The Passing Storm(4)
A frigid silence overtook the stockroom. Rae wasn’t sure how to break it.
Yuna said, “Tell me what to do to make you feel better. Name it. I’ll do whatever you’d like.”
The comment broke through Rae’s muddled thoughts. Moisture collected at the corners of her eyes. She felt vulnerable and confused. The combination blurred her vision as the office chair groaned to a halt.
Yuna came to her feet. “Should I have a heart-to-heart with Quinn?” On tiptoe, she studied Rae closely. “Persuade him to stop trespassing on your property? It’ll open the door to a conversation I don’t want to have with him. He’s not ready to talk about it, and I’m not either. I’m hurting too, you know.”
“I know.”
“I’m his employer, not the village priest. It’ll weird him out if I meddle in his private life.”
Rae took a swipe at her watery nose. “Get real,” she muttered, hating the way she fell apart without warning. Her eyes were leaky too, spilling hot rivulets down her face. “Quinn doesn’t have a private life. He has school, part-time work, and a future of breaking and entering. He’s getting lots of practice, sneaking around my place.”
“Stop complaining—and hold still.” Yuna was a head shorter, but her maternal instincts were on full display. With soothing movements, she wiped the tears away. When she finished, she asked, “What’s the verdict? How do you want me to handle this with Quinn?”
Distracted, Rae combed her fingers through the tumbling lengths of her reddish-gold hair. Did she really want her bestie to have a heart-to-heart with the kid? It didn’t seem like a great solution.
As if there were a great solution on offer. There wasn’t.
“Don’t you own a hairbrush?” Yuna asked. With a sudden grin, she twirled a hank of Rae’s hair. “Let’s schedule an intervention at my salon. Bring smelling salts for my stylist.” She wagged the long strands, drawing a howl of protest. “After we revive her, she’ll make you look fabulous.”
Rae swatted her away. “What’s your next suggestion? A fashion overhaul, like metallic leggings on my oak-tree legs? Girlfriend, you’re crazy.”
“No, I’m the sugar to your spice. That’s why you love me.” Yuna’s expression grew impish. “Do you want ice cream?”
“It’s January. Ice cream is a warm-weather treat,” Rae said, aware she was being peevish. At home she kept tubs stashed in the freezer. Her father loved banana splits year-round. She peered at the lunch area, a cubbyhole arrangement where Yuna stashed goodies for her staff. “Do you have hot chocolate?” she asked.
“Dixon’s has brownies. We’ll add a scoop of vanilla on top.”
“Like I need a double dose of sugar.”
“One dessert—we’ll share. Fewer calories, less guilt.”
“Forget the fairy wings. You’re evil. You know that, right?”
Yuna shrugged. “Should we have Dixon’s heat up the brownie?”
Chocolate was Rae’s downfall. As was Dixon’s, the wine and dessert café on the opposite side of Chardon Square.
Sensing victory, Yuna nodded at the door that led to the alley behind the building. “Let’s make a run for it. Leave my staff out front to deal with the customers.”
Rae sighed. A quick snack—with or without ice cream—wasn’t the worst idea.
Chapter 2
Golden light slanted through the living room. The TV wasn’t on. Rae walked through the house, calling for her father.
A cup of coffee sat on the kitchen counter. In the mudroom, Connor’s boots and the canvas coat he wore to stroll the property were missing. Those excursions were perfectly safe in warmer months. In winter, when heavy snow and patches of ice dotted the acreage, Rae encouraged her father to wait until she was home to accompany him. For a man in his seventies, Connor was in reasonable shape—but Rae harbored an overprotective streak for her only surviving parent.
As usual, the request had been ignored. Muttering choice words, she hurried out back.
Nearly an acre separated the large, rambling house from the even larger—and thoroughly neglected—barn. During Rae’s childhood, the farm had bustled with activity. She recalled downy chicks skittering across her knees in the pasture’s soft grass. She’d chased dark-winged moths through the pumpkin patch and the rows of lettuce her mother, Hester, had coaxed into thriving clear into November.
Living off the land had been Hester’s dream. While many in her generation traded in their youthful rebellion for the rampant consumerism overtaking the country, she read articles on organic farming while earning a fine arts degree from the University of Pennsylvania. In 1979, armed with a small inheritance and a willing husband, she purchased the tract of land outside Chardon, Ohio. It was her twenty-seventh birthday.
Although she was young, Hester was serious and sensible. Plans for starting a family were put on hold as she and Connor learned animal husbandry and when to plant crops. They hired Amish carpenters from nearby Middlefield to erect their home and the barn. The barn quickly filled with pigs, goats, chickens, and a cow affectionately named Butter. The house underwent several expansions as the couple—like modern-day pioneers—learned to can vegetables and store root crops in makeshift bins. During summer, blackberries grew wild near the forest, and Connor filled baskets with the sweet fruit. Hester preserved jams and baked pies to share with new friends they met in town. By the third year, the Amish were called back to the property. They made further additions to the house, including a small greenhouse Hester quickly put to use.