contemplate. Quinn was talking again. “I think we were wrong.”

  “What do you mean?” Liz had lost the thread of the conversation.

  “I think we were wrong about Nora being Lucy’s mother.”

  Liz humphed. “That’s ridiculous. It all fits. Lucy has Sanford eyes.”

  “Listen.” Quinn seemed nervous, jittery even. “Nora made me leave, but before she did, she and Ethan were talking about Tiffany Barnes.”

  That name made all the fine hairs on Liz’s tanned arms stand on end. But she seized the less problematic issue. “Who’s Ethan?”

  “A friend of Nora’s. He came to Key Lake with her. But—”

  “Tiffany,” Liz whispered. It was almost reverent. Why did that girl keep coming up? “What does she have to do with all of this? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I know. I haven’t seen her since the summer Nora graduated high school. I didn’t realize that they kept in touch, but I think they must have.”

  “So what were Nora and her friend talking about?” Liz asked, her mouth unusually dry. She could feel something buzzing at the corners of her consciousness, distant alarm bells that were starting their high, insistent whine. But she had no idea what they meant.

  “They were talking about Lucy, I think. And Tiffany. And some guy … He was there, Mom. He was the reason Nora made me leave.”

  Liz shook her head in an effort to clear it. “Tall, thick, built like a wrestler? Dark hair, dark eyes?”

  “That’s the guy.”

  Liz gave her hands a little shake, trying to dislodge the hysteria that was creeping across her skin. “Where does Tiffany Barnes fit into all of this?”

  Quinn’s attention swept to Lucy. It was an innocuous shift, but Liz followed her daughter’s gaze and saw Lucy through a different lens.

  The truth clicked into place like a bolt sliding home.

  Liz closed her eyes very deliberately for a moment, trying to shut out her own suspicion. It was no use. She snapped them open and met Quinn’s quiet gaze. “Tiffany is Lucy’s mother. Then … ?”

  “JJ.”

  Quinn said it so quietly Liz didn’t actually hear her daughter utter the two syllables that felt like an indictment—she watched her mouth them. But, really, Quinn didn’t have to say anything at all. Liz knew. Maybe she had known all along.

  JJ had been obsessed with Tiffany. A crush, Liz had thought. And why not let them give it a try? Go out on a few dates so JJ could get her out of his system? Tiffany wasn’t right for him at all and everyone knew it. If he could only realize that obvious truth for himself, the strange, almost magnetic pull she had on him might be broken. But Nora forbid it—and Jack. Sr., too. For once, they were aligned on something, and Liz didn’t stop to wonder at the motives behind their sudden alliance. She just relished the fact that her husband and their firstborn daughter had finally found a square inch of common ground. JJ, on the other hand, was outraged.

  If Liz remembered correctly, and she knew that she did, Tiffany was just as enamored with JJ as he was with her. Classic good boy, bad girl scenario. Or something like that. It all made perfect sense. A secret relationship? A one-night stand? Did it matter?

  And did it change anything if JJ was Lucy’s father instead of Nora being her mother? Liz figured she was probably being politically incorrect, but yes, this changed everything. JJ was married, expecting a baby of his own. He—presumably—had no idea that there was a gorgeous little girl who might someday call him Daddy. But what if he did? What if he had known all along?

  Liz’s heart sank like a stone as another detail clicked into place. The phone call she had overheard all those years ago wasn’t between Jack Sr. and Nora—it was between her husband and Tiffany Barnes. He had sent her away, had threatened her. Jack Sr. had known all along and had done everything in his power to protect his son. Oh, JJ. Liz’s throat tightened around tears, but she refused to let them fall. Let him be ignorant, she wished. Please, let him be stupid and insensitive and immature instead of malicious and hateful and cruel.

  Let us be a part of Lucy’s life, even if that’s the last thing Tiffany wants.

  Liz was surprised at the depth of her own emotion. Hadn’t she been ambivalent only hours ago? But how could she be? The affection she felt for Lucy was fresh as a bud and just as precious. Blood was thicker than water, or so they said, and Liz felt like she suddenly, irrevocably knew exactly what that meant.

  “What are we going to do?” Quinn rasped.

  Liz tapped her lips with her fingertips, willing herself to come up with a solution, to once again step in and clean up the mess that someone in her life had made. That was her job, after all: righter of wrongs, fixer of all things broken. It was what mothers did.

  “I’m going to call him,” she said, finally. Her phone was on the counter and she grabbed for it, but Quinn got there first. She snatched it up and held it away from Liz.

  “Really? You think a phone call is the right way to tell JJ he has a daughter?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not going to tell him anything. I’m going to tell him we nee
d to talk.”

  “But—”

  The doorbell interrupted their argument before it could heat up.

  “Are you expecting someone?” Liz asked warily, eyeing the hallway that led to the door.

  “No. But I’m sure it’s Nora.” Quinn stalled for a moment, looking back and forth between her mother and the concealed entryway. “Just, listen, okay?” she urged. “Let Nora talk. Let her say what she needs to say.”

  “Are you implying that I don’t—”

  “Please.”

  “Fine, fine.” Liz threw up her hands and turned her attention to the bottles of fingernail polish that still littered the counter. She began to gather them up one by one, checking and double-checking the lids to make sure they were on securely and then depositing them back in the Rubbermaid. In order by color and shade because it was the only thing she could do in the moment to put things right in her world.

  Liz was in a private place, a locked room in her mind, where everything was dark and hushed and smooth—no edges, no worries, nothing to make her frustrated or angry or sad—when the sound of Quinn calling fractured her fragile peace.

  “Mom? I need you to come here.”

  Of course. Liz smoothed the front of her shirt and gave her hair a fluff. It had been a while since she had seen Nora and she was walking a fine line between wanting to touch her baby girl and wishing she could smack her around a little. Not that she had ever given in to corporal punishment. That was Jack Sr.’s job, and he had carried it out with a cool, detached efficiency. And a ruler. Liz had once seen the red marks on the backs of Nora’s legs and it filled her with an indescribable fury. How dare he? But then, she had given him permission to do so. It was a decision they’d made together.

  Nora. Liz practiced her name, the way she would hold out her arms and hope that Nora fell into them. But that wasn’t like her eldest daughter at all, and by the time Liz rounded the corner she was confused and hopeful, scared and upset. How did her children always manage to make things so difficult?