The Passing Storm(15)

“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.”