“I thought Lark’s grandmother worked with mixed media. Like the picture hanging in your family room.”
“Usually, but this was an exception. I can’t recall why she got it into her head to create a lighting display. Once the inspiration struck, it’s all she thought about.”
“When was this?”
“The autumn before the White Hurricane. Mom began stringing lights between the house and the barn, but only on the lowest branches. She wasn’t crazy about heights. It was the beginning of my senior year of high school. It looked so pretty, we all decided to pitch in. We had fun working on the project.”
A soft lump of regret formed in Rae’s throat. Griffin had also helped, she recalled. On the nights when he didn’t man the customer service desk of his father’s dealership, he’d worked until dusk, climbing high into the trees—his body stronger than Rae’s and faster, and it seemed he’d bump into the sky. Griffin had strung lights from the highest branches as she clung to lower branches, not entirely certain she trusted her balance, and as Hester shouted warnings from below. Rae’s father had worked on the second tree in an amusing, silent competition with Griffin. Rae’s mother had planned to hire a man in town to string the lights on the treetops, but Griffin—eager to see the final result—had started work on the project immediately. Connor had quickly joined in.
Dismissing the memory, she said, “My mother designed an elaborate color scheme to cover every tree between the house and the barn. It would’ve been lovely if she’d finished. There are nineteen trees separating the distance. She planned to decorate every one of them.”
Quinn’s eyes rounded. “Talk about a major job. Your barn is half an acre from the house.”
“Just about. My father hired an electrician to trench cabling across the entire span. That part of the project was completed.”
“Where did she get lights in so many colors? I’ve never seen anything like this in the stores.”
“She knew a hotelier in Philadelphia. He put her in touch with a manufacturer. The lights were designed to her specifications.”
“They’re beautiful.”
“I’ve always been partial to this combination.” Rae held up a string for his inspection. The thumb-size bulbs were a series of silver, violet, and the prettiest spring green. Some of the bulbs were oval, and others were shaped liked stars. “And these,” she added, retrieving a strand in varying shades of blue.
“How do you choose a favorite? I like them all.”
“You just choose. Whatever strikes your fancy.”
Pulling another box close, she rustled through the layers of tissue. Before the White Hurricane, all the lighting had been laid out near a wall in Hester’s studio, ready for installation. They didn’t get far with the project. When the first snowflakes dusted the acres in November, work came to a halt. Hester spent the holiday season rearranging the sequence of lights, updating her schematic with each change.
Sixteen years later, the lights were still in pristine condition. There wasn’t dust in any of the boxes. Absently Rae wondered when her father had packed away the lighting. Busywork, for the days when he’d kept his depression at bay.
Breaking the silence, she said, “It’s been so long . . . I can’t recall where the lights were actually made,” she told Quinn.
“Germany.” Connor appeared in the doorway. “The company is still around. They make hand-painted glass ornaments. They got out of the lighting business. Too much competition from Asia.”
Rae straightened. “It would’ve been gorgeous, if Mom had finished.” Then she told Quinn, “Some of the lights are still up outside—they’re on the trees nearest the house. I don’t know if they still work.”
Surprise lifted Quinn’s brows. “Don’t you turn them on?”
“Frankly, we forgot about them.” Rae searched her memories. “We stopped turning them on around the time Lark enrolled in her first pottery class. She was in second grade. After that, our lives were busy.”
Connor leaned against the doorjamb. “I never understood why you let her choose pottery. Dumbest move in the annals of parenting. Why didn’t we buy Lark a block of Play-Doh and call it a day?”
“Dad, you’re a font of wisdom—after the fact. Why didn’t you chime in at the time? I lobbied to sign her up for a class in cartoon drawing. When Lark argued for the pottery class, you egged her on.”