The Passing Storm(42)
“It would sure explain why Quinn’s edgy. Have you noticed him avoiding eye contact sometimes when you’re talking to him? I’ll tell you what that means—he’s hiding something.”
Considering, Rae toyed with a lock of her unruly hair. There were moments when Quinn seemed unable to look at her directly. Just this morning, while filling her travel mug for the drive into work, she’d asked breezy questions about school. A typical morning greeting before heading out. Quinn’s attention remained glued on his cereal bowl.
Children—and teenagers—avoided eye contact for a variety of reasons. Guilt over a secret infraction. Nerves regarding an upcoming test at school. Or worry over a falling-out with friends. From what she could tell, Quinn didn’t have friends at the high school. There were no tests this week.
Which left the other possibilities her father seemed to imply. Did Quinn feel guilty for reasons undisclosed? Or worried?
Probably worried. His parents threw him out. It doesn’t mean they’ll stop giving him a hard time. If I were in his place, I’d worry about Mik and Penny making my life miserable too.
His parents refused to support him. It didn’t mean they’d stop the emotional abuse. Rae sensed they viewed him more like a possession, one they were in the habit of mistreating. A conclusion that made her both angry and heartsick.
“It’s like there’s something he wants to tell us,” Connor said, clueing in to her private speculations. “He can’t bring himself to pipe up. I can’t help but wonder if his parents are having second thoughts about kicking him out. Remember what Quinn told us? They were drinking the night of his birthday, getting ready to hop a plane to Atlanta. People say the stupidest things when they’re under the influence.”
“I don’t care. Mik and Penny threw him out. What he does is no longer their business.” Concern edged through Rae. “Have they been in touch with Quinn?”
“Who knows? I’d check his text messages, but I don’t have the password. I’ve tried snooping when he taps in the code. No luck so far.”
“Dad!”
The conversation abruptly ended. From deep in the basement’s dusty bowels, Quinn shouted, “Connor, check this out!”
Her father bounced a thumb toward the rooms in back. “You first,” he advised. “See if you can encourage the kid to open up. Getting him to talk might take the feminine touch.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. If he doesn’t want to talk, I can’t pry his secrets loose.”
“There’s a first time for everything.”
“I suppose.”
Relenting, she went ahead, her nose itching in the dusty air. In the last room, Quinn was crouching amid a group of boxes that were instantly recognizable.
Rae’s breath caught. Delight sifted through her.
Beaming, Quinn held up a string of lights. “Look what I found!” If worry about his parents’ return from Atlanta was bothering him, the discovery quelled the emotion.
Flipping open another box, he inspected the bundles of industrial-grade lighting. Each string was neatly wound. Crinkly tissue paper separated the layers. All the boxes were the same, packed tight with strings of lights.
“Oh, Quinn. You found my mother’s last art project. Wow—this brings back memories.” Good ones, and she savored them.
“There’s enough here to decorate fifty Christmas trees. They all look brand new.”
“They are new.” She crouched beside him. “These aren’t for Christmas. We keep the holiday decorations in the studio closet, upstairs.”
“What are they?”
The fond memories warmed Rae. “My mother’s final inspiration. An art project she never got the chance to finish. It was amazing, how much time she spent on the design.”
“I thought Lark’s grandmother worked with mixed media. Like the picture hanging in your family room.”
“Usually, but this was an exception. I can’t recall why she got it into her head to create a lighting display. Once the inspiration struck, it’s all she thought about.”
“When was this?”
“The autumn before the White Hurricane. Mom began stringing lights between the house and the barn, but only on the lowest branches. She wasn’t crazy about heights. It was the beginning of my senior year of high school. It looked so pretty, we all decided to pitch in. We had fun working on the project.”
A soft lump of regret formed in Rae’s throat. Griffin had also helped, she recalled. On the nights when he didn’t man the customer service desk of his father’s dealership, he’d worked until dusk, climbing high into the trees—his body stronger than Rae’s and faster, and it seemed he’d bump into the sky. Griffin had strung lights from the highest branches as she clung to lower branches, not entirely certain she trusted her balance, and as Hester shouted warnings from below. Rae’s father had worked on the second tree in an amusing, silent competition with Griffin. Rae’s mother had planned to hire a man in town to string the lights on the treetops, but Griffin—eager to see the final result—had started work on the project immediately. Connor had quickly joined in.
Dismissing the memory, she said, “My mother designed an elaborate color scheme to cover every tree between the house and the barn. It would’ve been lovely if she’d finished. There are nineteen trees separating the distance. She planned to decorate every one of them.”