The Passing Storm by Christine Nolfi

Chapter 14

At home, the living room was empty. Rae set the carryout on the kitchen counter.

“Dad? Quinn?”

From the hallway, she detected the click of nails on hardwood. Her arrival had alerted the family’s new four-legged member.

Shelby trotted in from wherever she’d been sleeping. Quinn’s bed, or Rae’s—lately the adventurous mutt roamed free, seeking out the coziest places in the house. Whenever the dog chased critters in dreamland, she slept belly up, her paws twitching and pedaling the air. The mutt’s voracious appetite was less amusing. A half-eaten snack left on a table or the counter was likely to disappear.

Shelby’s hunger was matched only by her stealth.

“Hey, girl.” She ruffled the dog’s ears. “Where is everyone?”

Wherever her father and Quinn had gone, they’d left the kitchen immaculate. The cabinets were scrubbed down and buffed to a high gleam. The spotless floor smelled delightfully of geraniums. Last week, Quinn suggested that Rae add the all-natural cleaning product to the grocery list.

Like the kitchen, the adjacent greenhouse was also spotless. There wasn’t a smidgen of mold on the glass panes. Junk that had been collecting against the walls for years—boxes of knickknacks, forgotten sporting equipment, and crates of old power tools—was cleared away.

Returning to the kitchen, Rae detected a clatter from below.

At the bottom of the basement stairwell, which led to a warren of musty rooms, her father was sealing a trash bag. He tossed the bag next to the others by the wall.

“What’s this?” She brushed a cobweb from his hair. “Getting a jump start on spring cleaning? You’re making great progress.”

“Thank Quinn. Spending the afternoon doing chores was his idea. Completely messed up my napping schedule. I was about to camp out on the couch when he came in from school. He noticed the chore list I’d been putting together. I’d left it on the kitchen table.”

The teen despised feeling like a charity case. Rae wished he’d accept their help with less fuss.

“How long is the list?” she asked.

“Two pages. I’d hoped we’d begin soon, maybe by the weekend. I didn’t expect him to get moving this fast.” Rubbing his back, Connor added, “The kid’s worried about paying us back. Or he wants to prove he can pull his own weight and isn’t looking for a free ride. Either way, he hasn’t stopped moving since he got home.”

“Dad, he’s our guest, not an indentured servant. Don’t let him go overboard. If he’s exhausted, how will he finish his homework tonight?” Rae peered through the gloom. “Where is he?”

“In one of the storage rooms. We were finishing up, and he decided to look around.” Leaning close, her father lowered his voice. “Lately the boy’s edgy. Have you noticed?”

“Not really. You see him more than I do. I haven’t spent much time with Quinn since we sprang his dog from prison.” Between work and duties for Night on the Square, her days were full. “At the moment, I’m more concerned about Yuna.”

“What’s wrong with Yuna?”

“She insists she’s fine. I don’t believe her.”

“What are you saying? Yuna’s dealing with a health issue she refuses to discuss?”

“I sure get that impression. If my best friend has a major health concern, would she hide it from me?” Rae didn’t want to entertain the notion. Yuna wasn’t just a friend. They were as tight as sisters—the inseparable kind. “There’s something going on, some reason she’s putting me on a guilt trip.”

“Don’t let your imagination run away with you. Who takes better care of herself than Yuna? I’ve never seen her eat so much as one potato chip. She’s got a real love affair with fresh fruits and vegetables. She’ll outlive the rest of us.” Her father eyed her closely. “What’s the guilt trip about?”

“Night on the Square. She wants me at the committee meetings, helping to make the weekly decisions and playing the role of her sidekick. A big ask. I’m totally not interested.”

“Your cowardly lion routine is getting old.” Connor lifted his shoulders. “No offense.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Stop wandering alone in the wilderness. I know you miss Lark—I miss her too. Which is beside the point. The grieving is hard, I get it. But you can’t stop living. Lark wouldn’t want that.”

“Probably not.”

“You’re in your prime, kiddo. Do you have any idea how fast middle age comes? Like a bullet train roaring down the tracks.” Her father sized her up in a manner indicating he found her lacking. A lost cause because she wasn’t having enough fun.

His silvered brows lowered. “Rae, I want to ask you something.”

A funny feeling warned her where this was going. “Oh, I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Get ready, because I’m asking.” He paused for effect. “When was the last time you enjoyed the pleasures of romance?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Too long.

With ill-concealed pity, her father shook his head. “It’ll do you good, to get out more. What’s the harm in trying?”

“Gosh, I don’t know. Because I wouldn’t know where to begin?”

“Fair enough.” The admission that she’d even consider his advice put merriment on his features. “What about a dating site? Fill out your profile and see what happens. If you’re nervous about dipping your toe in the water, keep me posted. I’ll help by throwing you into the deep end. Yuna will help too.”

“I’m not ready for the deep end. With or without a life preserver.”

“Yes, you are. Which is why Yuna’s guilt-tripping you. It’s easier than kicking you in the keister. Although I’m sure she’d like to do that too.”

Insult and amusement vied for prominence in Rae’s heart. An improvement over the months of sadness, she decided.

“Thanks for being on my side,” she sputtered. “I can always count on you.”

“Guess again. I’m on Yuna’s side.”

“My, you’re in a salty mood.” She gestured toward the stairwell. “Want to fire off more insults, or dig into Thai? Dinner’s getting cold.”

“I’m famished, but dinner can wait a sec.” Connor peered through the basement’s shadows, apparently to ensure Quinn was out of earshot. “Are Quinn’s parents back from Atlanta?”

“I don’t know, Dad. It’s not like I keep tabs on their whereabouts.” She preferred not to let the Galeckis invade her thoughts. They were damaged, cruel people. It was best for everyone involved if they left Quinn alone. “Does it matter?”

“It would sure explain why Quinn’s edgy. Have you noticed him avoiding eye contact sometimes when you’re talking to him? I’ll tell you what that means—he’s hiding something.”

Considering, Rae toyed with a lock of her unruly hair. There were moments when Quinn seemed unable to look at her directly. Just this morning, while filling her travel mug for the drive into work, she’d asked breezy questions about school. A typical morning greeting before heading out. Quinn’s attention remained glued on his cereal bowl.

Children—and teenagers—avoided eye contact for a variety of reasons. Guilt over a secret infraction. Nerves regarding an upcoming test at school. Or worry over a falling-out with friends. From what she could tell, Quinn didn’t have friends at the high school. There were no tests this week.

Which left the other possibilities her father seemed to imply. Did Quinn feel guilty for reasons undisclosed? Or worried?

Probably worried. His parents threw him out. It doesn’t mean they’ll stop giving him a hard time. If I were in his place, I’d worry about Mik and Penny making my life miserable too.

His parents refused to support him. It didn’t mean they’d stop the emotional abuse. Rae sensed they viewed him more like a possession, one they were in the habit of mistreating. A conclusion that made her both angry and heartsick.

“It’s like there’s something he wants to tell us,” Connor said, clueing in to her private speculations. “He can’t bring himself to pipe up. I can’t help but wonder if his parents are having second thoughts about kicking him out. Remember what Quinn told us? They were drinking the night of his birthday, getting ready to hop a plane to Atlanta. People say the stupidest things when they’re under the influence.”

“I don’t care. Mik and Penny threw him out. What he does is no longer their business.” Concern edged through Rae. “Have they been in touch with Quinn?”

“Who knows? I’d check his text messages, but I don’t have the password. I’ve tried snooping when he taps in the code. No luck so far.”

“Dad!”

The conversation abruptly ended. From deep in the basement’s dusty bowels, Quinn shouted, “Connor, check this out!”

Her father bounced a thumb toward the rooms in back. “You first,” he advised. “See if you can encourage the kid to open up. Getting him to talk might take the feminine touch.”

“Don’t get your hopes up. If he doesn’t want to talk, I can’t pry his secrets loose.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“I suppose.”

Relenting, she went ahead, her nose itching in the dusty air. In the last room, Quinn was crouching amid a group of boxes that were instantly recognizable.

Rae’s breath caught. Delight sifted through her.

Beaming, Quinn held up a string of lights. “Look what I found!” If worry about his parents’ return from Atlanta was bothering him, the discovery quelled the emotion.

Flipping open another box, he inspected the bundles of industrial-grade lighting. Each string was neatly wound. Crinkly tissue paper separated the layers. All the boxes were the same, packed tight with strings of lights.

“Oh, Quinn. You found my mother’s last art project. Wow—this brings back memories.” Good ones, and she savored them.

“There’s enough here to decorate fifty Christmas trees. They all look brand new.”

“They are new.” She crouched beside him. “These aren’t for Christmas. We keep the holiday decorations in the studio closet, upstairs.”

“What are they?”

The fond memories warmed Rae. “My mother’s final inspiration. An art project she never got the chance to finish. It was amazing, how much time she spent on the design.”

“I thought Lark’s grandmother worked with mixed media. Like the picture hanging in your family room.”

“Usually, but this was an exception. I can’t recall why she got it into her head to create a lighting display. Once the inspiration struck, it’s all she thought about.”

“When was this?”

“The autumn before the White Hurricane. Mom began stringing lights between the house and the barn, but only on the lowest branches. She wasn’t crazy about heights. It was the beginning of my senior year of high school. It looked so pretty, we all decided to pitch in. We had fun working on the project.”

A soft lump of regret formed in Rae’s throat. Griffin had also helped, she recalled. On the nights when he didn’t man the customer service desk of his father’s dealership, he’d worked until dusk, climbing high into the trees—his body stronger than Rae’s and faster, and it seemed he’d bump into the sky. Griffin had strung lights from the highest branches as she clung to lower branches, not entirely certain she trusted her balance, and as Hester shouted warnings from below. Rae’s father had worked on the second tree in an amusing, silent competition with Griffin. Rae’s mother had planned to hire a man in town to string the lights on the treetops, but Griffin—eager to see the final result—had started work on the project immediately. Connor had quickly joined in.

Dismissing the memory, she said, “My mother designed an elaborate color scheme to cover every tree between the house and the barn. It would’ve been lovely if she’d finished. There are nineteen trees separating the distance. She planned to decorate every one of them.”

Quinn’s eyes rounded. “Talk about a major job. Your barn is half an acre from the house.”

“Just about. My father hired an electrician to trench cabling across the entire span. That part of the project was completed.”

“Where did she get lights in so many colors? I’ve never seen anything like this in the stores.”

“She knew a hotelier in Philadelphia. He put her in touch with a manufacturer. The lights were designed to her specifications.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“I’ve always been partial to this combination.” Rae held up a string for his inspection. The thumb-size bulbs were a series of silver, violet, and the prettiest spring green. Some of the bulbs were oval, and others were shaped liked stars. “And these,” she added, retrieving a strand in varying shades of blue.

“How do you choose a favorite? I like them all.”

“You just choose. Whatever strikes your fancy.”

Pulling another box close, she rustled through the layers of tissue. Before the White Hurricane, all the lighting had been laid out near a wall in Hester’s studio, ready for installation. They didn’t get far with the project. When the first snowflakes dusted the acres in November, work came to a halt. Hester spent the holiday season rearranging the sequence of lights, updating her schematic with each change.

Sixteen years later, the lights were still in pristine condition. There wasn’t dust in any of the boxes. Absently Rae wondered when her father had packed away the lighting. Busywork, for the days when he’d kept his depression at bay.

Breaking the silence, she said, “It’s been so long . . . I can’t recall where the lights were actually made,” she told Quinn.

“Germany.” Connor appeared in the doorway. “The company is still around. They make hand-painted glass ornaments. They got out of the lighting business. Too much competition from Asia.”

Rae straightened. “It would’ve been gorgeous, if Mom had finished.” Then she told Quinn, “Some of the lights are still up outside—they’re on the trees nearest the house. I don’t know if they still work.”

Surprise lifted Quinn’s brows. “Don’t you turn them on?”

“Frankly, we forgot about them.” Rae searched her memories. “We stopped turning them on around the time Lark enrolled in her first pottery class. She was in second grade. After that, our lives were busy.”

Connor leaned against the doorjamb. “I never understood why you let her choose pottery. Dumbest move in the annals of parenting. Why didn’t we buy Lark a block of Play-Doh and call it a day?”

“Dad, you’re a font of wisdom—after the fact. Why didn’t you chime in at the time? I lobbied to sign her up for a class in cartoon drawing. When Lark argued for the pottery class, you egged her on.”

“I was her grandfather. It was my job to spoil her.”

“Yeah, and I should’ve assigned you to laundry duty. Getting the clay out of Lark’s clothes was a major PITA. I threw out several of her T-shirts before the sessions ended.” To Quinn she said, “Life went into warp speed once Lark discovered activities. My daughter never sat still. The original busy bee.”

“Like me,” Quinn volunteered. The pleasure on Rae’s features was infectious, and he smiled. “I like to keep busy. It’s one of the things I had in common with Lark.”

On any other day, the remark would’ve given Rae pause. Like the first streak of lightning announcing the incoming storm. Signaling the need to take cover.

Today, however, the past—and its secrets—were far from mind.

A buoyancy overtook Rae’s mood. As did a dawning awareness. For the first time since the funeral, she was discussing Lark easily. Without the sharp sting of regret or the hard pull of grief.

With only affection.

Quinn bounced on his heels. “Can we go outside? See if the lights work? They must look incredible at night.”

A rumble erupted from Connor’s stomach. “Let’s eat first.”