The Passing Storm(17)
“They threw Quinn out, then left on vacation?”
“According to Quinn, his parents got a nice payout on a lottery ticket—they tossed the kid a birthday card with fifty bucks inside, then told him to move out.”
“How long are they gone?”
“Ten days. They’re visiting a fellow mechanic who retired to Atlanta. The man worked with Mik Galecki at the auto dealership. It’s anyone’s guess how they sobered up enough to walk through airport security.”
“The assholes.”
Connor withered her with a look. “Language.” He brushed the sparse hair from his forehead. “Why is cruelty easy for some people? I’ve heard rumors about Quinn’s parents same as everybody. Lots of nasty scuttlebutt. Still, I never thought they’d stoop to throwing their kid out. On his birthday, of all days.”
Rae latched her restless gaze on the wall of glass. Snowflakes pelted the ground outside. Dread came trundling up her gut as she recalled the one instance when she’d unintentionally tangled with Mik and Penny Galecki. Out of habit, she avoided the couple. The reasons were dark and complicated—and unknown to her father.
After a moment she said, “I’m not remotely surprised. Mik has a solid work history, but everyone knows his temper is unpredictable. Throwing wrenches at the younger mechanics, giving them a hard time—I heard he’s not allowed near the dealership’s clients now because he’s so testy.” Mik was the lead mechanic at Marks Auto Dealership, a muscular bear of a man. “Penny isn’t much better. She can’t hold down a job for more than ten minutes.”
“And she gets into barroom brawls with other women. Who does that? If you ask me, Penny has a drinking problem.”
“Dad, both of the Galeckis are alcoholics. Their idea of a good time is sitting around in bars. As for Quinn, I assumed . . .” Remorse prevented her from completing the thought.
“That the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree? I thought the same—he was just like his parents. A hell-raising delinquent. A piece of trash, luring my granddaughter into situations a fourteen-year-old had no business contemplating.” Pity etched Connor’s features. “Here’s a fun fact. The boy hiding out in our guest bedroom can make a crème br?lée. He walked me through the steps.”
Once, Rae had attempted a basic American pot roast. “Quinn’s into French cuisine?” She’d served up rawhide.
“There’s a YouTube show on French cooking he watches. Most boys his age double-dare each other into filming dumb stunts for YouTube. Quinn’s torqued up about next week’s show, the basics of cheese soufflé. I should get him a gift card from Williams Sonoma for tidying up the barn. Buy him a set of whisks or something.” Connor frowned. “What right did we have to judge him?”
“Save your shame, Dad. I’m doing enough penance for both of us. I feel terrible in about ten different ways.” She declined to add their assumptions reflected poorly on Lark’s memory. As if the terrible boy they’d imagined could’ve secured the friendship of the bright, beautiful girl who’d stood at the center of their lives.
“I’ll tell you this much. I know what my granddaughter would expect us to do.”
Rae glimpsed the path laid out before them. “Lark would want us to do right by Quinn.” Would a benevolent hand guide them past the dangers?
“Are you ready to make it official?”
On all major issues they voted. With Lark no longer alive to play tiebreaker, they arrived at too many stalemates.
Not this time.
“We can’t leave Quinn out on a limb.” Rae wiggled her fingers in the air. The fear she’d find a way to manage—cowardice went against the grain. “Even if he wanted his parents to reconsider, I’d attempt to talk him out of going back. The situation’s not healthy. Family Services has short-term foster homes, but they’d struggle to find an emergency placement for a teenager who’ll graduate from high school soon. It’s more likely Quinn would land in a group home.” The prospect didn’t bear contemplating.
“If we ask him to stay, he’ll accept. The boy hungers for a homelife. We can’t make this sound like charity, though. He’s got his pride.”
Rae hadn’t been much older than Quinn when she became a mother. Still, she’d learned quickly that even as a toddler, Lark wanted to perform big-girl chores. Helping to pick up toys in the living room or fold dish towels. Later, she’d helped Connor with vacuuming and dusting as Rae’s advancement at the Witt Agency demanded longer hours.
Regardless of age, pitching in gave a child a sense of belonging and purpose.
“Give Quinn a list of weekly chores,” Rae suggested, “to let him know we rely on him. It’ll boost his confidence.”
“I’ll talk to him in the morning.” Connor swirled his drink, studied the amber liquid. “How will this play out, when his parents get back from Atlanta? Will they care that we’re putting their son up?”
The reservation in his voice sent a chill through her. The Galeckis loved a good fight. They didn’t need a reason.
“They did throw him out, and he is of age.” Uneasy, she reconsidered. “We should factor in their cruelty. Did they expect Quinn to live in his car until they returned from Atlanta? Then come back home?”