Broken Pieces: A Novel Read Online Free

reached for both, slid them to the end of the conference table.
    Byron tapped his expensive pen against the tabletop as he studied every angle on my design and digit on my financial projections.
    Yet I continued my presentation unfazed. Adrenaline pushed aside my exhaustion as I moved from point to point, design element to design element.
    I’d married my love of reclaiming old materials with techniques I’d honed through years of practice—making multiple cuts on the same piece of wood to yield intricate trim and scrollwork, and fabricating large finished projects from carefully designed sections.
    Excitement surged through me, and I felt more alive than I’d felt in years, my confidence shining, my words flowing. I’d finally captured Byron’s full attention by the time I made my closing remarks.
    “We’ll be in touch,” he said a few moments later, after I’d gathered my materials and shaken hands with each member of the committee.
    I ended my presentation more forcefully than I typically concluded potential client meetings. After all, the renovation was most likely a once-in-a-lifetime chance.
    “I want this job,” I said, meeting each of their gazes in turn. “I will deliver a product that exceeds your expectations. I look forward to your call.”
    Then I gathered up my portfolio, held my head high, and walked out.

CHAPTER THREE
    Moments later I sat at the counter inside the Paris River Café and soaked in the murmur of the early lunch crowd. Coffee brewing. Dishes clattering. Voices raised and dropped in earnest conversation.
    I’d been sitting at this counter at some point each day since Jessica Capshaw, the owner and one of my oldest friends, had opened the restaurant.
    I worked alone. I lived alone. I liked it that way. Yet here, cozied up to the counter in the company of my dearest friend, I enjoyed the buzz of activity that filled the restaurant.
    After she’d lost her heart—and her life savings—to her ex-husband, Jessica had returned to Paris with two small children. With the help of her family, she’d rebuilt the café, turning the once empty storefront into a gathering place for good food and great people.
    I studied her as she worked her space, taking orders, making small talk, and pouring coffee. Her smile never wavered, and the life in her eyes shone brightly.
    There were times when I envied Jessica, but mainly I admired her. I knew myself well enough to know I could never be her—juggling work and motherhood. In our circle of friends, she was the one who inspired calm and hope and positive thinking.
    Personally, I had no patience for that crap.
    “How are the kids?” I asked as she pulled out a twenty-ounce mug and poured me a cup of coffee.
    Eight-year-old Max and six-year-old Belle were the lights of her life, and while I knew her routine to be exhausting, she rarely showed the strain. Even now, she appeared effortlessly fresh and happy.
    “Amazing,” she said on a sigh. She waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t get me wrong, they’re driving me crazy and growing up way too fast, but they’re just . . .” Her voice trailed off as her blond brows pulled together. “Amazing.”
    “I don’t know how you do it.” And I meant that.
    But Jessica grinned and shrugged. “I just do.”
    I nodded, letting the questions of my past flash through my mind for a split second.
    How different might my life have been had my mother lived? Would I have married? Had children? Would we have settled in a house not far from my parents? Would we have shared Sunday dinners and backyard dances?
    Jessica’s smile faltered and she placed her hand on top of mine for the briefest of moments, evidently reading my mind. “I want to hear all about your presentation.” She hesitated momentarily. “And Albert.”
    Paris, New Jersey, population 1,326, give or take a few, was notorious for the speed at which news traveled.
    Her brows lifted as she waited for me to bare my soul, like a bartender who