The Passing Storm(54)
“That’s my guess. Now he’s stewing in his car.”
“Should I fetch him?”
“Leave him be. This is his decision. He’s got to decide whether to take a child’s way out or act like a man. First off, he’ll weigh the merits of heading for the hills. Driving all the way to California, or some such nonsense.”
The possibility made Rae’s stomach lurch.
No matter how much she dreaded another confrontation with Penny—or, worse still, with Mik—having Quinn run off didn’t bear contemplating. The skinny youth was beginning to gain weight. He was a genuine help to Connor. He pitched in around the house and insisted on paying for Shelby’s dog food. Some nights, when he thought Rae was asleep, he sang to his dog. Quietly, in a lilting whisper—silly, nonsense songs. The sort one sang to a toddler.
Shelby, entranced by the serenade, contributed amusing yips and full-throated yowls to the chorus.
The Galeckis were a threat. She’d take her chances to protect Quinn.
At last, heavy footfalls approached from the living room. Relief spilled through Rae. Then consternation. Quinn halted in the hallway, just a few feet away. She detected a scattered mumbling of words.
Was Quinn praying?
Connor rolled his eyes. Prayer or not, there were limits to his patience.
“Get in here, son! We’re waiting.”
From the doorway, Quinn dredged up the classic teenage response. “I can explain everything.”
“And pigs can fly.” Connor stabbed a finger at a chair. “Let’s take this one step at a time.”
Once Quinn was seated, Rae jumped in. “Why did you lie to us? You led us to believe your parents had thrown you out of the house.”
“It was only a half lie. My mom told me to move out. She said if I didn’t, I’d catch hell when she got back from Atlanta. She was getting drunk, but I knew she wasn’t kidding around. She, um . . .” Embarrassed, Quinn hung his head.
“What?”
“She had me by the neck when she spelled it out.”
Disgust pinged through Rae, stirring her tender, mothering instincts. “Where was your father while this transpired?”
“In the bedroom, packing for the trip.”
“Mik left for the airport without knowing Penny told you to move out?”
“She warned I’d get a walloping if I told him.”
“So Mik doesn’t know she threw you out. He thinks this was all your idea. He assumes you took advantage of their trip to Atlanta to clear out—and avoid setting him off.”
Connor shifted in his chair. “Penny’s stirred up one fine hornet’s nest,” he muttered. “I’ll bet Mik’s furious.”
Quinn shrugged out of his parka. “I suppose she’d put together a story to tell him when they got back. About me going to live with friends, or something.” His gaze was still downcast, the color rising in his cheeks. Discussing this was clearly a humiliating experience for the kid. “She gets really pissed off when she drinks too much. I wasn’t going to argue with her.”
The sentiment was understandable. This afternoon, Rae hadn’t wanted to argue with Penny either. She’d been frightened. A shameful response. When Penny pushed her back against the car, she should’ve clocked her, and good.
With confusion, Connor scratched his head. “If Penny wanted you to move out, why’s she gunning for you to come home now?”
“Lots of reasons. Coq au vin, mostly.”
Rae frowned. How did the kid’s mastery of French cooking figure in?
Her father was faster on the uptake. “Your dad likes when you make dinner?”
“Oh yeah.” Quinn grew animated. “I get along with him a whole lot better when I cook stuff he likes. Coq au vin is his favorite. I’ve also got a venison bourguignon I make during hunting season. Dad loves to hunt. When school’s not in session and I’m not working, I make French bread and desserts too. The more he eats, the less he drinks.”
Sympathy filled the webwork of lines comprising Connor’s face. “How long have you been cooking for him?” Reaching into his pocket, he slid a biscuit down the table.
Murmuring thanks, Quinn gave the treat to his dog. “Oh, since I was eight or nine. A lady who used to live on our street taught me the basics.”
“That was sweet of her.”
“She was old. She missed cooking for her husband. He’d died. One day when my parents were fighting, she found me sitting at the picnic table in her yard. I thought she’d get mad. She didn’t—she invited me inside.” Remembering, he coasted thoughtful fingers across Shelby’s back, smoothing down the fur. “After that, I started checking out food shows on YouTube. My dad is less of a bear when I make dinner. I think it soaks up the booze.”
“You’re a smart young man,” her father said.
Rae asked, “What about Penny? Does she cook?” Apparently, a macho guy like Mik never went near a stove.
“She thinks she does. Mostly she burns stuff in a skillet.” A trace of fear swept through Quinn’s eyes. “My parents have some scary go-rounds about Mom’s cooking. She’ll get dinner started, then walk away. Start watching TV or make a drink. Lots of times the kitchen reeks of smoke before she remembers what she’s doing. Really pisses Dad off. The rest of the time, he makes fun of her. Teases her about her lousy cooking or mocks her when she goes heavy with the makeup to try to look younger.”