The Passing Storm(36)
Sally gave the query serious consideration. “My opinion? Insurance represents safety. Having a baby right out of high school, and Connor’s depression—Rae needed to anchor herself. What better than a career in risk avoidance?”
“Avoiding risk doesn’t sound like a draw for a woman like Rae.”
“Little brother, you haven’t spoken to her since high school. She changed in her twenties. When Lark was a baby, Rae went through a phase where she seemed afraid of her own shadow. Walking by on the street, she avoided eye contact. If someone called out in greeting, she pretended not to hear. Eventually she came out of her shell and regained some of her spunk. But not right away.”
The description was pitiful and sad. “She took her mother’s death hard,” Griffin said, aware her daughter’s passing was an even greater blow. An unimaginable loss for any loving parent. “It would explain the changes in Rae’s behavior.”
“No, there was more to it. Another disappointment, something else that left her feeling beaten down. It seemed like one day she was graduating from high school and the next, she was pushing a baby carriage down the grocery aisles. Perhaps the gossip wore her down. Some of it was awfully cruel once her pregnancy began to show.” Sally picked at imaginary lint on her sweater. The memory clearly saddened her. “Whatever the cause, it took a long time for her to get past. Not that you were here to witness her worst years, Griffin. You left for college, then moved to Boston. You never looked back.”
There was no denying the assessment. During college and later, when he lived on the coast, Griffin only flew in for the occasional holiday. He never stayed in Ohio for longer than the weekend. Never asked for news about Rae. The shock of her pregnancy was best carried in private. An agony, but he’d refused to ask Sally for updates on Rae and her child.
Retrieving his wineglass, he said, “Raising a child alone couldn’t have been easy. All I’m saying is that I didn’t expect Rae to settle for a dull career.”
His sister gave a disapproving glance. “Look who’s being critical. All through childhood, you were a pushover for anything with four legs and fur. I was convinced you’d become a vet. And where did you land? Griffin, you have zero artistic talent.”
“Yet I spend my life dealing with graphic designers and pitching website design.”
“Exactly. People rarely end up where you expect.” Softening the criticism, Sally added, “I am sure of one thing. Rae’s mother influenced you. Hester Langdon might not be the primary reason you chose an art career, but she did have an impact.”
A suspicion he shared. Where Everett had made Griffin feel inadequate, the Langdons had encouraged him to thrive. Beneath their gentle influence, he came to appreciate creativity.
“I admired Rae’s mother, and Connor,” he admitted. “Hanging out at their farm was light-years easier than our homelife. They never had an agenda, never cared about the plans Rae or I made for college, or what we’d study. Even after my friendship with Rae became something more, they treated me like a son.”
“They thought you would become their son. After you and Rae fell for each other and you were both accepted to Ohio University, it seemed like a done deal. Everyone presumed you’d get engaged freshman year of college. If the White Hurricane hadn’t taken Rae’s mother, I’m sure you would have.”
“Most high school sweethearts don’t stick through college, Sally. There’s too much opportunity to stray.”
“Are you admitting to lots of extracurricular pursuits at Ohio University? My tenderhearted brother on the prowl? Spare me the details. I’m sure I don’t want to hear them—except tell me you kept your promise.”
“I never broke it.”
Worry edged Sally’s features as she canvassed his face. “I’ve always wondered.” Then relief smoothed the lines on her brow. “I’m glad you didn’t do something foolish.”
Griffin was moved by her impulse to protect him. At times, they disagreed fiercely. Not often, and he was thankful to have a sister who kept his best interests at heart.
Rising, she refilled her glass. “For the record, I wasn’t a saint in college either. Don’t tell my husband. Trenton still believes I walk on water.”
“Your secrets are safe.”
“For now, at least. Remind me to check the photographic record before Mom and Jackie start working on my album. I have a feeling there are snaps from Oberlin I should destroy.”
“Better get crackin’.”
Rejoining him on the couch, she asked, “Last fall, how often did Lark visit Design Mark?”
“Right up to the week of the slumber party. She came in just a few days before.”
“Oh, Griffin. You saw Lark the week she died? Why didn’t you tell me any of this sooner?”
A suitable answer refused to materialize. He felt sick then, unmoored. Like he’d felt that January when the White Hurricane’s first salvos of beating wind and pelting snow caught him driving home from a part-time job at his father’s dealership, and his car hydroplaned. The tires skidding, nearly hurtling him off the road. The snow suddenly blinding. The wild staccato of his pulse beating in his ears as he fought to keep the wheels on the road.
Or later, how he felt when power was restored to a shocked and battered northeast Ohio. Learning of Rae’s failed attempt to rescue her mother, and Hester freezing to death.