The Passing Storm by Christine Nolfi
Chapter 23
Outside, tires screamed.
Dropping his briefcase, Griffin sprinted to the window. Two stories below, a blue Honda Civic swerved past the dealership. Jumping the curb, it clipped an empty flower planter near Design Mark’s entryway. The car screeched to a halt.
There wasn’t time to process what was happening. Within seconds Rae was up the stairwell and marching into his office. An easy maneuver; his staff wasn’t in yet.
“Griffin! You sneaky, manipulative—” She bit back an oath. “What’s wrong with you? Who gave you permission to associate with my daughter?”
Bafflement held Griffin like a vise. Of all the potential interactions he’d imagined having with Rae when they eventually ran into each other, he never could’ve predicted this full-on assault. Scrambling for the right words, he managed to fake an air of composure.
“Slow down, Rae,” he said. “Why don’t you let me—”
“Don’t tell me what to do! We’re not in high school anymore. You’re not my boyfriend. Even when you were, I didn’t let you order me around.”
“Listen, I can see you’re upset.”
“I’m not upset. I’m livid! I can’t begin to comprehend what excuse you think will get you out of this. Of all the devious, backhanded stunts. Lark was visiting Design Mark for weeks? Why didn’t you put her on the payroll, Griffin? Ask her to drop her after-school activities to schlep coffee for your staff? No one in their right mind lets a ninth grader roam their place of employment, not without checking with the girl’s mother . . .”
Getting in a word proved impossible. Better to let her vent until she ran out of steam.
As she railed, Griffin found himself evaluating her. Despite the grievous losses she’d endured, the years had been kind to Rae. Her eyes were more striking than he remembered, a dusky forest green. Her hair was appealingly long. The riot of reddish-gold locks cascaded past her shoulders. She was disturbingly attractive—and nearly intimidating, given her height.
The silly conviction he’d forged in high school captured his thoughts.
If Vikings ruled the world, Rae would be their queen.
“Stop zoning out!” She came forward. “Your daydreaming always drove me crazy. You’d zone out whenever I was upset. Like you were picking up radio frequencies from Mars.”
Or sending an SOS.
“I’m listening.” He gestured toward the window. “You’re shouting loud enough for everyone at the dealership to hear you. Mind turning down the volume?”
“All right.” Her voice dropped to an acceptable level. Her eyes narrowed. “Are you aware a child Lark’s age is impressionable?”
“I am.”
“Did you know my daughter was badgering me nonstop? All those demands for the name of her father. After years of raising her in blissful tranquility, we were suddenly having a million stupid arguments. And no wonder. Lark had you in the background, egging her on. It’s appalling how you encouraged my daughter.”
“Calm down,” he snapped. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”
“I wouldn’t be like this, if it weren’t for your scheming.”
“Rae, sit down. Let’s talk this out like reasonable adults.”
“Last warning, Griffin. Stop telling me what to do.”
She was coming at him too fast, overrunning his defenses. Apparently Yuna had returned the keepsake faster than anticipated, to poor results. Which was baffling. Yuna had indicated she’d wait a couple of weeks before playing delivery boy. Even more curious: she’d returned the box without giving him the heads-up he was sure she would provide.
None of which mattered now.
Griffin rocked back on his heels. “I didn’t encourage Lark,” he said, determined not to let Rae throw him off-balance. It was her special talent. But he was older now, with skills of his own. “You’re implying I devised a master plan to strike up a friendship with her. Nothing could be further from the truth. Lark approached me. Not the other way around.”
“So it’s her fault? That’s big of you. And how would you characterize repeated visits between a girl and the man she’s picked out for her father? If that isn’t encouragement, what is?” A low growl of frustration escaped Rae. “My daughter cooks up a lottery, and you’re the winning ticket. It would be funny if it wasn’t tragic.”
A low blow, but he took it in stride. “Rae, I didn’t understand what was going on. Not immediately.”
“You’re pleading . . . stupidity? That’s your excuse?”
Another blow, and his anger sparked. “It’s the only one I have.”
“Griffin, I worked hard to raise Lark. I put her front and center in every decision I made. She was everything to me. She didn’t need you jumping in, pretending you were eager and available to play the role of father. She had me and a grandfather who adored her. She was fine. More than fine—Lark was smart and confident and capable. She didn’t need you.”
“I never said she did.”
It was galling how Rae wouldn’t accept a modicum of blame. As if she bore no responsibility at all. Why keep his love letters in the first place? Or the tokens he’d given her in childhood—if they meant nothing to Rae, why keep them at all? By holding on to the remnants of their long-dead affection, she’d guided Lark into his world.
“You weren’t meant to be part of her life, Griffin. What right did you have to confuse her?”
Straddling anger and remorse, Griffin chose the dangerous emotion. They were arguing about a child they’d both loved. A child neither of them would have the joy of watching grow into womanhood. Whatever promise lay buried in the cold ground, Griffin knew he’d never stop grieving. Rae wouldn’t either.
The facts made him angrier. With the anger came a surge of male pride, sharpening his thoughts to a diamond’s edge.
“I didn’t confuse Lark,” he growled. “Why didn’t you tell her what she needed to know? Spare her the wild goose chase?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“All evidence to the contrary. You storm into my office after sixteen years, and suddenly I’m responsible for whatever problems you had with your daughter. She was a teenager, Rae. Old enough to hear the facts. Why didn’t you supply them? Were you afraid Lark wouldn’t take it well, once she learned you made some incredibly reckless choices when you were young?”
The salvos hit the mark. Rae flinched as if his words had struck her like a physical blow. When her expression nearly crumbled, self-loathing coursed through him. He was responding from a place of pain, like a defensive child.
Like a fool.
But he’d forgotten Rae’s inner strength, the emotional reserves she brought to bear in times of crisis. Rallying, she dodged his questions to pose one of her own.
“Was this a form of payback?” she asked. “Use my daughter to hurt me? Great job, Griffin. It worked.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I broke your heart, and you’ve been waiting to return the favor. I never explained, when I ended our relationship.”
“No, you didn’t. You wouldn’t take my calls. You avoided me at school.” When she left the graduation ceremony, he’d spent the day in a stunned malaise.
“And those unanswered questions have festered inside you ever since. What do you want from me—an apology? You’re pathetic. Less than a man, if you’d manipulate a child to nurse old wounds.”
The assault broke something inside him. A thread of composure Griffin hadn’t known was fraying.
“Why did you name her Lark?” he demanded.
The silence was deafening. Stepping too close, Griffin invaded her space.
“Of all the names you could’ve chosen, why Lark?” With the advantage of height, he pinioned her gaze. “If you have more children, will you use all the names we chose? Is Adam next, or Penn? Remind me, Rae. We planned to have two boys, two girls—the perfect combination. What was the name we picked for our second daughter? I can’t recall.”
Why was he dragging her down this path? Reminding her of the best moments of their youth—reminding himself of the halcyon days when he’d loved her unconditionally? The plans they’d made for college and a family. A fog of confusion overtook him. He was intentionally hurting her. Shame rushed over him in scalding waves.
Stricken, she searched his face. “You’ve changed, Griffin. I didn’t know you were cruel.” She inhaled a shuddering breath. “What happened to you?”
The soft rebuke cleared the fog. Only then did Griffin realize he’d miscalculated. They were talking past each other. Like two actors, blind to each other’s script.
Rae didn’t know about the keepsake. Yuna had not returned it. Rae had learned of his acquaintance with her daughter in some other way. But how?
Griffin found the answer. Quinn told her.
Sick-hearted, he tore his gaze away. “I’m not cruel.”
“No?”
“I’m stupid. It’s not an excuse. I’m just stating the facts.”
A tear wended down her cheek. She was too proud to brush it away.
“I won’t ask you to forgive me. I have no right to question the choices you made. I know that.”
The admission softened her the slightest degree. “No, you don’t.”
“I should’ve contacted you the first time Lark stopped in. Letting it go on without telling you . . . I’m sorry.”
She folded her arms.
“There is something I’m not clear on.” He hesitated. “You don’t owe me an explanation, of course.”
Her brows lowered. “Obviously,” she muttered.
“Please, Rae.”
“What do you want to know?”
“When did Lark tell Quinn about her decision to find her father?”
A weary silence overtook the room. Rae scanned the floor, as if weighing the limits of her kindness. They both knew she owed him nothing.
“Lark told Quinn last September,” she said at last. “They were in the high school library. Lark was bragging about how she’d solved the mystery of her missing father. As if the man responsible for half her genome was accidentally misplaced.”
“She gave Quinn my name?”
“But nothing else. She wouldn’t explain how she’d found you.”
“And you’re not sure how she did it.” A statement, not a question. Rae had given the confirmation Griffin needed: she didn’t know Lark had found the box.
“They were in the library,” she murmured, speaking more to herself than to him.
She was sifting for clues in a puzzle Griffin had already solved.
Rae added, “I suppose Lark found our high school yearbook in the archives. That would make sense.”
“And she was planning to contact every boy in our graduating class?” he asked, playing along. Rae was supplying more detail than requested, lowering her guard. It was thrilling when her expression became loose and vulnerable.
“That’s right. Lark’s creative fairy tale, to find the father waiting to claim her. Naturally you made the top of the list, Griffin. You’re, well . . . mysterious.” Fleeting amusement crossed her features, then disappeared. “You had to know my daughter. Sometimes she was too smart. Tenacious. And she loved mysteries.”
I did know her.
“Why mysterious?” he asked gently.