The Passing Storm by Christine Nolfi

Chapter 12

The white Colonial was dark. Cutting the engine, Griffin surveyed the other houses on his street. All were aglow, the parents inside helping their children finish homework or watching TV. The older couples, he imagined, were quietly chatting or spending a few solitary hours reading.

Griffin liked being single. He liked it less at night. There was no one to share his day with, or to cuddle with on the couch. He missed intimacy, of course, but not the heavy expectations. At times, he was convinced he’d never find a woman he clicked with on all levels—intellectually, physically, and emotionally.

Maybe he should get a dog. A lumbering husky or an energetic retriever to greet him at the end of the day. His office was only ten minutes away—he’d drop in at lunchtime for a quick game of fetch.

The night was still young. On the drive back from his parents’ house, the Cavaliers had beaten the Pelicans in the game’s final seconds. Before dinner and after, there hadn’t been a way to catch his sister alone. He considered calling Sally but dismissed the idea. A difficult conversation was best handled in person.

He was skimming email on his laptop when she appeared at the living room’s threshold. For a tall woman, Sally possessed the stealth of a cat.

“Don’t you knock?” he teased, glad to see her. He set the laptop aside.

“Since when does anyone in the Marks family knock? Dad insists we have keys to each other’s houses. One of his many quirks.”

“We should rebel.”

“You first.” Sally laughed. “I’m used to Dad handing down edicts from on high. He’s been doing it all my life. All your life too.”

Opening the liquor cabinet, she assessed the bottles on the wine rack. Selecting a merlot, she eyed him questioningly. He nodded.

As Sally poured, he said, “Is this surprise visit of the psychic variety? Your timing is perfect. I need your advice.”

With affection she studied him. Physically they were similar. The same bland Marks features and generous height. Still, his sister was by far more attractive. Sally’s innate kindness shone through. Her common sense was unfailing. She was better at facing problems head-on. Even during the Boston years, Griffin had solicited her advice long-distance.

“I can’t speak to my psychic abilities, but there are two reasons why I’m here.” She handed him a glass. “For starters, I needed to drop off paperwork at Yuna’s house.”

“For the June event in Chardon Square?” His sister enjoyed social activities, working on the school’s PTO and for local organizations.

“I’m on the committee for Night on the Square. I promised Yuna I’d get information and bids from local restaurants. We’re discussing menu options.”

Yuna’s family lived next door. “She’s running the event?”

“Oh, you know how she is. Yuna prefers to keep everything democratic—Chardon’s original diplomat—but she’s in charge.”

“What’s the other reason for your visit?”

In response, she lovingly pressed her finger to his chest. As she’d done when he was five or fifteen.

“You tell me, baby brother. You weren’t yourself at dinner. You hardly spoke. What’s bothering you?”

The conversation was months overdue. Floundering, he wondered why he didn’t go to Sally immediately. Or later, once it became clear he was being drawn into a complicated situation.

There was no simple way to begin. At a loss, he said, “I knew Lark. We met not long before she died.”

Sally’s lips pursed. “How is that possible? You’ve done everything in your power to avoid Rae and her family.”

Only once did Griffin break the self-imposed rule; there was no reason to enlighten his sister. At Lark’s memorial service, Sally and her family sat in a pew near the front. He stood in the rear of the somber church, drowning in a sea of emotion he didn’t dare analyze. From his vantage point, only the fire-burst of Rae’s hair was visible in the crowd of mourners.

Dismissing the reverie, he said, “Believe me, I didn’t go out of my way to meet Rae’s daughter. Far from it.”

“Where did you meet?”

“At my firm.” When disbelief flooded his sister’s face, he calmly added, “Lark used to come by. Fairly often, toward the end. Please don’t quiz your daughter about the visits—I doubt Jackie knew anything about it. Lark always came in alone.”

The wineglass paused midway to his sister’s mouth. “Why was Lark popping into Design Mark? What interest did she have in the company?”

“She was researching the gig economy for a school report. She needed background on website design and the educational requirements for a career in graphic design. Or so she said.”

“And this was . . . ?”

“The visits began in early September. Lark ducked into my office when my assistant wasn’t at her desk. She launched into an introduction, as if I didn’t know who she was.”

“That’s gutsy.”

“You’re telling me. I didn’t have that much gumption until I began my career.”

Sally kicked off her shoes. “Having a paycheck on the line will teach anyone a thing or two about chutzpah. I’m glad you found yours.” She swung her feet onto the coffee table.

“It took practice to hone the skill set. But not for Lark. She was perfectly at ease. She breezed into my office like she owned the place.” Discussing this was difficult, and Griffin set his wineglass aside. “It seemed perfectly innocent. A kid doing research for school and needing information. In retrospect, she must’ve planned the whole thing out.”

“From a ninth grader’s perspective, website design is cool. All those big-screen monitors and the design programs—nirvana for an adolescent.”

“She was fascinated with the tech.”

Sally regarded him with concern. “What was it like, meeting Rae’s daughter?”

“Difficult,” he admitted. “Don’t get me wrong—I don’t bear Rae ill will. Whatever her reasons for breaking off our relationship back in high school, it no longer matters. Still, I didn’t relish having a face-to-face with her daughter.” At sea, he lowered his elbows to his knees. Rehashing old hurts wasn’t productive. He’d abandoned speculation about Rae’s motives years ago. “Seeing Lark in the flesh . . . I was struck by how much she resembled her grandmother Hester. The same doll face and light-blonde hair. The same fascination with art. Her personality was another matter.”

With understanding, Sally nodded. “She had Rae’s boldness, the same self-confidence.” She took a reflexive sip of her wine. “Why didn’t that trait come through from our parents? I mean, look at Mom and Dad. No one ever pushes them around. Why are we both . . . milquetoasts?”

A much-needed moment of levity, and Griffin smiled. “I can’t believe you’re asking. If either of us was born with confidence, Dad excised it with surgical precision.”

“Remember Dad’s grilling sessions?”

“I try not to.”

“Even over small decisions, we’d have to explain ourselves.” Sally gave a mock shiver. “I hated those sessions. Why couldn’t Dad let us wing it?”

“He’s too controlling. I grew up believing my first impulse was always the wrong one. A logical conclusion since the great and infallible Everett Marks was sure to question any choice I made.” Letting the topic go, Griffin succumbed to the pull of curiosity. “There’s something about Rae I don’t get,” he said, breezing past the instinct to protect his emotions.

“Which is?”

“How does a woman with enough guts to climb the Himalayas become the office manager for an insurance agency? It’s not a career I’d describe as colorful. When we were kids, Rae was fearless.”

Sally gave the query serious consideration. “My opinion? Insurance represents safety. Having a baby right out of high school, and Connor’s depression—Rae needed to anchor herself. What better than a career in risk avoidance?”

“Avoiding risk doesn’t sound like a draw for a woman like Rae.”

“Little brother, you haven’t spoken to her since high school. She changed in her twenties. When Lark was a baby, Rae went through a phase where she seemed afraid of her own shadow. Walking by on the street, she avoided eye contact. If someone called out in greeting, she pretended not to hear. Eventually she came out of her shell and regained some of her spunk. But not right away.”

The description was pitiful and sad. “She took her mother’s death hard,” Griffin said, aware her daughter’s passing was an even greater blow. An unimaginable loss for any loving parent. “It would explain the changes in Rae’s behavior.”

“No, there was more to it. Another disappointment, something else that left her feeling beaten down. It seemed like one day she was graduating from high school and the next, she was pushing a baby carriage down the grocery aisles. Perhaps the gossip wore her down. Some of it was awfully cruel once her pregnancy began to show.” Sally picked at imaginary lint on her sweater. The memory clearly saddened her. “Whatever the cause, it took a long time for her to get past. Not that you were here to witness her worst years, Griffin. You left for college, then moved to Boston. You never looked back.”

There was no denying the assessment. During college and later, when he lived on the coast, Griffin only flew in for the occasional holiday. He never stayed in Ohio for longer than the weekend. Never asked for news about Rae. The shock of her pregnancy was best carried in private. An agony, but he’d refused to ask Sally for updates on Rae and her child.

Retrieving his wineglass, he said, “Raising a child alone couldn’t have been easy. All I’m saying is that I didn’t expect Rae to settle for a dull career.”

His sister gave a disapproving glance. “Look who’s being critical. All through childhood, you were a pushover for anything with four legs and fur. I was convinced you’d become a vet. And where did you land? Griffin, you have zero artistic talent.”

“Yet I spend my life dealing with graphic designers and pitching website design.”

“Exactly. People rarely end up where you expect.” Softening the criticism, Sally added, “I am sure of one thing. Rae’s mother influenced you. Hester Langdon might not be the primary reason you chose an art career, but she did have an impact.”

A suspicion he shared. Where Everett had made Griffin feel inadequate, the Langdons had encouraged him to thrive. Beneath their gentle influence, he came to appreciate creativity.

“I admired Rae’s mother, and Connor,” he admitted. “Hanging out at their farm was light-years easier than our homelife. They never had an agenda, never cared about the plans Rae or I made for college, or what we’d study. Even after my friendship with Rae became something more, they treated me like a son.”

“They thought you would become their son. After you and Rae fell for each other and you were both accepted to Ohio University, it seemed like a done deal. Everyone presumed you’d get engaged freshman year of college. If the White Hurricane hadn’t taken Rae’s mother, I’m sure you would have.”

“Most high school sweethearts don’t stick through college, Sally. There’s too much opportunity to stray.”

“Are you admitting to lots of extracurricular pursuits at Ohio University? My tenderhearted brother on the prowl? Spare me the details. I’m sure I don’t want to hear them—except tell me you kept your promise.”

“I never broke it.”

Worry edged Sally’s features as she canvassed his face. “I’ve always wondered.” Then relief smoothed the lines on her brow. “I’m glad you didn’t do something foolish.”

Griffin was moved by her impulse to protect him. At times, they disagreed fiercely. Not often, and he was thankful to have a sister who kept his best interests at heart.

Rising, she refilled her glass. “For the record, I wasn’t a saint in college either. Don’t tell my husband. Trenton still believes I walk on water.”

“Your secrets are safe.”

“For now, at least. Remind me to check the photographic record before Mom and Jackie start working on my album. I have a feeling there are snaps from Oberlin I should destroy.”

“Better get crackin’.”

Rejoining him on the couch, she asked, “Last fall, how often did Lark visit Design Mark?”

“Right up to the week of the slumber party. She came in just a few days before.”

“Oh, Griffin. You saw Lark the week she died? Why didn’t you tell me any of this sooner?”

A suitable answer refused to materialize. He felt sick then, unmoored. Like he’d felt that January when the White Hurricane’s first salvos of beating wind and pelting snow caught him driving home from a part-time job at his father’s dealership, and his car hydroplaned. The tires skidding, nearly hurtling him off the road. The snow suddenly blinding. The wild staccato of his pulse beating in his ears as he fought to keep the wheels on the road.

Or later, how he felt when power was restored to a shocked and battered northeast Ohio. Learning of Rae’s failed attempt to rescue her mother, and Hester freezing to death.

And in March: how the tragedy kicked the bottom out of his world. Rae breaking off their romance with icy resolve and without explanation. Wrecking their plans to attend Ohio University together. Leaving him too heartbroken to stay in Chardon for more than a few days after they graduated in June.

Bookcases lined the living room’s back wall. Approaching, Griffin hesitated before the only shelf devoid of books. A box, too beautiful for competition with dusty tomes, sat alone on the shelf. A keepsake intricately and lovingly designed.

Hewn of cherrywood, the whimsical treasure chest was the approximate size and depth of a shoebox. Beneath layers of golden lacquer, rivers of crushed glass flowed across the top. A mythic, miniature shoreline sprinkled with conical horn-snail shells and wisps of embroidery thread. More lacquer encased the four sides, where a variety of tiny antique buttons formed a loosely geometric design.

Griffin kept the box in plain sight. A physical reminder—a misguided act of contrition. He knew his inaction sixteen years ago damned him. As did his missteps with Rae during that year.

His voice, unlike his heart, was calm when he spoke again.

“The last time Lark stopped by, she brought this with her.” Placing the box on the coffee table, he steeled himself for what would come next.

Leaning forward, Sally expelled a soft breath.