The Passing Storm by Christine Nolfi

Chapter 11

Swirls of snow collected on the steeply pitched roof of the Tudor mansion. A virtual castle of stone and stucco, the grand house lay seven minutes east of Chardon Square.

At five o’clock on the dot, Griffin Marks pulled into the drive. With satisfaction he noted his sister’s Ford Explorer was already parked in his parents’ driveway. He’d hoped to arrive early to speak with Sally privately. With luck, he’d find an opportunity before dinner. Although they were both now in their thirties, he continued to solicit his sister’s advice as if they were still children, and Sally, two years older and constant like the seasons, was still required to help Griffin solve his thorniest problems.

The indecision was wearing him down.

Although it was Tuesday, family dinners at his parents’ house were now common. Two or three times a week, lately.

Some nights his mother, Winnie, pulled out all the stops, arranging fresh flowers and setting the dining room table. On more casual nights, they ate buffet-style. They filled their plates in the kitchen and carried them into the walnut-paneled family room, where the disembodied heads of his father’s hunting trophies—a 22-point buck and four less mature whitetail—observed the festivities from doleful glass eyes. On those nights, they played Scrabble or Monopoly with the intention of allowing the only child in their midst to win every game.

His niece, Jackie.

Unlike his mother and his sister—not to mention his spineless brother-in-law and thoroughly unbending father—Griffin believed it was time to bring in professional help. Jackie’s condition was worsening. With each passing week, she slipped further away. Granted, none of the unfortunate girls who’d been at the slumber party last fall were taking Lark’s death well.

And why would they? From conversations with his niece, Griffin knew the upsetting details. Katherine Thomerson had nearly called off her daughter’s slumber party. Sometimes winter came early to northeast Ohio, but no one expected five inches of snowfall the week before Halloween. Stella pleaded to keep her plans, and her mother relented.

Once everyone had arrived, Katherine left to run an errand. As the girls watched a movie in the darkened basement, Lark went upstairs alone. She walked outside, slipped on ice, and fell into the empty in-ground pool.

Lark pitched eight feet down. A quick and horrible death.

Pandemonium ensued after Katherine returned from her errand. Spotting young Quinn Galecki climbing over her brick wall, she began screaming nonstop. The commotion brought girls racing up from the basement. They cowered behind the family room’s picture window as Quinn clambered down the steel ladder into the empty pool.

From their vantage point, snow glittered beneath the spotlights. A fine etching of ice crept across the brick wall and the slate stonework. The gleam of black vinyl covering the outdoor furniture, and the pool—a dark, gaping mouth in the center.

Katherine halted at the pool’s edge. As her shrieks rose to fever pitch, Stella backed away from the picture window. She dashed to her bedroom. The door shut with a crack of sound. Another girl fainted, collapsing to the floor unnoticed. The rest of the girls clung together in a whimpering, sobbing mass.

All of them, except Griffin’s niece.

Breaking off from the others, Jackie went outside. Nothing proves a girl’s mettle like her response to calamity.

Taking care to avoid the icy patches, Jackie trod to the pool’s edge. She pressed a calming hand to Katherine’s back. The screaming ceased. Turning away, Katherine fled from the pool’s edge and the scene below. Only then did Jackie allow her fearful gaze to alight on Quinn.

Eight feet down, in an inch of murky water, he cradled Lark. While sobbing uncontrollably.

Pulling out her phone, Jackie dialed 911.

Ever since that night, most of the girls cried easily. They dropped out of school activities. No longer did they socialize in a large, boisterous crowd. The shock of what they’d witnessed drove them apart.

And Jackie was a shadow of her former self.

Christmas Day had offered the final proof. Griffin and his family were clustered around his parents’ elegantly decorated ten-foot spruce. They were about to open presents when Jackie shuffled out of the guest bathroom with her long, chestnut hair cut into short, jagged clumps.

By January, her weight loss became noticeable. She began missing too much school. Jackie complained of stomachaches. She slept at odd hours and for lengthy periods. Sally took her daughter to the pediatrician and a gastroenterologist. She taught Jackie meditation and started her on yoga. Sugar was banished from her diet, and Sally filled a cupboard with herbal teas.

Nothing worked.

To Griffin’s mind, the solution was obvious.

His niece wouldn’t improve without the guidance of an experienced child psychologist. Jackie needed help processing the senseless death of her friend. Since no one in his family agreed—at least, not publicly—he’d stopped broaching the subject. Even if he got Sally on board, her husband would veto the idea. Trenton never put a toe out of line with Griffin’s father.

The hard-edged and successful Everett Marks viewed psychology as a pseudoscience for the simpleminded.

In the grand foyer, light from the chandelier sparkled across the stone flooring. The low thump of music floated down the staircase. Curious, Griffin went upstairs to investigate. The quiet second floor smelled of lemon furniture polish and lavender; he climbed another flight of stairs to the beautifully appointed attic his mother called her own. The large, rectangular space was swathed in feminine accoutrements, from the floral wallpaper to the overstuffed chintz upholstery. Apparently, Griffin’s niece had selected the music playing softly from the built-in speakers: Abbey Road. Recently the ninth grader had discovered the Beatles’ iconic music.

At the attic’s far end, a white table nested beneath the eaves. Winnie sat beside her granddaughter.

Her silvered head lifted. “Griffin! I didn’t expect to see you for another hour.”

“I left work early.” He owned Design Mark, the website design firm across the street from his father’s car dealership not far from Chardon Square. “I was hoping to chat with Sally before dinner.”

“About what?”

Brow arching, he leveled her with a glance. None of your business.

“Ah. I see,” she said brightly. She’d always taken pride in the close relationship between her two children. Changing the subject, she asked, “Did you land the winery?”

“The one in Geneva? Not yet. They’re waiting for another quote from an outfit in Shaker Heights. I should have an answer by next week.” He hesitated. “Am I interrupting?”

“Of course not. Come see what we’re doing.” She waved him closer. “Your father and Trenton are still at the dealership. We’ll eat at six thirty.”

“Beef bourguignon?” He’d caught the mouthwatering scent on his way upstairs.

“Compliments of your sister. She’s in the kitchen, finishing up.”

Cartons surrounded the table. Inside were neatly organized white packets of photos. The more recent additions Winnie had downloaded and made into glossies. She despised the ephemeral nature of selfies and social media; every month or two, she ordered physical copies of the best snaps from her phone. Winnie also loved crafts, everything from needlework and quilting to paint-by-number pictures she completed and then stored away.

Apparently, she was now devising a new project to occupy her granddaughter. Since Lark’s funeral, she’d led Jackie through a variety of crafts. Winnie held the unshakable belief that with enough busywork, her granddaughter would regain her sunny temperament.

Sidestepping the boxes, Griffin appraised his niece. Jackie was bent over a leather album, a group of photos by her elbow. Her disturbingly chopped hair stuck up every which way. Faint shadows rimmed her eyes. Her skin was unnaturally pale, as if she hadn’t glimpsed sunlight in days.

When he rested his palm on her shoulder, she barely stirred. “How are you, kiddo?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Did you go to school today?”

“Grandma let me stay with her.”

“I was glad for the company,” Winnie put in. Her instinct to protect her only grandchild was fierce.

“Mom, she can’t keep skipping school. Tenth grade begins soon. The coursework gets harder.”

“How you exaggerate. It’s only February. Jackie won’t finish this term for another four months.”

Jackie’s eyes lifted. “I’ll go to school tomorrow, Uncle Griffin. I’ll keep up with the work.”

“I have your word?”

“Sure.” Putting the debate to rest, she nodded at the images before her. “Which one do you like? I can’t decide.”

From the looks of it, she was filling the album in chronological order, from her birth to the present day. Griffin sifted through the photos, taken when she was in elementary school. Jackie posing in a purple mermaid costume for Halloween. Playing basketball with a group of other girls. His niece seated on the front lawn before the Thomerson mansion, her arm slung around Stella Thomerson’s neck.

In the background, Lark was a flash of movement, cartwheeling across the field of green.

“This one.” Taking care to keep pity from his voice, Griffin handed over the photo. On closer inspection, he saw that many of the photos caught Lark in the background—moving, laughing, spinning in circles. None featured her in the foreground.

His mother said, “You’ll get an album too, Griffin. Jackie is making one for each of us.”

“Sounds like a big project.”

“It’ll give us something to do until the weather thaws. This endless winter—what I’d give to see daffodils springing up in my flower beds.”

“Me too,” Jackie said. “I’m tired of all the snow.”

Winnie gave her a quick hug. “We’ll muddle through, dearest heart.” Drawing back, she withdrew a packet from the carton at her feet. She sent Griffin a mischievous glance. “Care to waltz down memory lane?”

“Is that an actual or a metaphorical question?”

“Actual. This box contains your visual history, all thirty-three years.”

“What about Sally?”

“Oh, I have all her photographs in another box—everything from her first baby pictures to a recent anniversary photo with Trenton. Pulling together your sister’s visual heritage was easy, but I am missing a chunk from your twenties. Before we get started on your album, let me skim through your smartphone. We should include a few snaps of Boston.”

“Whenever you’d like.”

After college, Griffin had started his career as an account executive at a graphics firm in Boston. He’d intended to put down roots on that coast. The money was good, and he dated a girl at the firm. When the relationship didn’t pan out, his parents began dropping hints about the business possibilities back home. Geauga County was thriving.

Two years ago, his father made an unexpected offer. The deed to the two-story brick building across the street from Marks Auto would transfer to Griffin if he cut ties in Boston and returned to Ohio. The building now housed Design Mark. The move had been a good one, and Griffin enjoyed being his own boss. With a staff of seven, he was building a client list across the Great Lakes region.

Opening the packet, Winnie spread the photos out. “Oh, Griffin—look. This was taken when you set Bubbles free. Weren’t you the cutest thing?”

The shot captured him at age six. There was his distinctive egg-shaped head and broad nose, a growing potato in the center of his cheerful face. A fluffy tuft of brown hair covered his forehead; his receding hairline wouldn’t kick in until his twenties. His mother had taken the photo as he held Bubbles the goldfish by his wriggling tail above the swirling toilet bowl.

“Enough with this torture,” he joked. “Put it away.”

“Don’t be fussy. You were adorable.”

Winnie’s memory was selective and Teflon-coated. “Why didn’t you stop me from setting Bubbles free?” An instant after she’d trained the camera on him and the toilet bowl flushed, he’d become a blubbering mass of tears. “It wasn’t like I’d thought the plan out. Wasn’t Bubbles’s safety more important than recording the moment for posterity?”

“Don’t be peevish. I didn’t think the moment out either.”

“Obviously.”

“Cheer up. After you freed Bubbles into the sewer system, he may have grown to massive size. Perhaps he’s become a king of the sea. Neptune, with fins.”

“Are you striving for a ha-ha moment? Don’t take your routine on the road just yet.”

His niece gave a sleepy glance. “Who’s Bubbles?” She yawned theatrically.

“Your uncle’s first pet. A goldfish he foolishly returned to the wild. We tried a bird next, with the same result.”

Griffin recalled the stealthy deed he’d performed at daybreak. “Setting a bird free seemed logical.” He’d always been an early riser. If his sister had awoken before he crept outside, she would’ve intervened.

His mother feigned insult. “I’ll have you know that ridiculous conure didn’t come cheap.”

“I didn’t want a conure. I asked for a dog. Repeatedly. It’s every boy’s dream.” An unfulfilled yearning. His mother would never sanction a pet large enough to track mud into her showcase of a home.

“You’re all grown up now. You want a dog? Buy one.”

“I’ll take it under consideration.”

“You do that.” Smiling like a game show host, Winnie reached back into the carton. “Shall we try again?”

Out came another packet. The snapshots were taken during the halcyon year before the White Hurricane schooled him in heartbreak.

His niece set her album aside. “Uncle Griffin, isn’t this Lark’s mom? What’s she doing with Grandpa’s rifle?”

The warmth of fond memories took Griffin unwillingly. The image was one of his favorites, of Rae sitting in a field of tall grass. The original nature girl with sunlight pooling around her knees. The heavy ropes of her unkempt hair danced in the breeze like golden-tipped streams of fire. The snapshot was taken during their junior year. Griffin recalled the weather had been brisk; his father’s plaid hunting jacket hung from Rae’s shoulders.

In her lap: Everett’s Weatherby bolt-action rifle. A powerful weapon, and not one for amateurs.

“Grandpa used to take us hunting,” he told his niece.

Jackie frowned. “You don’t like to hunt.”

Rae hadn’t either, and neither Griffin’s mother nor his sister would go anywhere near a firearm.

Even today, Everett’s fascination with blood sports made Griffin queasy. Back then, he’d tagged along for the sheer joy of watching Rae hone the skill of marksmanship. Her prowess made her a favored pet of Griffin’s father. She’d refused to kill wildlife. But she’d been a natural, with stunning, pinpoint accuracy.

From thirty paces off, she could nail a yellowing leaf on a maple tree. Rocks, tin cans, stuffed animals Griffin stole from Sally’s closet and jokingly strung from trees—Rae never missed the mark.

Winnie studied the image. “Jackie, your grandfather taught Rae to shoot. He’d boast to everyone about her nonexistent learning curve. She had an amazing talent right from the start. Grandpa adored her. Rae was such a bright, fearless girl. Nothing at all like your mother at that age, or Uncle Griffin. They were both more . . . introspective.”

“We were wimps,” Griffin added dryly.

A grin flickered on Jackie’s mouth. “You were not!” A positive display of emotion, her first in months.

The change wasn’t lost on his mother. Beneath her encouraging glance, he found another photo of Rae.

“Wondering how I came by my friendship with Lark’s mom?” He slid the photo before her. “When your mom and I were growing up, Grandpa made some good investments. He did so well, he became a serious player in Geauga County. He amassed more wealth than Midas, but he refused to put us in private school. There was a private academy in Chagrin Falls—I’m not sure how she managed it, but Sally got all the information. She even got her hands on the application forms.”

“Who cares about private school? Sounds boring.”

“Your mother thought otherwise. Sally begged to go. She was two grades ahead of me, and I always followed her lead. Private school sounded like a good deal.”

“Why?”

“When Grandpa bought up the land to build the car dealership, he put a small factory out of business. A couple of retail establishments too.” His father’s tactics had been nothing short of ruthless. “Unfortunately, we went through the grades with lots of kids whose parents lost those jobs. We were picked on a lot.” On several depressing occasions, Griffin was beaten up by older boys. A detail too humiliating to share.

“I go to public school,” Jackie countered. “No one picks on me.”

“It’s different now, kiddo. Those jobs disappeared. Then Grandpa opened the dealership and created new jobs. No one remembers the factory now, or those other businesses.”

“When kids gave you a hard time . . . Rae stuck up for you?”

“And she stuck up for your mother. I first met Rae with her dukes up, in the middle of the playground. Two girls were hassling Sally, and she intervened. Told them they’d both get a fat lip if they didn’t back off.” Despite his discomfiture with the conversation’s turn, Griffin caught himself smiling. “After that, I sat beside Rae in every class. From second grade all the way through high school.”

“In high school, Rae was your girlfriend. Right?”

Discussing their earlier camaraderie was simpler. “We were friends, mostly. We’d been friends for a long time by then.” The passion that flared between them near the end of their junior year had been a mistake.

Jackie’s gaze was a searchlight trained on his face. “But Rae became your girlfriend,” she persisted. “Until you went to college. Wasn’t she?”

He nodded.

It was a reprieve when his curious niece switched topics. “When you were a kid, before you were friends with Rae, why did she stick up for Mom? Kids don’t usually defend someone they don’t know.”

“That’s simple,” Winnie put in. “Rae knew what it was like to be different. Her family wasn’t prosperous like ours, but she also stuck out like a sore thumb. She dressed like a farmer—the poor dear was utterly lacking in fashion sense. People thought her parents were hippies, growing heaven-knows-what on their farm and serenading the pigs. The strangest couple. From a mile off, you could hear music blaring from the barn. Rae’s father would tell anyone willing to listen the musical preferences of his pigs and goats. He’s still a bit of an odd sort.” This was too harsh, given the family’s recent loss. Swiftly Winnie backpedaled. “It doesn’t matter now. We must keep the Langdons in our prayers. They’re undergoing a difficult time.”

The oblique reference to Lark’s death stole the glimmer in Jackie’s eyes. She stared blankly at the table.

The gloom ebbing around her brought Griffin to a decision. He needed his older sister’s counsel on a private matter, but asking Sally for advice would have to wait.

He pulled up a chair. “We have an hour before dinner.” A curtain of grief shrouded his niece, and he spiked his voice with enthusiasm. “If I dig out my baby pictures, do you promise not to laugh? Let’s get started on my album.”

The curtain parted briefly. “All right,” Jackie agreed.