The Passing Storm(37)
And in March: how the tragedy kicked the bottom out of his world. Rae breaking off their romance with icy resolve and without explanation. Wrecking their plans to attend Ohio University together. Leaving him too heartbroken to stay in Chardon for more than a few days after they graduated in June.
Bookcases lined the living room’s back wall. Approaching, Griffin hesitated before the only shelf devoid of books. A box, too beautiful for competition with dusty tomes, sat alone on the shelf. A keepsake intricately and lovingly designed.
Hewn of cherrywood, the whimsical treasure chest was the approximate size and depth of a shoebox. Beneath layers of golden lacquer, rivers of crushed glass flowed across the top. A mythic, miniature shoreline sprinkled with conical horn-snail shells and wisps of embroidery thread. More lacquer encased the four sides, where a variety of tiny antique buttons formed a loosely geometric design.
Griffin kept the box in plain sight. A physical reminder—a misguided act of contrition. He knew his inaction sixteen years ago damned him. As did his missteps with Rae during that year.
His voice, unlike his heart, was calm when he spoke again.
“The last time Lark stopped by, she brought this with her.” Placing the box on the coffee table, he steeled himself for what would come next.
Leaning forward, Sally expelled a soft breath.
Chapter 13
“This belonged to Lark?”
Sally placed the keepsake on her lap. With awe she traced her fingers across the bumps and grooves of the lacquered top.
“Originally it was Rae’s,” Griffin explained. “I don’t believe she meant for her daughter to find it.”
Sally was barely listening. “This is one of Hester’s pieces. Good heavens, the workmanship is gorgeous.”
“Connor made the box to Hester’s specifications. She spent weeks on the detail work, setting in the crushed glass and the shells, adding layers of shellac. She finished when Rae and I were in sixth grade. It was one of Rae’s most cherished possessions. She kept it on her bedroom dresser all through high school.”
“Griffin, did Lark give this to you?”
At last, he captured his sister’s attention. “Not intentionally. The last time she came in—the week of the slumber party—she was visibly nervous. Unfortunately, she picked the wrong day to drop by. The guy we sent out to grab lunch was in a fender bender, and a client’s website was down. Everyone on staff was bickering, and I was late for a meeting in the conference room. Lark’s timing couldn’t have been worse.”
The details earned him a look of censure. “Please tell me you did not lose your cool with a fourteen-year-old. You know how sensitive girls are at that age.”
“No, I didn’t. Lark was so nervous, I knew that whatever the reason for the visit, we wouldn’t be chatting about the gig economy or school reports. It was serious. I asked if she’d mind coming back in an hour and we’d talk then.”
On his feet now, Griffin began pacing. Trying to outrun the guilt dogging his heels. Why didn’t he clue into Lark’s distress weeks earlier? The surprise appearances. The giddy laughter masking a young girl’s self-doubt. The trivial chatter concealing the questions she feared asking. Why didn’t he see?
Lack of parenting experience didn’t absolve him. His niece was Lark’s age. Jackie was part girl, part woman, a bubbling cauldron of emotion. Lark had been no different. What had it cost her to confront him?
Glass clinked as Sally poured the last of the merlot for herself. Padding to the liquor cabinet, she fetched the Jack Daniels and a shot glass.
She watched him drink. “Another?” She looked ready to pour one for herself.
“I’m fine.” He resumed pacing as she returned to the couch.
She slid the box near. “I’m afraid to ask what’s inside.” She inhaled a tremulous breath. “When you told Lark to come back later, what happened?”
“She opened her book bag and put the box on my desk. She looked ready to cry.” He grimaced. “I’ll give her credit. She got the whole speech out. How it was the happiest day of her life when she found the box in her mother’s attic. How much she’d wanted the missing pieces of her life. How grateful she was to finally have them.” Heartache threatened to steal Griffin’s composure, but he plowed on. “She was burying the lede—not that it mattered by then. I knew what she was trying to ask. Because I knew what she’d found inside the box.”
A potent silence fell between them. Sorrow inked Sally’s gaze. Then doubt thinned her lips. Griffin caught the reaction a split second before she washed her face clean of emotion.
A silent accusation, but he brushed it aside. What right did he have to take offense? This wasn’t about him or his feelings. It was about Rae and her daughter. About finding an honorable resolution.
The weight of what would come next made Griffin weary. The past he’d worked hard to expunge from memory, exposed.
“Go on,” he urged, “see what’s inside.”
“Griffin, if you’d rather I—”
“Go on, Sally. Look.”
The invitation crowded her face with doubt. Then the lid creaked open.
The contents charted a boy’s affections. One by one, his sister placed the items on the coffee table. A bracelet woven from long grass. A bird’s nest, old and crisp as kindling. A glass vial with pebbles inside. A clumsy drawing of a girl with flame-colored hair, and the graying skin of a baseball. Just the skin: the baseball’s core was missing.