The Storm

One Week Later

Tiffany passed away two days after she’d given me the adoption papers. Storm, Marie, and Bob were with her when she passed.

This week has been beyond difficult for Storm. But Tru and I have made sure that he knows he has us, that we aren’t going anywhere.

The adoption is in process. I’m having my lawyer work hard to push it through quickly.

Storm came to stay with us the night Tiffany died, and then he asked if he could stay the next night.

He’s been here ever since. I think it might have been too difficult for him to go back to the place where they lived together during these last couple of months. And I think my kids help take his mind off of it, keeping him busy. He and Billy have been spending time in my home studio. He’s been helping Billy with learning how to play the guitar.

Marie is still staying in the house I rented for them. She hasn’t told me her plans yet, but I know, at some point, she will go back to Queens, back to her bakery. At the moment, her presence is a familiarity for Storm, a needed tie to his old life, so I’m hoping she’ll hang around a little while longer.

We had the funeral service this morning. It was small and intimate.

As Tiffany hadn’t had contact with her parents since Storm was born, we’d asked Storm if he wanted to let them know about her death and invite them to the funeral, but he’d said no.

So, it was just me, Tru, Storm, and Marie at the funeral. Tom, Lyla, Denny, Simone, Stuart, and Josh came, too.

We didn’t take the kids to Tiffany’s funeral. They stayed home with Tru’s mom and dad.

And that’s where we are now. Everyone came back to our house for some food, not that many of us feel like eating though.

I’m in the kitchen, pouring myself out a finger of whiskey, when I hear movement behind me.

Glancing over my shoulder, I see Marie. She has a pinched expression on her face. Marie and I aren’t what I would call friends. I’ve felt an animosity from her since the day we met, but she’s important to Storm, so I make nice with her.

“Is Storm okay?” I ask her, putting the bottle down.

“He’s fine—well, as fine as he can be. He’s with the other kids in the game room.”

Picking up my glass, I turn to face her. “You want one?” I gesture to my whiskey.

“No.” She shakes her head. “I was…look, can we talk?”

“Sure. Go ahead.” I take a sip of my drink.

She glances around the kitchen, as though she expects someone to walk in at any moment.

“What I want to talk about…is…delicate. Is there somewhere private we could talk?”

“Outside?” I nod in the direction of the garden.

“Sure.”

Leading the way, I head out back with Marie following me.

I take a seat at the outdoor table where we eat a lot of our meals, and I place my glass on the table.

Marie takes the seat across from me. She briefly looks at me and then looks away, blowing out a breath.

The silence is bugging me. “So, what did you want to talk to me about?”

“I don’t really know how to start,” she says.

The nerves and uncertainty in her voice make the nape of my neck prickle. She looks like she’s having an internal battle with herself.

I sit up a little straighter, picking up my whiskey.

The movement catches her attention.

“I need to tell you something, something I should have told Tiffany, but I was afraid to tell her. I didn’t, and I’ve kept it in for all these years. Then, she got sick.”

Her eyes meet with mine, and I see a flash of tears and remorse in them.

“I didn’t want her to die hating me.”

“Why would she have hated you?” My mouth is dry, so I take another sip of whiskey, my hand tightening around the glass.

“I just…I can’t keep it in anymore. It’s been eating me up inside. If anyone deserves the truth, aside from Tiffany and Storm, it’s you.”

I swallow down. “What truth?”

“The night…that Jonny died.” She blows out a shallow breath through her teeth. “It was my fault…that he died.”

I slam my glass down on the table, making her jump.

“What do you mean, it was your fault?” My voice sounds harsh because I’m barely holding on to my restraint.

“The night he died, I spoke to him on the phone.”

“Why? How? Did you know him?”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t know him. I have a friend, and he got me Jonny’s number. Tiffany…she had never told me who Storm’s father was.

“One night, when Storm was five, she went out with this guy she was dating. I was watching Storm for her. He was sleeping, and I was in my bedroom reading when she got in. I was surprised she was home, as it was early. I heard her in the living room, music playing, so I went to see how her date was. She was upset, crying. They’d broken up. She’d been drinking. She was listening to your music. Then, she just started talking. She told me all about her life before she came to Queens—how she was a groupie, how she spent a lot of time with The Mighty Storm, how you guys all lived your lives with the drugs, endless parties, and crazy sex. She said about her getting pregnant with Storm, her family kicking her out…and who Storm’s father was.”

She meets my eyes.

“Tiffany told me she’d been sleeping with both you and Jonny when she got pregnant. In the beginning, she wasn’t sure who his father was, but the older Storm got, she knew, without a doubt, that Jonny was his father. Storm looked too much like Jonny not to be his son. I tried to encourage her to get in contact with Jonny and tell him.