The Passing Storm by Christine Nolfi
Chapter 5
Rae led her nervous companion through the mudroom. In the kitchen, her father was digging through the fridge, no doubt searching for dinner options.
“Dad, look who dropped by. Lark’s old friend—our mystery maid.”
His stunned gaze bounced past her, to latch on to Quinn. The fridge’s bluish light glowed on his startled features.
She pointed at the table. “Quinn, take a load off.”
Connor blurted, “You brought the delinquent into my house?”
“Our house, and he’s not a delinquent.” She gave her father a gentle push toward the table. “He dropped by to answer my questions. Feel free to add a few of your own. Quinn, would you like coffee?”
“I’ll pass, but thanks.”
“Join us for a cup,” Rae suggested. “The pick-me-up will do you good. It’s best if you’re perky while I grill you.”
He darted a glance at her father. “Can I leave?” Connor’s silvered brows were lowering, his mouth thinning.
“Move from that chair, and you’ll wish you hadn’t,” she said, closing the fridge.
“Jeez, Miz—Rae. Don’t threaten me.”
With efficient movements Rae dumped coffee into the machine. A strange euphoria overlaid the heartache that had been her unwanted companion since October. For the first time since Lark’s casket was lowered into the ground, she felt alert. Arisen from sorrow’s dark slumber.
“Relax, kid. We’re just talking.”
“I know a threat when I hear one. I’m not stupid.”
“No, you’re not. If I wanted to threaten you, I’d say something like, ‘Quinn, if you were sleeping with my daughter, I’ll have to think seriously about doing murder. Because Lark was precious and perfect, and I’ll never get over losing her.’ Did I say that?”
“Not exactly.”
“That’s right. I’ve been known to have a temper, but I’m not a fan of irrational behavior. Doing murder, why, it’d take something serious, like finding out a boy three years older took advantage of my child. Because unbeknownst to me, Lark was sneaking around with you for months. My fourteen-year-old daughter. My innocent child.”
“We were just friends!”
The coffee finished brewing. “Define ‘friends.’ I want to ensure we’re communicating.” Rae splashed coffee into the mugs, spattering droplets across the counter. “This is awkward for all of us, but I need specifics. Did you lay a hand on my daughter?”
Quinn set his jaw.
A short, stifled growl escaped Connor. “You heard the question. Now, tell us!”
“I’ve already told you. We didn’t like each other that way.”
Taking the mug she offered, Connor sat next to the youth. “Okay, hotshot. If everything was on the up-and-up, why didn’t Lark bring you around? She brought lots of friends to the house.”
“She knew you wouldn’t approve. Because I was older than her. She thought . . . well.” Quinn wrapped his hands around the mug Rae set before him. He looked frightened, wary, like a cornered animal. But his gaze flashed when it lifted. “She figured you’d think we were messing around. That’s what everyone thought at school. Like you must be dating if you’re hanging out. Why do people assume a guy always has an agenda? There’s nothing wrong with being friends with a girl. Not if you have the same interests.”
The same interests.With a start, Rae understood. “Last year . . . were you enrolled in classes at the craft emporium?” Lark had repeatedly taken Yuna’s classes for teens. A course on portrait drawing. Other courses, on painting with acrylics and an introduction to sculpture.
“Yeah, we started hanging out during Yuna’s classes. Last spring. Yuna let me help around her shop instead of paying for the courses. She knew I couldn’t afford them.”
“You weren’t friends with my daughter before then?”
“Only a little. Whenever I saw Lark on Chardon Square, she was cool. Nicer than most girls. Lots more friendly than the dudes. She never picked on kids, you know?”
“I’d hope not,” Connor grumbled. “We raised her better than that.”
“We did,” Rae softly agreed.
Quinn began to add something else. Instead, he hesitated. The tension melted from his features. The change in his demeanor from defensive to delighted was abrupt, confusing. Like daylight breaking on a cold midnight.
Smiling, he pushed his coffee aside. When he reached for the art stacked beside the napkin holder, Rae’s breath snagged.
Gingerly, he slid one of Lark’s recipes near. The cardstock was flamboyantly decorated. Two recipes were listed, the ingredients in different colors. The border surrounding them was a vibrant blend of mixed media—bits of glitter, old buttons, and tiny stars Lark had painted in blue and gold. The heavy cardstock seemed a lifeline, and Quinn held on tight.
“Avocado toast and blueberry quinoa.” Despite the perspiration slicking his brow, he laughed. “I taught Lark these recipes. She loved them.”
Connor grunted. “I didn’t. Like eating birdseed and slimy crap on toast. When did avocados win the popularity contest? They’re worse than quinoa.”
Rae shushed him. “Quinn, how did you teach Lark the recipes? Were you in my house?”
“Only when you and Mr. Langdon weren’t around! Me and Lark cooked stuff together. That’s all we did—cook, eat, and get out.”
A child’s answer, desperate and silly. Too genuine to mask lies.
Whatever the specifics of their relationship, it hadn’t been sexual. Apparently, her father had reached the same conclusion. With frustration Connor fell back in his chair. Beneath the lengthening silence, Quinn tapped his feet. The thunk of one boot hitting the floor, then the other. A prisoner awaiting the verdict of two bewildered judges.
Connor noticed the duct tape coming loose from Quinn’s boot. “That’s one fine mess, son.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Why don’t you buy new boots?”
“Money’s tight. The insurance on my truck comes due soon.”
“You pay your own insurance? That’s responsible.”
“I pay my own everything.” Quinn shrugged. “That’s the rule.”
The remark stirred the suspicion Connor wasn’t ready to dispel. “You work part-time for Rae’s friend,” he said. “Those wages can’t amount to much. How do you pay for everything?”
“Side jobs for people I know. Not all dudes my age sit around playing video games. Most of those games are too violent anyway. I’d rather be doing something useful.” With a dash of pride, Quinn added, “I’ve got skills. I’ve learned how to fix lots of stuff.”
Connor’s expression shifted. “Your mighty maid routine in the barn was nice. What do I owe you for the cleanup?”
“Nothing, sir. It was my pleasure.”
The remark’s sincerity eased the tension-filled air.
Rae exchanged a thoughtful glance with her father. She could almost hear his thoughts: A teenage boy with a penchant for cooking, tidying up, and home repairs? Not a delinquent.
Quinn’s gaze darted between them, gauging their reaction. Sympathy for the teen welled in Rae alongside a second, more bittersweet emotion. Daring a longer glance, she fell upon the similarity that drew her interest like a bee to honey. Something in Quinn’s expression was reminiscent of Lark, before adolescence made her stubborn and too persistent. Lark at seven or eight, when she’d exhibited a wide-eyed need for approval.
Connor glanced at the clock. “It’s almost dinnertime. What were you doing outside?”
“Oh, just thinking about Lark. I miss her, you know? I miss talking to her.”
“I do too.”
Freed of their censure, Quinn took another recipe from the stack. His fingers glided across the border of yellow daisies Lark had embroidered, then carefully glued in place. A lump formed in Rae’s throat. Her father was affected too, his eyes gaining a damp sheen.
“Lark found this recipe online,” Quinn said. “Not my favorite. I don’t like brussels sprouts. Even if you mix in caramelized onion.”
Memories, some of them sweet, embraced Rae. On many nights, her daughter had made dinner. Afterward Lark had often spent long hours in Hester’s old studio finishing homework or working on craft projects, a DO NOT DISTURB sign tacked on the door.
Some nights, however, she’d battled with Rae. During her final months, they’d argued constantly. A never-ending tug-of-war, with no winner.
The memory lodged despair in the center of Rae’s chest. Pushing it away, she appraised Quinn. “You enjoy cooking.” It was a talent she’d never picked up.
“I’d like to go to culinary school.”
“Is that your plan, after high school?”
“Oh, I don’t have a plan. Not exactly. But I’d like to go someday.”
Money, she suspected, was the real issue. She couldn’t imagine people like Quinn’s parents setting aside funds to ensure their son’s future. “You’ll make a good living as a chef.”
“I hope so.”
Her mothering instincts, dormant since Lark’s death, rose suddenly to life. “When I found you by the forest, you looked lost in thought. Did you need to talk to Lark? Today, especially?”
“She was going to make me a cake. She’d been promising for months. A beet cake. Kind of a joke, but not really. She had a recipe for chocolate cake made with beets. It sounds totally disgusting, but she swore I’d like it.”
The response was surprising. Lark had promised to . . . bake him a cake? One she’d planned to make before death erased her plans.
Rae’s heart lurched. “Quinn, is today your birthday?”
He drummed his fingers on the table. “The big one-eight.” Defiance flickered in his eyes. “It’s official. I’m all grown up.”
The defiance fled as his expression fell. The change came too fast, and Rae feared he’d cry. A humiliating outcome for a teenage boy.
“Some birthday, huh?” he said. “My parents kicked me out of the house.”