“Better get crackin’。”
Rejoining him on the couch, she asked, “Last fall, how often did Lark visit Design Mark?”
“Right up to the week of the slumber party. She came in just a few days before.”
“Oh, Griffin. You saw Lark the week she died? Why didn’t you tell me any of this sooner?”
A suitable answer refused to materialize. He felt sick then, unmoored. Like he’d felt that January when the White Hurricane’s first salvos of beating wind and pelting snow caught him driving home from a part-time job at his father’s dealership, and his car hydroplaned. The tires skidding, nearly hurtling him off the road. The snow suddenly blinding. The wild staccato of his pulse beating in his ears as he fought to keep the wheels on the road.
Or later, how he felt when power was restored to a shocked and battered northeast Ohio. Learning of Rae’s failed attempt to rescue her mother, and Hester freezing to death.
And in March: how the tragedy kicked the bottom out of his world. Rae breaking off their romance with icy resolve and without explanation. Wrecking their plans to attend Ohio University together. Leaving him too heartbroken to stay in Chardon for more than a few days after they graduated in June.
Bookcases lined the living room’s back wall. Approaching, Griffin hesitated before the only shelf devoid of books. A box, too beautiful for competition with dusty tomes, sat alone on the shelf. A keepsake intricately and lovingly designed.
Hewn of cherrywood, the whimsical treasure chest was the approximate size and depth of a shoebox. Beneath layers of golden lacquer, rivers of crushed glass flowed across the top. A mythic, miniature shoreline sprinkled with conical horn-snail shells and wisps of embroidery thread. More lacquer encased the four sides, where a variety of tiny antique buttons formed a loosely geometric design.
Griffin kept the box in plain sight. A physical reminder—a misguided act of contrition. He knew his inaction sixteen years ago damned him. As did his missteps with Rae during that year.
His voice, unlike his heart, was calm when he spoke again.
“The last time Lark stopped by, she brought this with her.” Placing the box on the coffee table, he steeled himself for what would come next.
Leaning forward, Sally expelled a soft breath.
Chapter 13
“This belonged to Lark?”
Sally placed the keepsake on her lap. With awe she traced her fingers across the bumps and grooves of the lacquered top.
“Originally it was Rae’s,” Griffin explained. “I don’t believe she meant for her daughter to find it.”
Sally was barely listening. “This is one of Hester’s pieces. Good heavens, the workmanship is gorgeous.”
“Connor made the box to Hester’s specifications. She spent weeks on the detail work, setting in the crushed glass and the shells, adding layers of shellac. She finished when Rae and I were in sixth grade. It was one of Rae’s most cherished possessions. She kept it on her bedroom dresser all through high school.”
“Griffin, did Lark give this to you?”
At last, he captured his sister’s attention. “Not intentionally. The last time she came in—the week of the slumber party—she was visibly nervous. Unfortunately, she picked the wrong day to drop by. The guy we sent out to grab lunch was in a fender bender, and a client’s website was down. Everyone on staff was bickering, and I was late for a meeting in the conference room. Lark’s timing couldn’t have been worse.”
The details earned him a look of censure. “Please tell me you did not lose your cool with a fourteen-year-old. You know how sensitive girls are at that age.”
“No, I didn’t. Lark was so nervous, I knew that whatever the reason for the visit, we wouldn’t be chatting about the gig economy or school reports. It was serious. I asked if she’d mind coming back in an hour and we’d talk then.”
On his feet now, Griffin began pacing. Trying to outrun the guilt dogging his heels. Why didn’t he clue into Lark’s distress weeks earlier? The surprise appearances. The giddy laughter masking a young girl’s self-doubt. The trivial chatter concealing the questions she feared asking. Why didn’t he see?
Lack of parenting experience didn’t absolve him. His niece was Lark’s age. Jackie was part girl, part woman, a bubbling cauldron of emotion. Lark had been no different. What had it cost her to confront him?
Glass clinked as Sally poured the last of the merlot for herself. Padding to the liquor cabinet, she fetched the Jack Daniels and a shot glass.