The Passing Storm by Christine Nolfi

Chapter 4

Yuna’s car disappeared behind a curtain of snow. With stiff movements, Rae put away Kameko’s watering can and the baking sheets.

A sports channel murmured in the living room. Her father lay on the couch, snoring. Rae fetched a blanket and covered him.

The revelation that Sally Harrow and Katherine Thomerson were joining the fundraising committee shook something loose inside Rae—an essential piece of her emotional makeup she’d unwittingly relied upon to hold herself together. Her breaths came fast and shallow. Pressure built in her chest, seeking release.

On autopilot, she went into the mudroom and put on her hiking boots. She was still buttoning her coat when she strode into the weak afternoon light and the relentless snowfall.

In defiance of the weather, birds flitted across the branches of the pine trees. Avoiding the wind’s fearsome gusts, they converged on clumps of sunflower seeds she’d thrown down earlier. Squirrels chattered in the bitter air, their tails flicking through the frosted undergrowth. Veering away from the barn, Rae followed their noisy complaints toward the forest. She needed to get far enough from the house to scream until her throat blistered. There was nothing rational about her rage, or reasonable. It spilled over in hot waves.

Walking blindly, she nearly walked into him.

Shock brought her to a standstill. With alarm, she took stock of her surroundings. The gentle incline led to a V-shaped wall of heavy brush. The forest lay beyond. Straying in this direction was a mistake.

Even in summer she avoided this section of the property, and the dreaded tree. Quinn Galecki huddled beneath the tree with his back pressed to the icy trunk. Deep in thought, he appeared deaf to her approach.

The snow was softly burying him. As it had buried her mother sixteen years ago.

The memory of the White Hurricane reared up with devastating clarity. The images came too fast, a vivid horror show. Rae groaned. Bile rose in her throat.

The sound of her distress pulled Quinn from his daydream. “Miz Langdon!” He leaped to his feet, the snow spilling from his shoulders.

Slipping and sliding, he moved in a frantic circle. Rae pressed a hand to her belly. The urge to vomit was strong.

Quinn darted closer, unsure of what to do. “Are you sick?” The wind flapped his coat open. “Did I scare you? Man, you’re turning green.”

Rae clasped her knees. “Dancing around like a scarecrow isn’t helping. Cut it out, okay?” Fending off vertigo, she planted her gaze on her boots. “And zip up your coat. Are you trying to catch pneumonia?”

Obeying, he zipped the parka to his neck. “Are you going to puke? That’s no fun.”

“Not if I can help it.”

“What can I do?”

“About the ulcer I’m brewing? Not much.”

“Miz Langdon, I didn’t mean to scare you. Honest.” He nodded at the forest. “I figured I wasn’t bothering anyone out here by myself.”

“Stop referring to me as Miz Langdon. We both know I’ve never been married.” A belch popped from her mouth, and she gripped her knees tighter. The wave of nausea passing, she added, “I’m just Rae.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

The snowfall decreased to a fine misting of white. The air held a faintly metallic scent. A cardinal flew past, a splash of red disappearing into the forest.

Rae straightened. She stiffened when Quinn rushed forward to help. He was tall and slender; strong too. With ease he clasped her arms. No doubt he expected her to drop at any second, and she was silently grateful for the assistance. His hands were large, his fingers gracefully tapered. The hint of a beard shadowed his long, nearly pointed chin.

His eyes seemed much younger. They carried a child’s vulnerability. As did his cheeks, blazing pink when he released her.

Rae swatted at the snow collecting on her hair. “What are you doing out here? Of all the stupid . . . are you trying to freeze to death?”

“I’m not cold.”

“You’re not? Why are your teeth chattering?”

A challenge, and his mouth quirked into a grin. “Okay. I’m cold. My feet are ice cubes.”

“I’m not surprised.” With dismay, she studied his boots. The leather toe of the left boot was peeling away from the sole. The silver band of duct tape used to repair the mess was coming loose. “You get an A for creativity, but that won’t last long,” she said, gesturing at the duct tape. “Tell your parents you need new boots.”

“Right. Like they’ll listen.”

“Are you wearing socks?”

“I left the house in a hurry.” Quinn lifted a wary hand. “Don’t make me explain.”

Rae stifled her protective instincts. “I won’t.” How he dressed for the frigid weather was none of her business. It was her business that he was on her property—again—but she let it slide.

Relief scuttled through his gaze. “How’s your stomach?”

“So-so.”

“Do you really have an ulcer?”

“I hope not.”

They fell silent, gauging each other like unwilling combatants. Tension raced across Rae’s skin, lifting the hairs on her neck. More threads twined their destinies together than Quinn could possibly imagine. The boy would never learn of their connection. Nor would anyone else.

Not a boy, Rae mused. Quinn was nearly a man. They’d never before engaged in a real conversation. A minor point—the painful questions demanded answers, even if she wasn’t prepared to hear the uncomfortable details. Now those questions refused to leave her lips.

Breaking the silence, Quinn patted his roomy parka. “Why did you almost puke when you saw me? I’m not exactly a threat.”

The innocent remark hit too close to home. “No, you’re not,” she agreed in a forced, neutral tone.

“If we got into a dustup, you could take me. Thanks for not kicking my ass.”

“Language.” Apparently, he assumed humor was the perfect icebreaker. “Swear words are unbecoming, even for a teenager.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Quinn gave a jaunty salute. A boy with deplorable parents, but Rae suddenly understood why so many adults in town liked him. There was something quirky and unusual about him. A softness blended with harder, more enduring qualities.

His features were too delicate. Tougher kids probably teased him. It didn’t help that his eyes were large, fringed with thick lashes. They sparked with intelligence and compassion—a higher emotion that most people didn’t cultivate until they were older, if at all. No wonder Yuna had put him on the craft emporium’s payroll. The act of a Good Samaritan, but she’d also glimpsed his better qualities.

A startling discovery: it was easier to hate the idea of a person than the genuine article.

“For the record, you didn’t scare me.” Rae led him away from the loathsome tree. “You were sitting where I found my mother, after the White Hurricane. It was a long time ago.” Needing to change the subject, she scanned the acres. “How did you get out here?”

He motioned toward the forest. “My truck is on the road.”

“Not a smart move with the low visibility. There’s more snow coming.”

“I parked on the berm.” Curiosity flitted through his eyes. “I’ve never heard of the White Hurricane. When did it happen?”

“Sixteen years ago.” She sighed. “I’d rather not discuss it.”

“No problem.” In a bid to appear nonchalant, he pulled up the collar on his parka. “I just don’t get why remembering a hurricane almost made you puke. None of my business.”

“That’s right.”

“Some people act weird in bad weather. Emily lives across the street from my parents, and storms make her pee. No joke. I was out grabbing the mail one day when lightning cracked the sky. There was Emily in her driveway, a yellow trickle going down her leg.”

“How old is she?”

“Around three, I guess.”

“Lots of toddlers are scared of bad weather.” Rae gave him a disapproving look. “You didn’t make fun of her, did you?”

“No!” Embarrassment flooded Quinn’s face. “I’d never tease a little kid. She’ll get her act together, eventually.”

“She will.” They’d reached a hilly section of the property, where the snow was deeper. Climbing at a careful pace, Rae added, “And to be clear, my upset stomach isn’t weather-related. It’s more complicated.”

“If you say so. Storms and such don’t bug me either. Most of the time, anyway.” He glanced back at the trail they’d left in the snow. “Was your mom sitting under the tree when the storm rolled in? The guy who moved in next door to my parents—he has more tattoos than you can count—he’s really into storms. Gets a high from watching them or something. He’ll sit on his front stoop with a six-pack in all sorts of weather. Lightning, hail, you name it.”

“Your neighbor sounds slightly . . . offbeat.”

“But he’s nice. Once, he gave me a ride on his Harley. Just around the block.” Quinn paused, and she wondered if he planned to describe all the neighbors on his street. As if she were a close friend eager for the details. A suspicion he confirmed by adding, “Want a real example of meanness? You should get a load of Mr. Cox. Yelling at kids for no reason and giving the newspaper lady a hard time. If the newspaper hits the snow instead of his driveway, he’s out there bellowing as she drives away. Mrs. Cox packed up and left him about a year ago. What I don’t get is . . . why’d she leave without taking Shelby?”

“Who’s Shelby?”

“Her rescue dog. Mrs. Cox adopted her from the humane society right around when I started high school. Real cute mutt. Mr. Cox leaves Shelby in the backyard all the time.”

“Oh, that’s sad.”

“Tell me about it. He only lets her in at night, probably to punish Mrs. Cox for leaving. Doesn’t make sense, though. She’s long gone.” A sudden burst of satisfaction lit Quinn’s face. “Everything’s cool now. I have Mr. Cox’s work schedule down. I sneak over to feed Shelby—he’s stingy with the kibble. I check her water bowl too.”

“You take care of the dog . . . without your neighbor catching on?” The ill-tempered Mr. Cox was cruel.

As for Quinn, he wasn’t merely quirky. He was also kind. Helpful too. Among his other good deeds, he’d changed the oil in the tractor Rae used in warm-weather months to mow the pasture when the grass reached knee-height. And he’d spruced up her father’s shop.

His positive attributes stood in stark contrast to his more serious misjudgments. An issue Rae planned to bring up before they parted ways.

“I hate when people are mean to animals,” he was saying. When she smiled in silent agreement, he deftly maneuvered back to the original topic. “The White Hurricane was sixteen years ago? Seems weird for a place like Ohio. I thought hurricanes only happened near the ocean, in places like Texas or Florida.”

“The White Hurricane was a blizzard—the storm of the century. More than fifty people died of exposure. Others were trapped in their cars on the highway. In some parts of Geauga County, snowdrifts literally buried houses. It happened in January. I was a senior at the high school when it struck.”

“A senior . . . like me.”

The remark seemed an effort to find common ground. Rae let it pass.

Recognition broke across Quinn’s face. “Wait. I know what you’re talking about. Last year, my homeroom teacher told us about the blizzard. She said the snow was piled eight feet high in front of her house. I thought she was exaggerating.”

“Believe me, she wasn’t.”

“Is it true, people were stuck in their homes for days?”

“The lucky ones.”

“How long did the blizzard last?”

“Close to three days,” Rae said, wading further into the tragic story. “The winds clocked in at eighty miles per hour. Before the storm hit, the temperature was right around freezing. The temps plunged twenty-one degrees in less than an hour.”

The peril she described slowed Quinn’s pace. “Why was your mother outside in that kind of weather?”

“She wouldn’t have been, if my dad wasn’t down with the flu. He’d packed himself off to bed that morning, after warning us to stay away. Mom already had the sniffles, but she kept pacing the house. The blizzard came in fast—neither one of us could remember if we’d bolted the barn shut. To make sure the animals were safe.”

A sickening wash of memories rolled through Rae. Up ahead, the wall of pine trees hid the house from view. Quinn, riveted by the story, motioned for her to continue.

“The wind was shaking the roof,” she told him, “and I volunteered to go out to check on the animals. I should’ve insisted. Argued, or something.”

“You were scared.”

“And doing a lousy job of hiding it. Night was coming. We were already in whiteout conditions. And the wind . . . screaming through the eaves like a demon set loose. I’ve never heard anything like it, before or since. Back then I was fairly bold for a seventeen-year-old. Brave, even. But I’d never been in danger. Not the life-or-death kind. Listening to the wind, I bit my fingernails down until they bled. I wasn’t aware of what I’d done until Mom fetched the first aid kit. After she cleaned me up, she told me to stay put.”

“Your mom went out alone?”

Rae nodded. “An hour went by, then two. She didn’t come back.”

“Why didn’t you get your dad?”

“I couldn’t wake him. His forehead was on fire. Like a hot griddle. That’s when I knew I had to go outside to find my mother. So I pulled on my coat and went out.”

Quinn ground to a halt. “That’s crazy.” She swept past, and he picked up his feet to catch up. “If she couldn’t get back from the barn, why go after her?”

“There was no way of telling if she’d made it to the barn. You wouldn’t believe how fast the wind slammed me against the house. Winds that fast can pick you up off your feet. Toss you around like a rag doll. I made it back inside and switched into my dad’s coat. Weighed down the pockets with cans of soup.”

“Smart thinking.”

“Not quite. I’d walked several paces when something whizzed toward my head. A tree limb or the bird feeder. Whatever it was, it could’ve knocked me out cold.”

She was at a near-jog, the acceleration helping her speed through the story.

“I dove for the ground. When I got back up, I’d lost all sense of direction. We’re talking serious whiteout conditions. I was also nearly deaf from the wind’s screaming. By some miracle, I heard my father shouting. I crawled back to the house. My dad was delirious with fever, but he knew I was in danger. Somehow, he knew. When I got him to the couch, he didn’t fall back to sleep—more like he passed out.” A quick intake of breath, and Rae added, “I didn’t wake him at dawn, when I decided to go back out. The winds were still high, but manageable. And the daylight helped.”

The past blotted out the present. Rae saw herself at seventeen, her muscles burning from long minutes searching the property. Stumbling through the snowdrifts—spotting her mother in the distance. Hester seated beneath the tree, her down coat and immobile features wearing a powdery glaze of white.

The hope Rae clung to morphing into horror. A sob breaking forth as she rested her palm on the frozen, unyielding flesh of Hester’s shoulder.

Quinn listened to the rest of the story with the color draining from his face. When she finished, he brushed his knuckles across his eyes. The gesture drew her attention to his hands. They were raw from the cold. Silently Rae chastised herself. On the long trek, they should’ve traded her gloves back and forth.

“Thanks for telling me the story. Talking about it can’t be easy.” He caught her staring at his hands and shoved them into his pockets. “Lark never mentioned how her grandmother died. All I knew is that she was gone before Lark was born. We only talked about Hester’s art, and how she was famous. Lark wanted to be an artist too.” He looked away, embarrassed. “But you knew that, right? Your daughter was nonstop with her dreams. Her favorite topic.”

Lark. My sweet, perfect child. Gone forever.

Pain seized Rae. “I never told Lark the full story of how we lost her grandmother. Just the basics.”

“Good call, in my opinion. Totally would’ve freaked her out. Given her nightmares.”

They’d reached the barn. Quinn studied the sky. Clouds scuttled past, dark with the threat of more precipitation.

“Thanks again, Miz . . . Rae.” He frowned. “Are you okay, walking back the rest of the way?”

The inference being that he was escorting her.

Their cordial interlude didn’t erase Quinn’s serious lapses in judgment. He’d been trespassing on her property since Lark’s funeral last October. The unsanctioned visits were a terrible reminder of the senseless accident on the Thomerson estate. Quinn, the high school senior who’d secretly dated her ninth grader. According to the police report, they’d dated for months before Lark’s death.

Anger leaped through Rae, charging the air between them. On its heels came a second emotion that momentarily sickened her.

The change put Quinn on alert. He pivoted toward the forest.

“Oh no you don’t.” She latched on to his sleeve. “You’re coming inside. I have a few questions of my own.”