Shards of My Heart (The Forgotten Ones Book 2)

by Nellie K Neves

  I went all out on the food, roasted a pork from the hog we slaughtered last summer, made rosemary honey carrots fresh from the garden, and added a chef’s salad complete with eggs from the coop. I’ve put away the bottle of wine Mona has pulled out at least six times. This last time I had to hide it in the hall closet.

  “He’s a recovering alcoholic, Mona,” I say as I mix up a batch of Oliver’s favorite punch.

  “Oh, one glass of wine won’t count,” she says as she returns to the kitchen to search it out again. “You hid it, didn’t you?”

  “Drink the punch, Mona. You’re not mature enough for anything stronger tonight.” I set the salad on the table.

  I look cool and collected on the outside, but I’m a wreck. I’ve changed outfits three times. Put on makeup just to take it off again. And then put it back on, and then took it off. Honestly, I’m not sure what’s left on my face. With my luck, I’ve got one eye done and half a set of lips.

  But at least I did my hair. He’s only ever seen it up, tightly wound in a bun and tonight I took the time to straighten my long blonde locks and curl the ends. It’s not much, but compared to how little I do for work, it’s something.

  I’m checking my reflection in the mirror again, debating removing the bit of mascara that’s clung to my lashes, when I hear the car door slam outside. Hoping to save him from the onslaught of the other two, I sneak out the front door and shut it behind me without a sound.

  “Oh good,” Zane says, “it’s the right house. I wasn’t sure Wilbur would actually take me to the correct address. He likes pranks, doesn’t he? He swapped my cereal milk for craft glue and water this morning.”

  “He always says it keeps the magic alive.” I step off the porch to walk him in. “Thankfully, Cecelia agrees, or there might be trouble.”

  From behind his back Zane pulls out a bouquet of orange lilies, pink roses, and yellow sunflowers. “I brought these for yo—” he catches himself before he can finish and ends with, “your Mona. Since she won the contest.”

  I press my lips together, but the smile escapes anyway. “She’ll love them. Not a lot of gentlemen callers these days.”

  From his pocket he pulls out a toy truck. “This is for Oliver. He probably has dozens, but I figured little boys like trucks, right?”

  “He does have dozens, but since this one is from Gregory McMellen, it’ll be his favorite.”

  We start toward the door, but he stalls a step behind me. “I love your place. This is amazing. Turn of the century?”

  “Yes, last century at least.”

  After my run in with Jennie Baker, I feel the need to clarify.

  I push open the door and hold it for him. Setting the flowers on the counter, I turn back and offer to take his coat. He’s mid-way pulling it off when a shriek shatters the air. Like a trained military combatant, I hit high alert and search for Oliver.

  But there’s no threat.

  Just Mona.

  Losing her mind.

  Because Zane Alexander is in my house.

  Meanwhile, my heart hammers in my chest, and I might pass out.

  That doesn’t bother her, not when she’s come face to face with her favorite movie star.

  “Oh, my gosh!” She shrieks again, but thankfully this time has the sense to cover her mouth to stifle it. “You’re here. You’re really here.”

  Zane shoots a quick glance in my direction as if to ask if he’s in danger. I’m still trying to avoid a heart attack. I don’t have time to save him as well.

  Mona is stuck somewhere between rushing him or falling down and crying. In a million years I never would have expected this reaction.

  Leave it to my son to break the tension.

  Tearing around the corner with a stuffed monkey in hand, he throws himself into Zane’s arms like they’re old friends. “Gwegowy McMewen! You tame!”

  I don’t even know where to start. A part of me thinks it would be a valid life decision to walk out the door and pretend I’ve never seen these people in my life.

  “Zane, this is Oliver, my son. Obviously, he’s incredibly shy and well-behaved.” I peel him and his monkey out of my guest’s arms. “And this,” I point to the woman fanning her face with a dish towel, “is Mona.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Zane says as he extends his hand to Mona.

  I’m surprised she doesn’t faint when she takes it. She does blubber. At least eight unrecognizable syllables of gibberish before she goes back to fanning herself with the dishrag. It’s another six blurbs of sound before she disappears into the kitchen, still never taking her eyes off him until the door shuts.

  “You weren’t kidding,” Zane whispers. “She really is my biggest fan.”

  I raise my hand as if in court. “I swear I had no idea she would act like that. I never would have put you through this.”

  As usual, his grin is easy. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.” His eyebrow quirks as his grin deepens. “I mean when you get to my level of fame it’s—”

  I smack him with the back of my hand. “Stop. I know you too well to go star struck on you.”

  “Come on, just one little squeal?” he begs as if it’s important. “You’ve seen what, three of my movies now?”

  “I didn’t like Call to Arms though. Too much blood and mud.”

  The smile fades away and for a second I’m afraid I offended him, but Zane says, “You look good, Finn. I like seeing you at home.”

  I struggle to find something to say, but Oliver wiggles like a lizard, and I have to shift my weight to keep him on my hip. “Oli, you want to tell Mr. Alexander your favorite part of the movie?”

  Oliver brightens as the conversation turns back to him. “When da boawd goes bang and you faw awwww,” he lets his voice trail along as if he’s falling down the stairs, “da way down.”

  “Yeah,” Zane leans in close to talk to my son, “everyone likes that part except for one person. Do you know who, Oliver?”

  Oliver leans forward until they’re nearly nose to nose. “Who?” he asks.

  “Me,” Zane tells him. He touches his finger to his forehead. “I got owies all over my head from that scene, little man. It hurt.”

  Little Oliver’s eyes narrow for a second before he leans forward and plants a kiss directly on Zane’s forehead. “Aw beddah!” he says, because kisses fix everything.

  “Oli!” I start to scold him, but Zane is laughing at my child’s boldness.

  “Maybe you can get your mom to do that, dude,” Zane says. “Might fix me up real good.”

  My cheeks go hot in an instant. “Dinner’s ready. I’ll show you the way.”

  “I’m just offering helpful suggestions,” Zane says from behind me with that trademark charm.

  “It’s noted,” I tease right back.

  I’ll admit it. The offer is tempting.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Thankfully, Mona finds her composure at dinner. She and Zane carry the conversation. She’s worse than the paparazzi with her questions, but he never seems to mind answering. Early on, I figure he’s happy for one loyal fan after everything he’s gone through. Mona is certainly loyal, not even once does she ask about rehab or his drug use, or how his sobriety is going, it’s all about her favorite films. But as the evening progresses, I notice his casual glances in my direction as I help Oliver with his food. Yes, he’s talking to Mona, but I get the feeling he’s talking to her because she’s important to me.

  “Goodness,” Mona says as she finishes with question two-point-five billion, “I think I’m talking your ear off, Mr. Alexander.”

  “Please, it’s Zane,” he says. “Alexander is a stage name anyway.”

  “Oh really?” Mona says as she leans in. Questions two-point-six billion through three billion play across her features. With one sharp look, I shut her down. Everyone should be allowed a few mysteries in their life.

  “Who wants some cake?” I stand up to retrieve the precut slices from the kitchen counter.

  Oliver is
already chanting “cake, cake, cake” from his booster seat as I expect, but when Zane joins in, my little boy squeals in delight.

  “He does it too, mama!”

  I roll my eyes, but I’m sure he can see that I love when he makes Oliver laugh. I set the cake in front of Zane and our hands brush, stealing my breath right out of my chest.

  “This looks amazing,” he says. “You made it?”

  “Yes,” I say, but my voice is untrustworthy.

  “Finny is a marvelous cook and even better at baking. If not for her skill in cosmetology, I think she should open a bakery in town.”

  “How did you get so good as a makeup artist?” Zane asks as I take my seat again.

  I shoot a death glare at Mona, but she never planned to give away my secret.

  “Practice,” I say, and it’s not a lie.

  Recognizing the finality in my voice, Zane turns back to Mona. “What else can you tell me about Finley? She plays it all pretty close to the chest.”

  How I wish I could speak telepathically with Mona. Just five seconds to beg her not to say the wrong thing, or tell him about my past, or let him see how many cracks I have in my soul. But all I can do is wait.

  “As you might know, Zane,” the name gives her a thrill as she says it, “I’ve had many foster kids come through my doors over the years, but Finley, she’s the one I count as my own. She’s my daughter, the light of my life and the treasure I’ve always sought. They don’t make them like Finn.”

  “I have to agree, and I’ve told her that on many occasions, I assure you,” Zane says as he cuts into his cake. “Has she always been this tight lipped?”

  Mona considers her answer, for that I am grateful. “Circumstances have a way of creating walls, wouldn’t you agree? It’s when those walls come down that we have to count our blessings.”

  My brow furrows because I’m not following her cryptic words, but somehow Zane is nodding like she’s speaking his language.

  “Patience,” he says. “Interesting. Thank you.”

  “How’s the cake, Oli?” I ask, hoping to ease the anxiety building in my heart.

  He’s a mess of chocolate crumbs and frosting smeared over his lips. I don’t know why he has to get it in his hair, but every single time, blond goes to chocolate brunette.

  “Mmm, Mama. I wike it,” he says through cocoa-stained teeth.

  “I like it too,” Zane says, not to be outdone by the three-year-old. “You really could have a bakery.”

  I wave him off because he’s being nice. “Who would put on your scars every morning?”

  Emotions flash in his eyes, I swear I see fear, even distrust, but he brushes it away like dust on a shelf. “I don’t know, but now you have to clean out your trunk.”

  “Why is that?” Mona asks, not knowing our running joke.

  “I’ve surely gained fifteen pounds eating all this delicious food, and your daughter never has room for my bike. Wardrobe is going to yell at me tomorrow when nothing fits.”

  “You live a hard life, Mr. Alexander.” I collect the dessert plates. I’m headed for the kitchen when Mona stops me.

  “Oh Finny, I forgot to put the chickens in when you asked. How about you and Zane go out? I’ll put Oliver in a bath and get started on these dishes.”

  “It shouldn’t take that long to put them away,” I say, but she’s shooing me toward the door. Before the door closes, I note her wink she sends to Zane, as if this might have been planned all along.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The evening air nips at me like a voracious puppy. I snag my jacket off a hook inside the garage before we step out into the backyard. Zane’s hands are stuffed deep in his pockets as he follows beside me.

  “Do we have to catch them?” he asks as we head for the coop.

  “No.” It’s a common question. “They know when to go in. It’s a safety measure built in their brains, I guess. Bad things come out at night, so they find somewhere safe to be while it’s dangerous.”

  For once, it’s Zane who averts his eyes. Knowing my own motives, I give him space. I duck into the coop, planning to leave him outside. A chicken coop is no place for a movie star to schlep around, but he follows me anyway. Sixteen hens of all different colors perch on their roosts and glower down at the intruder.

  “Wow, that’s a lot of chickens. All hens? Or is there a rooster?”

  “There was.” I check waters and food, making a mental reminder that I need to get the pellets from my truck.

  “What happened to him?”

  “I cut his head off and cooked him.” I turn around, and Zane is watching me with wide eyes. Feeling the need to explain that I’m not homicidal, I say, “He came after Oliver when he was a toddler. Spurred him pretty bad. I didn’t need that kind of violence around my son.”

  “Enough said. Mom’s should keep their kids safe.”

  “Do you want to check for eggs?” I ask him, hoping to steer away from the topic at hand. “They’re over in those wooden boxes.”

  To my surprise, he doesn’t balk at the manure on the floor or the loose feathers that flit through the air. Zane is curious to a fault, reminding me of Oliver when I ask him to do something for the first time. Pure trust, no questioning.

  “Woah, there are eggs in here!” Zane says as he peeks over the edge. “Can I take some home?”

  “Of course,” I say, laughing a bit at his excitement. “There should be a basket over there to carry them.”

  Like a criminal, Zane starts stuffing eggs in every pocket he has. “This one is green! Is that how you make green eggs and ham?”

  The innocence is almost more than my heart can take. “No, they’re all the same egg on the inside.”

  Through the dying light, Zane turns to look at me with squinted eyes. “You know, there’s a PSA in there about racism.”

  “Sure,” I say between giggles, “you take that nugget of knowledge back to LA, superstar.”

  “I will, and I’m taking my green egg too.”

  I tug on his arm. “Come on, before one of them poops on your head.”

  “They can do that?” He jumps sideways to get out from under the long line of hens roosting over his head. “That’s got to be against the rules.”

  “Hens don’t abide by the Geneva Convention,” I say as I drag him out.

  I latch the door on the coop and drop the cloths that cover the windows to keep the freezing air out. The pigs rustle in their shelter, a mixture of snorts and shifting hay. In the distance, Oliver’s pony knickers. All the sounds combine with the dying light of day and brilliant fuchsia sunset.

  “I love it out here,” Zane says as he spins to take in the lot of it. “This is all yours?”

  “It’s about three acres. Pigs, horses, chickens, I might get a goat or two.”

  He bites his lip as if he’s not sure he should ask his next question. “You got it in the divorce?”

  I stare at the ground as we walk. “This and Oliver. It’s all that mattered.”

  “Does he ever see his dad?”

  “No,” I say as I start to walk to the stable. “That was the deal.”

  “Does it have anything to do with the scar on your eyebrow?”

  The question hobbles my feet, catching me so I can’t go another step.

  “Or the fact that you won’t look me in the eye for longer than four seconds?”

  It floods back like a wave. That night that made me leave. The feeling of Todd’s palm on the back of my neck. I feel all five fingers cutting into my skin as he throws me face first into the coffee table.

  I don’t know how to answer Zane. I don’t know how to put into words what happened during those dark years, or why it took me so long to leave. I can’t explain it to myself, so how do I explain it to him?

  “Yes,” I say, and my feet are free again to move to the barn.

  Both horses are eating hay, but the pony is chewing on the quarter horse’s tail. He’s a little punk. I pull the tail free and toss a bit more hay
to the pony. Zane hovers at the edge, content to watch me run through these chores as if he’s watching a movie of his own.

  “Did he hurt Oliver?” Zane asks after a minute of silence.

  “I never let him.”

  “You’re a good mom,” he replies with more emotion than I expect.

  I pat my quarter horse on the neck and receive a loving nicker before he digs into the trough to find a few more coveted pieces of alfalfa leaves.

  “Where’d you get the toy truck?” I ask Zane as I latch the stable door closed. “Or the flowers for that matter?”

  “Cecelia felt bad for Wilbur feeding me glue, so she made him give me a ride to the superstore.”

  “That’s thirty minutes from here.”

  Zane shrugs. “I left out the part of the story where I got sick. I didn’t notice the change at first and ate a bunch of it.”

  “You didn’t notice glue?”

  “I didn’t want to offend them if their milk had gone bad. I was trying to be polite. Plus, after all the junk I’ve put in my body, food doesn’t always taste right.”

  The sun is gone, the sunset fades. Stars wake up overhead like friends I haven’t seen in ages. Zane stops and faces me, knowing full well that I’ll drop my eyes and turn away.

  “It was enlightening,” Zane moves to intercept me, “The store, I mean. I saw a man on a mule, not in the store mind you, just riding up to it, and then there were three girls outside selling popcorn, not flavored, just bags of popped microwave popcorn. Then there were the wardrobe choices. Interesting place, to say the least.”

  I laugh and he’s encouraged because at least I’ve stopped running away.

  “I bought flowers, the toy truck, a betta fish and fishbowl and some reusable bags.”

  “Where are the bags?” I ask him.

  “I forgot them,” he says, “like I always do. But I bought them for you. Because they’re good for the environment. I got you the good cloth ones to try them out.”

  “Oh sure, Mona gets flowers, and I get bags.”

  Zane shoots me a look as if to say, If you think the flowers were for Mona, then you’re insane.

  “I thought you’d think of me when you use the bags,” he says. Our eyes meet, and for once I can’t look down. Zane opens his mouth to say something, but I can’t deal with where he’s taking me. I change the subject.