The Passing Storm by Christine Nolfi

Chapter 2

Golden light slanted through the living room. The TV wasn’t on. Rae walked through the house, calling for her father.

A cup of coffee sat on the kitchen counter. In the mudroom, Connor’s boots and the canvas coat he wore to stroll the property were missing. Those excursions were perfectly safe in warmer months. In winter, when heavy snow and patches of ice dotted the acreage, Rae encouraged her father to wait until she was home to accompany him. For a man in his seventies, Connor was in reasonable shape—but Rae harbored an overprotective streak for her only surviving parent.

As usual, the request had been ignored. Muttering choice words, she hurried out back.

Nearly an acre separated the large, rambling house from the even larger—and thoroughly neglected—barn. During Rae’s childhood, the farm had bustled with activity. She recalled downy chicks skittering across her knees in the pasture’s soft grass. She’d chased dark-winged moths through the pumpkin patch and the rows of lettuce her mother, Hester, had coaxed into thriving clear into November.

Living off the land had been Hester’s dream. While many in her generation traded in their youthful rebellion for the rampant consumerism overtaking the country, she read articles on organic farming while earning a fine arts degree from the University of Pennsylvania. In 1979, armed with a small inheritance and a willing husband, she purchased the tract of land outside Chardon, Ohio. It was her twenty-seventh birthday.

Although she was young, Hester was serious and sensible. Plans for starting a family were put on hold as she and Connor learned animal husbandry and when to plant crops. They hired Amish carpenters from nearby Middlefield to erect their home and the barn. The barn quickly filled with pigs, goats, chickens, and a cow affectionately named Butter. The house underwent several expansions as the couple—like modern-day pioneers—learned to can vegetables and store root crops in makeshift bins. During summer, blackberries grew wild near the forest, and Connor filled baskets with the sweet fruit. Hester preserved jams and baked pies to share with new friends they met in town. By the third year, the Amish were called back to the property. They made further additions to the house, including a small greenhouse Hester quickly put to use.

For most people, the kitchen is the heart of the home. Or, in this case, the kitchen and the adjoining greenhouse.

Hester’s grand design was more ambitious. Once the Amish completed the greenhouse, they spent the better part of a sizzling August building a large, A-frame studio.

Hester’s studio became the beating heart of the rambling house. Inside, she experimented with sculptural collages she crafted from recycled items. Bits of fabric; pieces of aluminum or bottle caps discovered while driving Geauga County’s winding roads; old toys, chipped china, and swatches of embroidery unearthed at garage sales—Hester found imaginative ways to turn castoffs into art. Since her sensible nature came with a thrifty streak, she saw no reason why an hour driving the countryside, or three dollars spent at a garage sale, shouldn’t be turned into a tidy profit.

Like his more sensible wife, Connor—who was introverted, witty, and bookish—took eagerly to farm life. Money, and how to earn it, never crossed his mind. He loved the physical labor and the dawn mist rippling across the acres. Living out his days in blue jeans was Connor’s idea of heaven.

On drowsy afternoons after finishing chores, he recited Shakespeare’s plays for the attentive Hester while she worked in her studio. He read Emerson’s Nature to the uncomprehending goats during morning feedings. Connor loved music too, and he played Bach and Vivaldi for Butter as the patient cow stood in dignified silence during milking. The feisty pigs, he decided, much preferred rock and roll.

And so, most of her inheritance gone, Hester devised a business plan. Selecting her ten best collages, she booked space at a local craft show. All ten sold within an hour.

Soon after, the owner of a Columbus art gallery began featuring her work. Galleries in Cincinnati and Cleveland followed, and Hester’s renown grew. So did her income, and the money was lavished on the farm. By the time of her unexpected death, Hester Langdon was cherished by art lovers throughout Ohio.

The dream she’d worked tirelessly to achieve was now faded and worn.

Regret burdened Rae as she trudged through the snow. She earned a good living as office manager of the Witt Agency, but not enough to cover the upkeep of a forty-acre property. The forest was encroaching on each side of the pasture. Shingles were missing from the barn’s roof, carried off by harsh winds. Even the whimsical, magical lighting that had once lit several of the trees between the house and the barn now hung in tattered clumps, many of the bulbs cracked or missing.

Dust spun through the air of the L-shaped barn. Rae strode past the stalls where she’d found the silk flower. Telling her father about Quinn’s memento wasn’t a great option. Last October, he’d been more distressed by the police department’s report than Rae. They were both still navigating dark moments of grief—why upset him unnecessarily?

“Dad, are you here? Hello?”

A short passageway separated the main barn from a small room where Connor, in his heyday, had worked on carpentry projects. A soft clattering reached her ears. Rae quickened her pace. In the bitter month of January, her father rarely visited the shop.

“Dad, it’s freakin’ cold. If you want to waltz down memory lane, can’t it wait until—” A surprised breath escaped her lips. “Why are you cleaning up?” The plywood floor had been swept clean.

Connor grunted. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

“When would I get around to sprucing up your old shop? This week’s laundry is still on the agenda. I swear, it breeds when I’m not looking.”

“You didn’t organize my workbench?”

A niggling sensation carried Rae forward. “Dad, I haven’t been in here.” On the pegboard, hand tools were neatly hung, the grit from years of disuse wiped away.

“If you didn’t clean up, who did?” Her father studied the shelf underneath. “Check this out. Someone dusted off the jars.”

The niggling sensation increased as Rae scanned the floor. “I broke one of the jars last summer.” She’d forgotten to come back out and pick up the mess. “There were nails all over the place.”

“Not anymore.” Connor lifted a mason jar, catching sunlight on the lid. “Look here. They’ve been picked up too. Probably when our mystery maid swept the floor.” He smoothed down his silvered beard. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Oh, I hope not.”

A fizzy silence descended. Rae searched for an explanation. Any explanation other than the obvious one.

Connor rocked back on his heels. “The delinquent . . . has he been coming around?”

“Quinn’s not a delinquent. A little messed up and definitely a nuisance. He’s never been in trouble with the law.”

“You haven’t answered the question.”

“Gosh, your powers of observation never fade.”

“Stop fancy-footing. Your powers of deception are worthless.”

“Yes, Quinn’s been upping his game.” She explained about the silk flower, adding, “If he was hanging around the barn, he must’ve decided to clean up the shop.”

“Who does that?”

“Quinn, I guess.” Yuna’s craft store didn’t open until ten o’clock, she mused. Had the teen done the cleanup early this morning to avoid being home with his loathsome parents? “He didn’t have school today.”

“So he dropped by to spruce up my shop?”

“Apparently.”

“When I was young, I did my best to avoid helping around the house. A teenage boy who likes domestic chores—that’s one for the record books. Most kids his age lean toward graffiti or mucking stuff up. They fly off four-wheelers they’re too young to operate or shoot off firecrackers when their neighbors are sleeping.”

Rae sighed. “Some of your friends have grandsons from hell. Those delinquents aren’t a representative sampling of all teenage boys.”

Her father weighed the observation, clearly unconvinced. “Has Quinn left anything else around the property?” he asked.

“I haven’t looked.” There wasn’t time in her schedule. If Quinn had littered the pasture with silk flowers and strung trinkets from half the trees in the forest, they’d go undiscovered until spring.

“I’ll scout the farm tomorrow. See if he’s left other surprises.”

The suggestion lifted her brows. “I work late tomorrow. I’d prefer if you didn’t roam free. Let’s check the property some other day—together. Do your power walk inside tomorrow, five laps around the living room. Follow the ‘short leash’ rule.”

“Stuff it, Rae. Try keeping me on a leash, and I’ll string you up by your toenails.” Connor’s mouth curved wryly. He enjoyed the thrust and parry of their small disagreements more than his daily power walk. “I’m not old. I’m mature. There’s a difference.”

A predictable retort, and she chuckled. “You left ‘mature’ ten miles back. You’re speeding toward ‘ancient.’ Mangy cats shed less hair than you. Face it, Dad. You need a leash.”

“Go pop a chocolate, Rae. You’re sassy when your sugar’s low.”

“I’ve already done the sugar buzz, thank you very much. Yuna’s treat. We stopped at Dixon’s.”

Anticipation flashed across Connor’s face. “Did you bring anything for me?”

The hopeful query pricked her with guilt. Too often, they resorted to snacking.

“Let’s go inside. We’ll find something for dinner.” Something nutritious, she decided. It was shameful how often she allowed him to throw fries into the microwave or settle for a bowl of cereal for dinner. There hadn’t been fresh fruit in the house since October. Since the night their lives were thrown into free fall.

Shadows lengthened in the barn. Rae knew her father wouldn’t allow her to take his arm until they reached the threshold and the hard-packed snow. Giving him privacy, she walked ahead. Out of habit, Connor glanced in each of the stalls. He flicked the lights on and off, as if proper illumination mattered in a building they’d largely abandoned.

Rae paced in a lazy circle. Her gaze alighted on the Kubota tractor parked near the wall.

Engine oil dotted the barn’s earthen floor. Like Connor’s workbench, the grime on the tractor was gone. Every inch of the Kubota’s bright-orange surface had been buffed to a high sheen. Breathless, she lifted the hood to check the dipstick.

Connor appeared at her side. “Quinn changed the oil?”

“Yeah.”

“He did a fine job, polishing the old girl. I’ll bet he changed the filter too. His father is no one’s favorite human being, but he is the best mechanic in three counties. Quinn would know to do both.” Connor watched her jam the dipstick back into place. “I may need to revise my opinion of the boy.”

“Please don’t.” Her emotions toward Quinn were complicated; her feelings about his parents even more so. If he began doing odd jobs around the farm, it would add to her unease.

“You’re the one who said not all teenage boys are delinquents. Maybe Quinn has more good inside than we know.”

“I’m sure he does, but I was speaking in general terms.” Rae shut the hood. “I didn’t mean to put crazy ideas in your head about offering him a job.”

“There’s a lot around the property in need of fixing.” Connor’s greedy eyes swept the barn. “A boy his age can do a man’s work. I’m too old to handle most of the chores, and you don’t have the time.”

“Quinn already has a job working part-time for Yuna.” Rae patted her father’s grizzled cheek. “And I thought you were mature, not old.”

“Yuna doesn’t have a monopoly on the kid’s time. He might be looking for extra work.” Connor thumped his fist on the hood. “I’ll get going on a to-do list.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Thwarting further discussion, Rae steered him from the barn.