The Passing Storm(96)

“Don’t give me credit. Two of the men on the planning committee came to a truce. They’d been battling over a DJ versus the five-piece ensemble we’ve used in the past. They settled on a wedding band that plays modern and the classics.”

Griffin’s expression shifted. “I wish Lark were here to join us.” Sadness darted across his features.

The sky was turning from reddish gold to midnight blue. The evening’s first stars winked bright.

“I’m sure she is.”

“I loved her, Rae. In the brief months I knew Lark, I tattooed her on my heart.”

The admission touched her deeply. “Even though she wasn’t your child?”

“She was our child, Rae—in all the ways that count. Lark is stubborn, like her mother. Bright. And funny, when you least expect it.”

Now Rae’s eyes were misting.

“You’re talking as if she’s still here,” she managed.

“Because she is, in our hearts. Perhaps she’s watching over us too. Hanging out with Hester, somewhere past those stars over there.”

“Are you growing a mystical side?”

“I suppose.” A contemplative silence, then he said, “Like I was saying, Lark is stubborn like you. She intended to come into the world that night, and she did. The circumstances don’t matter. Lark arrived when she’d planned. I’ll always be grateful I got to know her.”

He reached for her hand. Rae clung tight.

“I’m glad too,” she murmured.

“I’m looking forward to getting to know her better, someday.” Griffin studied the darkening sky and the stars winking on in silvery threads. “Rae, during our last year of high school . . . we picked out four names. Remember? We wanted two girls, two boys. The perfect combination.”

“Lark, Sophie, Adam, and Penn.”

“Do you think our other kids are with Lark, waiting to make a grand entrance?”

The sweet question nearly closed Rae’s throat. Letting go of his hand, she trailed her fingers up Griffin’s sturdy arm, past his wide shoulder. She rested her palm against his cheek.

Then amusement—unbidden—melted the emotion tightening her throat.

“Reality check,” she said. “In our relationship, who’s the hare and who’s the tortoise?”

Griffin smiled. “I don’t recall.”





AUTHOR’S NOTE

On January 25, 1978, residents in northeastern Ohio went to bed unaware that two low-pressure systems converging over the state would build into a blizzard for the record books.

The Ohio Turnpike shut down for the first time in its history, and ten-foot snowdrifts pummeled houses and buried cars. A major general of the Ohio National Guard described the White Hurricane’s effect on transportation as comparable to a nuclear attack. Windchills plummeted to forty degrees below zero Fahrenheit; fifty-one Ohioans died during the blizzard, many as they huddled trapped in their cars, or as they tried to walk to safety in whiteout conditions.

Geauga County—where this novel takes place and where my parents and three younger sisters resided in 1978—is snowbelt country in the best of times. During the White Hurricane, the city of Chardon came to a standstill for days.

At the time of the blizzard, I was a college student safely ensconced in the Cleveland suburb of Shaker Heights, renting a room from one of my father’s old fraternity brothers. And while I didn’t experience the worst effects of the White Hurricane, the frightening stories my parents and younger sisters told for years to come were destined, one day, to find their way into one of my books.

For readers who lived through the real White Hurricane, I hope you won’t mind that I moved the historic storm to present day for the purposes of my story. None of the characters depicted here are based on real people, and I took artistic license by creating fictional establishments on and near Chardon Square. Any errors in fact made to describe Ohio’s storm of the century rest solely with me.