The Passing Storm(16)

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.”





Chapter 6


Outside the studio’s pyramid of glass, the moon played tag with fast-moving clouds. A smattering of white swirled through the air. Rae watched the snow’s descent with her thoughts leaping and turning.

Throughout dinner, a nervous Quinn had talked nonstop about Lark. In between, he plowed through leftovers she dug from the fridge. Macaroni and cheese, lunch meat, a cucumber she hastily sliced—his bottomless appetite left the worrisome impression that he rarely ate a decent meal. When dinner ended, Quinn helped with the dishes before loping after Connor to the living room. They were deep into male bonding over Cleveland’s upcoming baseball season when Rae slipped out.

Confusion vaulted through her. For months, she’d wanted to believe Quinn was a bad kid. Preferred believing it over the proof she’d witnessed directly—of a bashful boy who worked diligently at the craft emporium, and whose grief over the loss of her daughter was tangible and deep.

The police report of the events surrounding Lark’s death had stated they were secretly dating. Add in the reputation of Quinn’s parents, and Rae had assumed the worst. Even Yuna’s ready defense of the teen wasn’t enough to sway her.

Yet the real Quinn bore no resemblance to her worst fears. In many ways, he was emotionally younger than the daughter she’d lost. Less mature, less confident. A teenager perched on the edge of adulthood—a kid who snuck around feeding the neighbor’s dog. A vivid conversationalist who spilled out stories with a lonely child’s enthusiasm.

A surprising logic underpinned his friendship with Lark. There was more to it, of course. Since reading the PD’s report last October, Rae had resisted the truth: destiny had played a role. Her late daughter and Quinn were kindred souls. If they’d grown up in a large city, odds were they never would’ve met and discovered their natural affinity. In Chardon, with a population in the thousands—not the tens of thousands—they’d been given a few brief months to learn just how much they had in common.

The circumstance was both heartening and unsettling. Heartening mostly, Rae decided—Lark had left an indelible mark on her bashful friend. The confidence inherited from her grandmother Hester, the streak of bravado—Lark had possessed the same fire, the same generous spirit. She’d warmed everyone caught in her orbit.

Perhaps Quinn, most of all.

From the driveway, an engine rumbled before cutting off. Quinn, pulling his truck in from the road.

The soft padding of footfalls down the hallway. Two voices, mixing briefly. A door clicking shut.

The moon slipped behind the clouds.

“He’s all set.”

Shadows enveloped the studio. Her father waded through them.

“He’s in the guest bedroom?” she asked.

“Camped out with his homework. Doubt he’ll get very far with the trig. The kid looks exhausted.” Connor arched a brow. She was seated on the floor beside Kameko’s plastic tables and lovingly tended plants. “Do you want a chair?” He flicked on a lamp. “My joints hurt just looking at you.”

“I’m fine.” She eyed the bottle of Johnnie Walker and the two glasses he carried. “You’re breaking out the Scotch?” Other than holidays, they rarely imbibed.

“We both need a drink.”

He peered over his shoulder. His uneasy gaze landed on Lark’s wooden desk and office chair, which they’d pushed up against the wall. Rae had purchased the chair one short week before the funeral. The chair—and a gift card for supplies from Yuna’s Craft Emporium—had been a fumbling attempt to forge a cease-fire with her daughter.

“It’s okay, Dad. Grab the chair.”

“You don’t think she’ll care?”

She’ll care, as if Lark were still roosting in her bedroom, painting her toenails three shades of green and breaking the family bylaws with late-night Zoom chats with her girlfriends. Laughing like a donkey near midnight. Laughing harder when her grandfather revved past the bounds of arthritis and sprinted down the hallway to pound on her door. Leaving butterscotch candies on his love-worn edition of The Complete Shakespeare the next morning to apologize for her antics. Lark skipping down the farm’s long, curving driveway to the school bus as the driver blared the horn.

“Lark’s in heaven,” Rae said. “Get the chair—she won’t mind. We can’t talk in the living room. Our voices might carry.” They’d had enough trouble persuading Quinn to spend the night. Despite the frigid temps, he’d been serious about sleeping in his truck.

Connor fetched the chair. She filled both glasses with Scotch.

She took a generous sip. “Did he call his parents?” Fire sluiced down her throat, and she grimaced.

“No need. They left tonight. Vacation in Atlanta.”