The Passing Storm(56)

He trudged into Design Mark at dawn. Often, he stayed until midnight. His assistant joked he should sell his house and live in his office.

In between meetings, he attempted to reach Sally. His sister refused to pick up. The sincere apologies Griffin left on voice mail, he suspected, were summarily deleted.

For two siblings so close, the break in diplomatic relations was a first.

Griffin took full ownership of the mess. Last weekend, when Sally had appeared in his office, hurling accusations like well-aimed darts, he shouldn’t have become defensive. It should’ve been obvious she was upset about more than Katherine’s revelations concerning Lark. Or because Katherine still harbored feelings that Griffin couldn’t return.

His sister’s anger ran deeper.

Sally believed he’d broken a key element of their relationship: trust. Which he’d done through his inability to give her the full, unvarnished truth. Why hadn’t he mentioned taking Lark to Dixon’s for ice cream? Had embarrassment kept him silent? Playing a shadow game, he’d offered some facts while hiding others.

Now Sally viewed everything he’d told her as suspect.

By Thursday night, it became clear the standoff might last indefinitely. The prospect spurred Griffin out of Design Mark. What choice was there but to drive over to Sally’s house? When two adults disagree, nothing beats in-person negotiations. A face-to-face would soothe his sister’s ruffled feathers. Griffin was prepared to eat crow, if it came to it.

On the first knock, the door opened a crack. His brother-in-law looked agitated.

“I don’t know what you’ve done, pal.” Trenton spoke at barely a whisper. “Your sister is hotter than Death Valley. She’s more dangerous than extreme weather. She’s like the volcano that erupted in . . . which country was it? Somewhere in Asia.”

A query not worth exploring. “I get it, Trenton. May I speak with her?”

“No.”

“No?” Griffin polished his tone to a brittle sheen. “May I ask why?”

“Like you don’t know.”

“Okay, I know. I’d still like to come in. I need to apologize.”

“You’re wasting your time.”

“Let me be the judge.” His irritation flared. “Back up, man. I’m coming in to talk to my sister.”

“No way.” Trenton cast a nervous glance behind him. “If I let you in, she’ll strip my ego naked and dip it in bleach. I’m not that strong. Go away.”

The door clicked shut.

The rejection deflated Griffin, and he trudged back to his car. He returned to Design Mark to stew in a broth of self-pity and remorse.

The self-pity was especially hazardous. It led him down the blind roads and rocky paths to that last, unfortunate year at Chardon High. A smarter man would avoid such a journey. He wouldn’t poke around the undergrowth of his memories to examine the most painful events.

But the sting of Sally’s darts was still fresh.

And so, Griffin paced the empty halls of Design Mark with the memory of his former self dogging his heels. The sweaty dope whose only redeeming quality—a full head of hair—was now in full retreat. The awkward boy who’d been hopelessly in love with Rae Langdon.

Griffin meant what he’d told Sally: he bore Rae no ill will. Since moving back to Ohio, he’d only glimpsed her from a distance—not once making the attempt to approach and strike up conversation. Besides, she’d been a girl when she’d broken his heart. What sense was there in despising the woman she’d become?

We are each many people in a lifetime. We slip through versions of ourselves, no more staying in place than a fast-moving river. Rae wasn’t the girl she’d once been. Nor was he, thankfully, still an inept teenager. The harm they’d done to each other long ago seemed like the errors of two people Griffin didn’t know at all.

At dinnertime on Sunday, Griffin ended the pity party. He abandoned the office. He went home, took a shower, and made a salad for dinner. Trenton was correct—Sally needed to cool down. There was no sense putting in more calls. Griffin could, however, act on the advice she’d offered the day he’d shown her the lacquered box.

Ask Yuna to return the keepsake to its rightful owner. With luck, she’d agree to handle delivery. Toting the thing next door, however, was presumptuous.

Odds weren’t great that Yuna would jump at the chance to get involved. Why would she? Lark had taken the box from Rae’s attic without her mother’s consent. Rae didn’t know it was missing. How the thing had landed in Griffin’s possession—and the thorny implications—were sure to upset Rae.

Set on a course of action, Griffin pulled out his smartphone. He snapped a photo of the precious object.

A boxwood hedge separated the yards. With grim resignation, he walked around. He was still working out what to say when the door swung open to reveal . . . no one.

He looked down.

His favorite mini human was dressed in flannel pajamas. “Mommy threw up—twice!” Kameko pinched her nose dramatically. “Smelly!”

Griffin aped her expression of disgust. “Yuck.”

“Want to come in?”

Not on your life. “If she’s sick, I should come back later.”

Latching on to his wrist, Kameko made a pouty face. “Don’t go! Mommy’s not sick.”