“I’m sure you had good reason for not telling her about the guy.”
A starkly accurate remark—it floated in the air, unbound. They were speaking in generalities. Yet Quinn seemed cognizant of the facts. As if he was familiar with the painful topic that had damaged her relationship with her precious daughter.
The guy.
With dismay, Rae searched for an adequate response. She doubted one existed. How much did Quinn know about the substance of her arguments with Lark? Too much, apparently. The irony was remarkable, disturbing. Of all the people Lark might have confided in—any of her girlfriends, or Yuna or her grandfather—she’d chosen Quinn. The sweet, immature boy whom fate had guided into her life.
The last of the water gurgled down the drain. It lent Rae the perfect excuse to step back, giving Quinn room to finish with the dog. Her knees felt wobbly. Wiping the distress from her features, she leaned against the counter.
The air crackled with the emotional charge from unanswered questions. Quinn pretended not to notice. Hoisting Shelby from the tub, he set about drying her.
Rae tried to catch his gaze. “Quinn, did my daughter tell you why we were fighting?”
The flush on his neck bled into his cheeks.
“I’m not mad, just curious.”
Kneeling beside the dog, he risked a glance. “She told me everything.” With nervous movements, he fluffed Shelby’s fur. “About her dad, I mean. She thought it wasn’t fair, how you wouldn’t tell her who he was.”
“There was a reason for holding back the information. A very good reason.”
“Did Lark understand?”
Frustration surged through her. Lark had viewed her refusal to reveal the facts as a betrayal. Each attempt to make her understand failed miserably. Their conversations had followed a dismal trajectory. Lark’s demands for information about her father were followed by Rae’s evasive responses—clumsy attempts to shield her from the ugly truth. Then pleas for Lark to wait until she was older before demanding answers. Each debate ended in shouting.
Stop asking me to wait! Who is he, Mom? I have a right to know my father.
When her fury met with silence, Lark would storm out.
The memory left a bitter taste in Rae’s mouth. “None of my explanations held water with my daughter,” she said. “Lark was mature for her age. Still, she was only fourteen. Not old enough to hear . . . all of it. I know that sounds cruel—it’s natural for a child to want a full understanding of her parentage—but my first instinct was to protect her.”
“She didn’t see it that way.” Quinn instinctively took her side.
“Kids tend to oversimplify the choices adults make.” As he was doing now, sticking up for the friend he’d lost. He was also young, untested. Innocent to the murky choices grown-ups made in a world that wasn’t black and white. At a loss for a better way to explain, she added, “Life is complicated.”
“What if she wanted to know her dad because . . .” His voice trailing off, Quinn blushed to the roots of his hairline.
“Go on,” she prodded.
“Like, maybe she hoped you’d start dating her dad again.”
Rae’s mind reeled. “Is that what she thought?”
Quinn backpedaled fast. “I’m not sure. It’s just a guess.” Tossing aside the wet towel, he grabbed another. His dog flopped to the floor as the towel sped across her back. “Lark never gave me lots of details about her motives. She was awfully touchy whenever we talked about her dad. I do think, though . . . she hoped you and the guy would end up together.”
The irony was mind-boggling. Leave it to her daughter to romanticize the most difficult era of Rae’s life.
The shocking loss of her mother during the White Hurricane. Connor’s descent into depression. Rae’s corresponding fear that she’d virtually become an orphan. How her anger and confusion led to full-out rebellion.
A rebellion, she saw now with heartbreaking clarity, that led directly to her pregnancy.
None of which Lark knew. With nothing to go on, she’d romanticized the story.
Connor, Yuna—practically everyone in Chardon—finally came to a more practical conclusion. In her last months of high school, Rae was acting out. Taking risks. The pregnancy was the result of a one-night stand. Shame was reason enough not to list the man’s name on Lark’s birth certificate.
Sorrow wove through her as she asked, “Did Lark talk about her dad often?”
A tentative query. Quinn handled it with care.