The Passing Storm(7)

On Saturday morning, Rae unpacked groceries as a new round of snow blanketed Geauga County. The forecast called for another three inches by nightfall. If Quinn resumed his unsanctioned visits, his footprints would go undetected.

For the time being, he was staying away. His absence made her hopeful that impulsively confronting him at Yuna’s shop—awkward as it had been—was altering his behavior. Nothing more was cleaned inside the barn. New trinkets hadn’t been attached to the stalls, and Rae felt confident about putting in extra hours at work. The Witt Agency was hiring two new employees for lead generation. As office manager, Rae had been tasked with training them.

Amid reviewing the training protocol, she tackled a more personal issue. Yuna’s remark about Connor’s lack of a social life bothered her, and Rae had been working on recharging the friendships he’d put in limbo months ago. The effort was working. As for her own social life, she was still too raw. She had no intention of reviving it anytime soon.

From the living room, her father’s smartphone rang.

Connor picked up. A round of hearty laughter followed.

Affection for her father put a smile on her lips. All week long, he’d been in high spirits. At Rae’s urging, he went bowling on Tuesday with the men he affectionately referred to as the geriatric squad. Several of his friends came over for lunch on Thursday. Afterward, he called the office twice—once to ask Rae to pick up furniture polish on the way home, then later to announce he’d found his dog-eared copy of Moby Dick in a nest of dust bunnies underneath his bed. Connor read late into the night. On Friday, he capped off a full week by finding a new Amazon series to binge-watch.

Not once did Quinn enter the conversation. Rae couldn’t help but feel relief.

Rustling through the grocery bag, she placed lettuce and snow peas on the counter. In lieu of a typical weekend shop, she’d spent more time in the fresh produce area than the snack aisle. Resuming the old habit proved more difficult than expected, and she’d felt jittery and anxious while making her selections. She made it back to the car—the groceries spilling across the back seat as she hoisted them inside—before completely breaking down. Burying her face against the steering wheel, she’d sobbed for long minutes.

Connor wandered into the kitchen. “That was Aunt Gracie on the phone. Call her when you have a sec.”

Connor’s sister, Gracie, and her husband were retired, living in Miami. “Is she okay?” Rae placed fresh bunches of spinach and grapes beside the lettuce.

“She’s fine. She wants you to fly down.”

“I can’t schedule a vacation. Not until later this year.” In October her boss, Evelyn Witt, had been more than gracious when she insisted Rae take extended leave. Four weeks, with pay. “If you’d like to visit Aunt Gracie, bring a friend. Any of your homeboys will jump at the chance. Just let me book the flights—an early departure. I’ll drop you at the airport before heading to work.”

An avocado rolled past the lettuce. “What’s with the rabbit food?” Connor wrinkled his nose.

“I found some of her recipes. Last night, when I made the grocery list.”

A heaviness fell down upon the room. It came faster and thicker than the snowflakes ticking against the windowpane. Keeping her emotions in check, Rae folded the first grocery bag and began unpacking the next one. The welcome, mindless chore of sorting and putting away.

Her father swept trembling fingers across his receding hairline. “She wrote the recipes down?”

“On cardstock.”

“I thought she made them up—flashes of inspiration as she cooked.” Connor grimaced. “Not that I was inspired by all the vegetables she tossed into her concoctions.”

“She was looking out for you, Dad.”

“Why did she write them down on cardstock?”

“To make them pretty. They look more like an art project than recipes.” A familiar misery welled inside Rae. “You know how creative she was. Experimenting with different mediums, always trying something new. We should frame them.”

“Where did you find them?”

Rae nodded toward the cabinetry beside the six-burner stove. “In a bottom drawer, next to the cookie cutters.” The sadness pooling between them became oppressive. Hoping to lighten the mood, she added, “Remember Mom’s butter cookies? They were heavenly.”

“Your mother was a baking machine. Every Sunday afternoon, she’d roll out a new batch. There’s nothing better than a warm butter cookie, right from the oven. All that sweetness melting in your mouth.”

“Once a month, she made a double batch of the dough to keep in the freezer. I used to sneak into it when she wasn’t looking.”

Her father smiled. “Me too.”

“Pity neither one of us pitched in with the cutting out and baking. Mom could’ve used the help. Why didn’t she ever get after us? I tried to help a few times. I couldn’t get the hang of rolling out the dough before it melted.”

“You’ve always been more like me. Too impatient. I guess that’s why neither one of us has much knack in the kitchen.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t learn.” Rae layered her voice with false cheer. “The recipes I found aren’t complicated. I’m sure we can follow them.”

“What if we don’t want to follow them?”