Winona Olsen watched her father move through the softly lit banquet hall to the stage, as if carried by the current of the room’s applause. In his blue pinstripes, his elegant stride reminded her of the great white sharks her mother used to take her to see at the Kingsville Aquarium.
They’d had season passes, and Winona remembered her mother saying dreamily, on more than one occasion, “They even swim when they’re sleeping. Can you imagine, Nony? What that would be like, to keep moving even when you’re asleep but never get anywhere? You’re just stuck in a glass tank.”
On the stage at the front of the room, her father stepped up to the podium and shook the presenter’s hand.
“You must be so proud,” the silver-haired woman to Winona’s right murmured to her through the applause. “What is this, his third Changemaker?”
Winona flashed her perfectly symmetrical smile, a duller, narrower version of the thousand-megawatt one beaming from the stage. “Second,” she answered.
The woman sat back in her chair, one hand placed over her heart and a look of delighted surprise splashed across her face. Winona knew she’d met the woman before, at some benefit or luncheon or award ceremony—there were only so many philanthropists in northern Michigan and they took turns making speeches and polite small talk at the same few events each year. Truthfully, Winona’s father had won far more awards for his philanthropic endeavors than she’d just copped to, but he would have thought it in poor taste for Winona to rattle off the entire list, and taste was Stormy Olsen’s greatest strength.
His collection of awards and trophies was rivaled by his collection of modern art, his drawers of designer watches, the rows of pristine suits in his closet, and the rainbow of Tory Burch dresses he’d lined Winona’s with.
Well, he just raves about you, missy,” the woman said. “About how you’re going to Northwestern next year?”
Winona smiled. “That’s right.”
The woman settled back into her chair as Winona’s father began to speak.
“Wow,” he said, voice straining under emotion. Stormy was an emotional guy, and the public appreciated that about him; there weren’t many meteorologists who could turn the morning weather report into a human interest piece, but there was just something about him that made people want to sit down for a beer or two and swap stories with him. Acts of kindness, big and small, that was what he was about, what he’d instilled in his only daughter, the light of his life, and the town he loved so dearly. Remember, folks, in the Upper Peninsula, a little bit of sunshine goes a long way!
The overhead lighting caught on his Rolex and light flashed across the room. Winona realized she’d zoned out—she’d been doing that a lot lately—and jerked her attention back to her father’s acceptance speech. She wanted to remember her favorite tidbits to repeat back to him on the car ride home. She knew it would please him.
“. . . and I really mean this, I do: the people of Kingsville have made it so easy to serve them. They say when you love your job, you’ll never work a day in your life, and you know what? In my sixteen years at Channel 5, I’d have to say that’s been true for me. Folks, I love my job. But in this last year, partnering with Brain Storm Girls—”He swallowed the knot in his throat as he gathered himself, and the audience tearfully laughed. “Look, I’m no public speaker, I’m a weatherman, so forgive the terrible slew of forthcoming puns.”
