The Passing Storm(48)



“I half expected her to pull a voodoo doll from her purse and start jabbing pins into it.”

“She wouldn’t dare—not with me around.”

“Thanks.” Sobering, Rae pulled in a calming breath. “She did look totally peeved. I guess I assumed . . . oh, I don’t know.” She pressed a palm to her forehead. “I just assumed she didn’t care what I thought, one way or the other.”

“Perhaps it’s time for you to consider that she might be hurting too. Questioning what it cost, for her to run that errand on the night of the slumber party.”

The observation made Rae’s eyes burn. “Maybe,” she agreed.

“Well, I pity Sally—whatever Katherine whispered to her, it wasn’t good. What do you think she said? Sally looked ready to faint.”

“I don’t know, or care.”

Rae suffered a twinge of pity for Sally, who’d clearly been distressed. During childhood, Griffin’s older sister had been kind to her. Distant—and a little bossy where her brother was concerned—but Sally had always meant well.

Yuna said, “No more meetings, okay? You’re officially off the hook. From now on, you report to me.”

“What about your tummy?”

“I’ll take my chances at the meetings.” Yuna smoothed a hank of Rae’s unruly hair back in place. “Should I give Katherine fair warning? Smooth the way, in case you run into her on Chardon Square? I’d hate to lose her help on the committee, but her behavior was incredibly rude.”

“No! I don’t trust your fluctuating hormones. You won’t stop at a civilized reprimand. You’ll bite.” She flicked Yuna’s nose, drawing a laugh. “Let’s not blow this out of proportion. Katherine’s opinion of me is the least of my worries.”

“Perhaps it’s best if you stay away from her.”

“As if I need a warning.” Rae thought of something else. “Are you low on saltines or melba toast?” During Yuna’s last pregnancy, they were her go-to foods. “I’m on my way to the grocery store. I’ll grab whatever you need.”

“No worries—Kipp has already stocked me up. His way of apologizing for grilling burgers. He knows how they upset my tummy.”

“Poor guy. If he’s on an almost-vegetarian diet like the last time, it’ll kill him.”

“He’ll survive.” Yuna glanced across the traffic at her shop. “I’ll talk to you later.”

With a wave, she sprinted across the street. She disappeared inside the craft emporium.

Rae’s car was parked before the Witt Agency. The car keys jingling from her fingertips, she paused on the driver’s side. Frustrated, she dug deeper in her purse. Where was the grocery list? She couldn’t recall if she’d grabbed it before leaving the house.

“Rae Langdon!”

The voice—female, angry—came from the center green. Shielding her eyes from the sun’s glare, Rae looked back toward the courthouse. With horror, she spotted the woman.

Her keys jangled to the ground.





Chapter 16


Cars screeched to a halt. Striding across the street, Penny Galecki tacked her furious gaze on Rae.

Quinn’s mother was . . . incongruous. The tight-fitting leather jacket showed off a youthful build. Her well-toned body stood in stark contrast to the wrinkles marring her face after years of smoking and drinking. Frequently Penny changed her hair color. Today her cropped tresses were jet-black. They matched the disturbing, thumb-size pitchfork tattooed on her neck.

“Don’t move! We’re having words, sister.”

Breathless, Rae searched the ground for her keys. Scooping them up, she attempted to rouse her temper. With horror, she realized she couldn’t marshal her defenses.

Time leaped backward, jarring Rae with images. The security lights surrounding the empty post office. The shadows draping the section of the lot farther off, where she’d parked. A couple approaching, arguing about their son. Penny’s voice rising in pitch, drawing Rae’s drunken appraisal.

The memory sickened Rae. She felt winded, off-balance.

“Is it true?” Penny backed her against the car. “My son is living at your place?”

“Yes, he is.”

Her response, barely audible, left a scent—like blood on a wounded animal. She was easy prey, and Penny knew it.

“How long’s he been staying there?”

Confusion spilled through Rae. Then disbelief. “Since you and Mik left for vacation,” she sputtered, wondering if the furious woman before her had assumed Quinn was living in his truck.

“Well, the party’s over. Tell Quinn to get home, and I mean today. The little brat doesn’t have my permission to stay at your place.”

Little brat.

The remark stirred the memory Rae wanted desperately to suppress. Little brat—what Penny had called her son on that terrible night. When Quinn was a small child left unsupervised in an apartment while his negligent parents were out drinking.

Anger darted through Rae. Quinn was no longer a defenseless child. He wasn’t trapped in a home short on love and heavy on abuse. Despite all the bad examples he’d received, he was nothing like his parents. Each night Quinn dutifully completed his homework. When he climbed into bed, he sang charming lullabies to his malnourished dog.

Christine Nolfi's Books