The Passing Storm(43)

Quinn’s eyes rounded. “Talk about a major job. Your barn is half an acre from the house.”

“Just about. My father hired an electrician to trench cabling across the entire span. That part of the project was completed.”

“Where did she get lights in so many colors? I’ve never seen anything like this in the stores.”

“She knew a hotelier in Philadelphia. He put her in touch with a manufacturer. The lights were designed to her specifications.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“I’ve always been partial to this combination.” Rae held up a string for his inspection. The thumb-size bulbs were a series of silver, violet, and the prettiest spring green. Some of the bulbs were oval, and others were shaped liked stars. “And these,” she added, retrieving a strand in varying shades of blue.

“How do you choose a favorite? I like them all.”

“You just choose. Whatever strikes your fancy.”

Pulling another box close, she rustled through the layers of tissue. Before the White Hurricane, all the lighting had been laid out near a wall in Hester’s studio, ready for installation. They didn’t get far with the project. When the first snowflakes dusted the acres in November, work came to a halt. Hester spent the holiday season rearranging the sequence of lights, updating her schematic with each change.

Sixteen years later, the lights were still in pristine condition. There wasn’t dust in any of the boxes. Absently Rae wondered when her father had packed away the lighting. Busywork, for the days when he’d kept his depression at bay.

Breaking the silence, she said, “It’s been so long . . . I can’t recall where the lights were actually made,” she told Quinn.

“Germany.” Connor appeared in the doorway. “The company is still around. They make hand-painted glass ornaments. They got out of the lighting business. Too much competition from Asia.”

Rae straightened. “It would’ve been gorgeous, if Mom had finished.” Then she told Quinn, “Some of the lights are still up outside—they’re on the trees nearest the house. I don’t know if they still work.”

Surprise lifted Quinn’s brows. “Don’t you turn them on?”

“Frankly, we forgot about them.” Rae searched her memories. “We stopped turning them on around the time Lark enrolled in her first pottery class. She was in second grade. After that, our lives were busy.”

Connor leaned against the doorjamb. “I never understood why you let her choose pottery. Dumbest move in the annals of parenting. Why didn’t we buy Lark a block of Play-Doh and call it a day?”

“Dad, you’re a font of wisdom—after the fact. Why didn’t you chime in at the time? I lobbied to sign her up for a class in cartoon drawing. When Lark argued for the pottery class, you egged her on.”

“I was her grandfather. It was my job to spoil her.”

“Yeah, and I should’ve assigned you to laundry duty. Getting the clay out of Lark’s clothes was a major PITA. I threw out several of her T-shirts before the sessions ended.” To Quinn she said, “Life went into warp speed once Lark discovered activities. My daughter never sat still. The original busy bee.”

“Like me,” Quinn volunteered. The pleasure on Rae’s features was infectious, and he smiled. “I like to keep busy. It’s one of the things I had in common with Lark.”

On any other day, the remark would’ve given Rae pause. Like the first streak of lightning announcing the incoming storm. Signaling the need to take cover.

Today, however, the past—and its secrets—were far from mind.

A buoyancy overtook Rae’s mood. As did a dawning awareness. For the first time since the funeral, she was discussing Lark easily. Without the sharp sting of regret or the hard pull of grief.

With only affection.

Quinn bounced on his heels. “Can we go outside? See if the lights work? They must look incredible at night.”

A rumble erupted from Connor’s stomach. “Let’s eat first.”





Chapter 15


The trees slumbered in winter hiatus. Bare-armed, they were unable to hide the damage.

Lengths of electrical wiring drooped from the branches. Nearest the house, a string tapped aimlessly against its tree trunk, dislodged by high winds or busy squirrels. The second tree was a taller maple. Rae anxiously peered up at the limbs. In the past, she never stopped for long to study the lighting that represented her mother’s final burst of creativity. Doing so was too difficult.

Her heart fell. “They’re in worse shape than I’d realized.” Many of the oval-and star-shaped lights were broken.

“They do look bad,” Quinn agreed, disappointed.

“I feel awful. I don’t know how many times I’ve walked by without noticing.”

“You forgot about them, that’s all.”

They’d come outside through the mudroom. Most of the snow had melted, thanks to last night’s rain. Her father, still near the house, was shoveling the last of the slush from the walk.

Rae gestured toward the deck. “See the switch, near the sliding glass doors?” she asked Quinn. “Go ahead and try them.”

Nothing happened. Connor, walking past, muttered choice words. There was no missing that Rae’s disappointment paled beside his.