The Passing Storm
Christine Nolfi
Chapter 1
He never worked during school hours. Yet there he was inside the bustling craft emporium, stocking shelves near the front.
Snow whirled through the air, a battering of cold pinpricks on her cheeks. Wiping away the dampness, Rae took hesitant steps toward the shop and peered through the display window. A dark pulse of grief pierced her deeply. Why wasn’t he at the high school with the other kids? What right did he have to disregard their unspoken agreement, by putting in hours at noon on a Tuesday?
Rae avoided the shop whenever he worked. Saturdays too, if he was on the schedule. Her office was only three doors down on Chardon Square, and Rae missed the spontaneous stop-ins she’d once taken for granted—especially now, when she needed her closest friend as a bulwark against the sorrow. But she didn’t have a better solution to avoid running into Quinn Galecki, other than ensuring they were never in Yuna’s Craft Emporium at the same time.
Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have dropped by this early in the day. Between the art classes and Yuna’s current flash sale, the place was particularly busy.
The emporium on the corner of Chardon Square was a treasure chest for the craft enthusiast. Shelves brimmed with bottles of paint and jars of beads for jewelry making. Bolts of fabric vibrated with color as if to steal attention from the tubs of silk flowers displayed in the shop. Near the back of the store, a group of toddlers in plastic smocks and their mothers—in easy-wipe, vinyl aprons—were seated at a long table, finger painting. Older customers looked on, smiling at the tots or winking at their mothers. A happy scene, as warm and welcoming as sunlight.
Rae shivered in the cold air. Don’t go inside.
Follow the impulse to confront Quinn, and she’d cause a scene. She couldn’t trust herself to remain civil if they came face-to-face. On the other hand, Quinn’s latest stunt at her property had gone too far. Snooping around the barn, leaving his little art project behind—at seventeen, he was old enough to have some consideration for other people’s feelings. And criminal trespass laws, in general.
No, Rae. Just leave.
Stepping out of view, she leaned against the building’s icy brick. Quinn retrieved the last of the merchandise from the box at his feet. For a boy nearing manhood, he was too thin, his features too soft. He worked with careful movements, clearly intent on doing a good job. When his extraordinary, long-lashed gaze swept across the colorful yarn he’d arranged on the shelf, a surge of unwanted sympathy welled inside Rae.
Walk away. Come back later. Talk to Yuna after his shift ends.
Cars wound around the square, their tires kicking up snow. Rae’s Honda Civic was parked near the Witt Agency, where she’d been lucky to find a spot. She ought to walk back down and climb into the car. Drive home to her father, who assumed she’d taken the entire day off from her job as Witt’s office manager. Or call him and explain she’d decided to put in the afternoon at the insurance agency. Bury herself in work to force Quinn from her thoughts.
Good choices, both. Either way, she wouldn’t act on an impulse she knew she’d regret.
As Rae tried to get her feet moving away from the building—and without her conscious approval—her hand dipped into her coat pocket. To brush against the flower’s soft silk petals. Heartache surged through her too quickly to fend off. When it passed, she inhaled sharply.
A flash of anger carried her to the shop’s door.
Since it was January in northeast Ohio—and a blustery, snowy January at that—a blast of frigid air rushed in behind her. Bursts of snow scattered across two startled women near the display window. Quinn, not far behind them, dropped the empty box he’d just hefted into his arms.
Stepping around it, Rae approached. “I want you to stop,” she told him, too loud. Several customers turned around, glaring, and she pretended not to notice. “This morning’s stunt was way over the line.”
Pausing, she gave him room to apologize. Or at least explain himself, if genuine regret was a bridge too far. He was a teenager—kids often chose pride over an admission of wrongdoing.
When he remained silent, frustration bit at her. So did the withering look of a silver-haired matron by a display case of macramé projects. Busybody. The altercation was none of her business.
Even so, Rae lowered her voice to an urgent hiss. “Quinn, really—it has to stop. I get that you mean no harm, but . . . it’s too much. Do you understand? My dad is getting up there in years, and he’s angry every time he finds more footprints near our house. You’re upsetting him. And I mean a lot.” The trespassing upset her too, which was beside the point. She didn’t have twice-yearly appointments with a cardiologist or take statins.