Rae exchanged a thoughtful glance with her father. She could almost hear his thoughts: A teenage boy with a penchant for cooking, tidying up, and home repairs? Not a delinquent.
Quinn’s gaze darted between them, gauging their reaction. Sympathy for the teen welled in Rae alongside a second, more bittersweet emotion. Daring a longer glance, she fell upon the similarity that drew her interest like a bee to honey. Something in Quinn’s expression was reminiscent of Lark, before adolescence made her stubborn and too persistent. Lark at seven or eight, when she’d exhibited a wide-eyed need for approval.
Connor glanced at the clock. “It’s almost dinnertime. What were you doing outside?”
“Oh, just thinking about Lark. I miss her, you know? I miss talking to her.”
“I do too.”
Freed of their censure, Quinn took another recipe from the stack. His fingers glided across the border of yellow daisies Lark had embroidered, then carefully glued in place. A lump formed in Rae’s throat. Her father was affected too, his eyes gaining a damp sheen.
“Lark found this recipe online,” Quinn said. “Not my favorite. I don’t like brussels sprouts. Even if you mix in caramelized onion.”
Memories, some of them sweet, embraced Rae. On many nights, her daughter had made dinner. Afterward Lark had often spent long hours in Hester’s old studio finishing homework or working on craft projects, a DO NOT DISTURB sign tacked on the door.
Some nights, however, she’d battled with Rae. During her final months, they’d argued constantly. A never-ending tug-of-war, with no winner.
The memory lodged despair in the center of Rae’s chest. Pushing it away, she appraised Quinn. “You enjoy cooking.” It was a talent she’d never picked up.
“I’d like to go to culinary school.”
“Is that your plan, after high school?”
“Oh, I don’t have a plan. Not exactly. But I’d like to go someday.”
Money, she suspected, was the real issue. She couldn’t imagine people like Quinn’s parents setting aside funds to ensure their son’s future. “You’ll make a good living as a chef.”
“I hope so.”
Her mothering instincts, dormant since Lark’s death, rose suddenly to life. “When I found you by the forest, you looked lost in thought. Did you need to talk to Lark? Today, especially?”
“She was going to make me a cake. She’d been promising for months. A beet cake. Kind of a joke, but not really. She had a recipe for chocolate cake made with beets. It sounds totally disgusting, but she swore I’d like it.”
The response was surprising. Lark had promised to . . . bake him a cake? One she’d planned to make before death erased her plans.
Rae’s heart lurched. “Quinn, is today your birthday?”
He drummed his fingers on the table. “The big one-eight.” Defiance flickered in his eyes. “It’s official. I’m all grown up.”
The defiance fled as his expression fell. The change came too fast, and Rae feared he’d cry. A humiliating outcome for a teenage boy.
“Some birthday, huh?” he said. “My parents kicked me out of the house.”
Chapter 6
Outside the studio’s pyramid of glass, the moon played tag with fast-moving clouds. A smattering of white swirled through the air. Rae watched the snow’s descent with her thoughts leaping and turning.
Throughout dinner, a nervous Quinn had talked nonstop about Lark. In between, he plowed through leftovers she dug from the fridge. Macaroni and cheese, lunch meat, a cucumber she hastily sliced—his bottomless appetite left the worrisome impression that he rarely ate a decent meal. When dinner ended, Quinn helped with the dishes before loping after Connor to the living room. They were deep into male bonding over Cleveland’s upcoming baseball season when Rae slipped out.
Confusion vaulted through her. For months, she’d wanted to believe Quinn was a bad kid. Preferred believing it over the proof she’d witnessed directly—of a bashful boy who worked diligently at the craft emporium, and whose grief over the loss of her daughter was tangible and deep.
The police report of the events surrounding Lark’s death had stated they were secretly dating. Add in the reputation of Quinn’s parents, and Rae had assumed the worst. Even Yuna’s ready defense of the teen wasn’t enough to sway her.
Yet the real Quinn bore no resemblance to her worst fears. In many ways, he was emotionally younger than the daughter she’d lost. Less mature, less confident. A teenager perched on the edge of adulthood—a kid who snuck around feeding the neighbor’s dog. A vivid conversationalist who spilled out stories with a lonely child’s enthusiasm.