The Passing Storm(38)

Her nose wrinkling, Sally held up the soiled cowhide.

“Connor gave it to us as a joke,” he explained. “When we were kids, Rae and I pitched a lot of rounds. One summer, we wore the ball out.”

“I remember.”

“You do?”

His sister’s eyes misted. “You wanted to play pro ball. Rae decided if you were heading to the major leagues, she’d go too.”

They’d been eight or nine. Too young to grasp life’s limitations. “We figured we’d play on the same team.”

“No one had the heart to tell you otherwise.” She sighed. “You and Rae were inseparable. I was a little jealous.”

“That was stupid. Why didn’t you hang around with us? We wouldn’t have minded.”

His sister regarded him as if he’d grown a tail. “Who’s being stupid? You wanted Rae all to yourself. The chemistry was there from the beginning—even before either of you were old enough to understand. You brought out the best in each other. Tempered each other too.”

“Rae became a little less impulsive, and I came out of my shell.”

“I guess, on a different level, I wasn’t jealous. More like . . . relieved. After all the bullying from other boys at school, you’d found a friend who liked you for exactly who you were.”

Her expression shifting, Sally returned her attention to the box. She withdrew a series of photos. All were close-ups from high school, a visual representation of the dangers of love.

Pausing, she frowned. “What else is in here?”

When he remained silent, she removed the love letter he’d feverishly penned right after Rae broke up with him and said to stay out of her life—permanently. He’d never received a response.

The letter rustled open.

Sally averted her gaze. “Should I stop? This must be excruciating for you.”

Griffin poured himself another shot. Excruciating? Not even close. The alcohol wasn’t strong enough to dull the pain.

“Go on. Lark’s already been through the contents. You need to see what she found.”

More love letters drifted onto the coffee table. Sally handled them with the care one took with sacred objects. Next, the silver locket he’d given Rae on her seventeenth birthday. Then a Valentine card, crumpled and worn.

All of it, the map of a young man’s heart.

Looking away, he got back on track. “After Lark put the keepsake on my desk, my assistant came in. The client waiting in the conference room was furious about the delay—I only left for a minute. When I returned, Lark was gone.”

“But she left the box?”

“To ensure I’d go through the contents. I didn’t have her phone number.”

“You didn’t feel right calling Rae.”

“What was I supposed to say? ‘Rae, your daughter was in my office. She wants to know if I’m her father.’” He sank to the couch, his emotions in flux. Now he wondered if he should’ve called Rae and tackled the issue head-on. Insisted she talk to him. Unsure, he added, “I didn’t open the damn thing until the week after Lark’s funeral.”

“You have to return this to Rae. You mentioned Lark took it from the attic. Which means Rae has no idea it’s missing.”

“I figured you’d do the honors. Drive over to the farm, play intermediary.”

“No!” The contents were quickly put back, the lid snapping shut. “Griffin, I’ve never been close to Rae. Our daughters were friends, and sometimes we volunteered for the same committees. That’s all. Since the slumber party, she’s been missing from the social scene. I’m sure she won’t have anything to do with me. I’m sorry—this is one problem I can’t solve.”

Frustrated, he rubbed his palms across his face. “So I need to contact Rae?”

“That’s not a good idea either. She’s had enough upsets. She doesn’t need you reappearing in her life.” Sally tapped a polished nail against her wineglass. “Talk to Yuna. She lives next door—get her advice on what to do. Yuna knows Rae better than anyone. If you’re lucky, she’ll offer to return the keepsake.”

A course of action he’d already mulled over and discarded. “I was hoping not to drag Yuna into this.” He preferred to avoid another retelling of his brief acquaintance with Lark.

Sally regarded him with disbelief. “Get your head out of the clouds, little brother. Dragging Yuna in is the only option.”



On Thursday Rae strode into the craft emporium’s stockroom. “One order of pad thai, no bean sprouts or shrimp, with extra chicken.” She held up the bag. “Normally you love bean sprouts and shrimp, but who am I to complain if you need a change of pace?”

Yuna cleared a space on her cluttered desk. “You’re a lifesaver. I have a class in thirty minutes. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“It wasn’t an inconvenience. I promised Dad and Quinn I’d bring dinner home—a guilt move on my part. Quinn has been cooking nearly every night. Am I taking advantage of my talented houseguest?”

“Oh please. Quinn likes to cook. Doing his bit helps him fit into your household.”

“True, and he’s never had Thai. He’s in for a treat.”

“Never? That’s just sad.”