The Passing Storm(49)

“Penny, you can’t tell Quinn what to do.”

“Yes, I can. I’m his mother. He’s my kid, not yours.”

“That isn’t the point.” The effort to meet Penny’s gaze proved impossible. Her large eyes, fringed with thick lashes, were disturbingly similar to her son’s. Yet they were set in a face carved by hard living.

The same face that had once haunted Rae. For years after the last bleak months of high school, when Rae was grieving, broken, and pregnant, she’d been unable to eradicate Penny from her mind.

“I don’t think you’re hearing me. Quinn is my son. You’ve got no right to be moving him into your house.” Penny’s lip curled. “What do you want with a boy his age? Are you into something kinky, Rae? Is he sharing your bed?”

The lewd suggestion hung between them like a foul stench. Dignifying it with a response was out of the question.

Cars streamed past. A young couple, walking arm in arm past the Witt Agency, quickened their pace. They were eager to escape the dangerous atmosphere brewing between the two women.

Rae said, “My father checked with an attorney for clarification on Quinn’s rights.” A retired attorney—one of Connor’s friends on the geezer squad—but there was no reason to elaborate. “You can’t tell Quinn what to do. An eighteen-year-old can choose to leave home prior to completing high school. Quinn has no obligation to you. He has a new home. I suggest you deal with it.”

“What gives you the right to mess with my family?” Lightning quick, Penny shoved her. A hard jab to the shoulder that jolted Rae’s pulse.

She fell against the car. Instinct warned her not to react. Do so, and Penny would punch her.

“I’m not interfering.” The cold rush of fear made Rae’s muscles loose. She steadied herself. “You told Quinn to move out. He needed somewhere to stay. As an adult, he’s perfectly within his rights.”

“I’d never throw my son out.” Her predatory instincts were on full display as Penny curled her fists. “Who told you that—Quinn? He’s a liar.”

The denial was stunning. Had Quinn . . . fabricated the story? Pretended he’d been thrown out because he was sick of living with his heavy-drinking, combative parents? Rae blinked with confusion.

Penny raised her fist. “You’d better keep something in mind. You’ve got no business interfering. Do you need a lesson in why you shouldn’t mess with another woman’s family? Is that what you want?”

From behind, a man cleared his throat.

David Greer, the new account executive, stepped out of the Witt Agency. Close to Rae in age, David smiled readily and talked incessantly about his wife and two daughters.

He wasn’t smiling now.

“Rae, is this woman bothering you?”

Penny flashed a venomous glance. She stepped back.

With her middle finger raised, she marched off.





Chapter 17


Only three of the large-screen monitors glowed with activity on Design Mark’s ground floor.

On Saturdays most of the staff worked remotely, if they worked at all. Freedom of choice brought higher creativity. Griffin encouraged the staff to build their own schedules. The only exception? When clients were on premise. In the age of teleconferencing, those in-person meetings took place less frequently.

The business-casual dress code didn’t extend to Saturdays. Two of the graphic designers who’d come in today wore jeans and ball caps. The third, Tabby Jones, was hunched over her keyboard in flannel pajama bottoms and a neon-green Little Mermaid top, a souvenir from a recent trip to SoCal. No one acknowledged the boss striding past. Fingers streaming across keyboards, they were locked in concentration.

The second floor rested in silence. The conference room smelled of pepperoni; Griffin threw out the day-old pizza box left on the table.

The reception area was orderly, like his large, sparsely furnished office.

With the building’s refurb, the old plaster had been removed from the outer wall to reveal the red brick used to erect the building in 1887. The new bank of windows overlooked the street and his father’s car dealership, which was partially hidden in warmer months, when the century-old maple trees leafed out. Griffin had chosen sleek Danish furniture, including a long white leather couch for impromptu meetings with the staff. No personal mementos graced the office. The only exception was a silver-framed photo on his desk of him with Sally and Jackie at last year’s Geauga County Fair.

If Design Mark resembled a frat house most days, Griffin didn’t mind. He drew the line at his personal space.

He was finishing a call when his sister swept in.

He did a doubletake. Sally’s features were stiff with rage. An uncommon sight. By nature, both of the Marks siblings were even-tempered. He could only recall a handful of times when he’d seen his sister upset.

“Last year, how often did you take Lark to Dixon’s?” Sally demanded.

Warily, Griffin placed the phone in the cradle. “Does it matter?”

“Obviously. You didn’t tell me.”

Brows lifting, he searched for a reply. Taking Lark out for ice cream had been a kind gesture, nothing more.

His bafflement merely increased his sister’s anger. “Why didn’t you mention it when you showed me Rae’s keepsake? Griffin, we talked for more than an hour. We covered a lot of ground. You had ample time to fill me in.”