His dad had dealt with all this without him.
Then his finger stopped on the opposite page.
Leah’s Paintings:
Sunflowers
Barn
Old Oak
Apple Blossoms
Mt. Stuart
The list went on. He’d catalogued all of her paintings by name. Mark could picture many of them, but his dad had known them all.
Mark ran his finger farther down the page and stopped again.
Leah’s Nativity:
Mary
Joseph
Baby Jesus in Manger
Star
Shepherd with 2 Sheep
Mark noticed the monetary value column on the page was empty. How did you put a price on something priceless? The insurance company probably had some method to put a base value to a painting, but Mark knew his dad. The column was blank because base value didn’t matter when it came to the nativity. All that mattered was that it was gone.
Last Christmas was a blur for Mark. Even now all he remembered were lights and some music. Cards that Steph or his dad had read to him. Pictures Ivy drew. He hadn’t considered it would have been the first Christmas without the decorations that allowed them to include Mom in their holidays.
It hadn’t even crossed his mind until now.
He closed the ledger. Dad had been there for him almost every minute. Even when he was pushing Mark out of the house and into social situations, no matter how agitating, he did it for Mark. And Mark wanted to repay him in some way.
He glanced at the time. They’d be leaving for the school in a few minutes. Anxiety raised its head, and Mark told himself that he’d done this before. He could do it again. He’d enjoyed the play. He pictured Ivy grinning in her Lost Boys costume. Breathing a little easier, he remembered the painted backdrops for the school play, and it occurred to him why he was drawn to them.
They were familiar.
The final performance had gone well, minus the last-minute hang-up, literally, with Wendy’s harness. Backstage was bustling with the stage crew and their families, and a few actors who hadn’t left for the after-party. The janitors were cleaning the back of the auditorium, working their way down to the stage.
Riley studied the backdrop she’d painted of the Darling nursery. Though she’d loved how the London night skyline, Neverland forest, and the pirate ship backdrops had turned out, this was her favorite. She’d researched toys and furnishings from the Edwardian era and reproduced them for the Darling children as though they’d been well-played with, wanting to make this a place where magic happened.
Movement in the shadows caught her eye. To her left in the darkness of the wings, a hooded figure leaned against the far wall. He seemed to be watching her, but she could be mistaken. She glanced at him, and he straightened, looked in both directions, and took a few steps toward her.
Riley’s pulse quickened with concern while telling herself she was overreacting. This wasn’t Santa Monica.
“You coming to the after-party?”
Riley jumped and turned as Yvette padded toward her, shoes in one hand and a large satchel on her shoulder.
“My treat. Well, the school’s treat.” Yvette paused and gazed over Riley’s shoulder. “Well, what do you know?” she said quietly. “He ventured out.”
“Who?” Riley looked behind her, hoping that whatever unease she’d felt at the stranger’s attention could be explained.
But the stranger was leaving, slipping out the exit door into the night.
“Who was that?” Riley asked.
“A local hero. Mark Rivers. Good for him.”
Riley busied herself checking her bag, making sure she had everything. “Why good for him?”
“Oh, he’s a bit of a recluse.” Yvette pressed her lips in a smile. “I’m glad he came. Hope it made him happy.”
Riley paused, wondering what a recluse would want with her.
“Earth to Riley.” Yvette snapped her fingers and adjusted the strap of her bursting bag. Tonight, Riley knew, it held a makeup kit, a first aid kit, a sewing kit, a hairdo kit, duct tape, a screwdriver, and a stapler. “Come on. Get your things. We’ll get this cleaned up tomorrow.”
Yvette dropped her shoes on the floor and wriggled her feet inside each one as Riley collected her coat and bag. She couldn’t help but glance at the exit door where the “hero” had lurked and—if she wasn’t mistaken—had almost approached her.
Yvette motioned to the backdrop. “Best we’ve ever had. I had a teacher tell me once that the best sets draw the audience to the stage and then fade into the environment of their new reality. Tonight, you gave us that.”
Riley smiled. “You’re just saying that so I’ll share my onion rings with you.”
“Whatever works.” Yvette winked.
They left the building, and Riley strode across the nearly empty parking lot to her car, arms full of her own backstage emergency tote and a bouquet of roses the kids had given her during bows. She called out to Yvette. “I’m going to drop my stuff at my house first. See you at the restaurant.”
Yvette gave her a thumbs-up and climbed into her own car.
After Riley stowed her stash in the trunk, she came around to the front of the car. She’d parked along the edge of the lot, and across the street from her, a truck idled with its lights on. By the streetlamps, she spied the hooded figure watching her from inside the vehicle. After a moment, he pulled away.
A shiver ran through her. She got in her car, glancing around. She’d never felt like she was in danger in this small mountain town, but her adrenaline kept her alert all the way back to her house. Hero or not, if this person had become a recluse, who knew what could be going through his head.
Mark shook his head, furious with himself. Here he sat, three homes up from the art teacher’s house, away from the nearest streetlamp and the Taggarts’ annual Christmas lights spectacular, watching like a . . . like a stalker. He’d heard her say she was going home before heading to the restaurant, and he’d been stupid enough to think that he’d be able to work up the nerve to ask what he wanted to ask by the time she came out of her house. But he hadn’t left his truck yet or even parked in front of her house, which would be the normal thing to do if someone simply wanted to catch a person and ask them a question.
He huffed out a breath and looked away. Why was this so hard?
He rubbed his jaw where the skin often felt tight, then ran his hand against the rest of the right side of his face, feeling the map of scars.
That was why.
“Phones,” he mumbled. “This is why we have phones.”
He shook his head at himself again, determined to find her number and call her tomorrow.
A knock on his window nearly sent him through the roof. “What the—?”
And there she was, the art teacher, holding a baseball bat like she knew how to swing it. Hard.
“No!” He rolled down his window. The cold night air rushed in. “No, no, no, no, please.” He held his hands up like she was aiming a gun. “Please don’t hit my truck.”
“I’m not looking at the truck,” she said without blinking, her breath puffing in the cold. “Why are you following me?”
He felt heat creep up his face. “I—I didn’t mean to follow you. I’m not—I mean I don’t usually—” He took a deep breath and let it out. “Look, I know it seems like I was following you, but I was just . . . getting up the nerve to ask you about something and it’s been a while since I’ve spoken . . . to people. At all.”
She shifted her weight but kept the bat ready to swing. “Who are you?”
“Mark Rivers.”
She narrowed her eyes and shifted her stance again.
“My family owns Rivers Orchards. I was at the play—at the school—the school play—and I wanted to ask you . . .
” He hesitated again.
She waited, seeming to mull that over. “Yes?”
He straightened his shoulders and gathered himself. “Principal Grant told me you painted the backdrops, and I wanted to ask if you’d be interested in painting something for me. For Christmas.”
Her grip relaxed on the bat, but she didn’t lower it. “So you followed me to my house and waited in the dark? Have you heard of doorbells? Or phones?”
He closed his eyes, his hands still in the air. “I was just reminding myself of phones when you knocked on my window.” He eyed her bat. “Look, I’m not a bad guy. Just . . . forget it. I’ve clearly made a mess of this.”
He lowered his hands to put the truck in gear, and she tightened her grip, pulling the bat back as if to swing.
He lifted his hands again. “Whoa, wait a minute. I’m leaving.”
“How do I know you don’t have a gun down there?”
He frowned. “Really? You think I might have a gun, and you come at me with a baseball bat?”
He could see the foolishness of the situation hit her. But he’d been just as stupid. Even more so.
“Listen,” he said. “I don’t have a gun. I’m a firefighter. If anything, I’m going to have an ax. Isn’t that what firefighters have? An ax and a dalmatian?” His weak attempt at humor didn’t seem to make a difference. He kept his hands where she could see them and huffed out a laugh at the idiocy of the situation. “Look, you want to know if I have a weapon down here? You’re going to have to come and check for yourself.”
She blinked, and he thought he saw her biting back a smile—or maybe it was rage—when the blip of a siren sounded and red-and-blue flashing lights bounced off his rearview and side mirrors. They both shaded their eyes, and she finally lowered her weapon.
“You called the cops?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “Though that probably would’ve been the smarter thing to do.”
He groaned, pulled his hood off, and leaned back against the headrest as the crunch of boots approached the truck. A flashlight shined first at her, then at him.
“Hey, Mark.”
“Hey, Lester,” Mark answered.
“Ma’am.”
The art teacher nodded.
“Could you drop the bat please?”
She did. “What about him?” she asked, tipping her head at Mark. “He said he had an ax.”
“I did not,” Mark countered. “I said if I had something it would be an ax.”
Lester looked between them. “Is there a problem here?”
They both started talking at the same time, and Les put his hand up, quieting them both. “We got a call from a neighbor about a possible assault with a baseball bat—”
“I thought he was—” she began.
Les held up his hand again. “And a call from another neighbor worried about a possible stalker or burglar, and I quote, ‘casing the joint.’ Although he said he thought it was your truck, Mark, and wondered if you’d reported it stolen.”
Mark sighed. He looked sideways at Les, who motioned toward the houses. Several neighbors had gathered on their front porches, huddled in small groups, trying to be inconspicuous in the glare of their porch lights.
“Great,” Mark said.
“You want to tell me what’s going on? Ma’am, your name?”
“Riley Madigan.” She flicked her gaze toward Mark.
“Ms. Madigan, if you’ll go first, please?”
Riley rubbed her forehead. “I saw him in the stage wings at the high school, watching me after the play, and then again in the parking lot. But he took off both times. So I was careful driving home, and when I saw him park here after I went into the house, I got my bat and . . . I thought he might be planning to attack me . . . or something.”
Mark ran his hand over his face and deflated into the seat. “You will never know how sorry I am that I gave you that impression, but anyone who knows me—anyone—Les, tell her I would never—”
Les held up his hand again. He turned to her. “You thought he might be an attacker, so you came out to his truck with a bat?”
She stared at him. “Have you ever been a single woman living alone in a big city?”
“No,” Les said with sympathy. “I can’t say that I have.”
She shrugged. “Some of us sleep with guns under our beds, some of us have bats.”
Les nodded. “Fair enough.”
What had Mark been thinking? He hadn’t. Just like with his dad. He’d been living the last couple of years in a self-centered bubble.
“What do you have to say, Mark?”
Mark rubbed his hand over his mouth. Then he leaned toward Les, speaking quietly. “You remember Mom’s nativity?”
Les nodded. “Of course.”
“It was lost in the fire.”
He frowned. “I know. I was sorry to hear that.”
Mark nodded and glanced at the teacher, who frowned too, but in an angrier sort of way. He focused on Les.
“I was getting up the nerve to ask the art teacher here if she would consider painting a new set. I was thinking of surprising Dad with it.”
Les smiled. “Oh, hey, that’s a great idea.” He looked hopefully at Ms. Madigan, but when she didn’t smile back, he sobered again. “So why didn’t you just call her?”
“That’s what I asked him,” Riley said, glaring at him.
Mark gritted his teeth. “I swear, on my mother’s grave, I would never think of harming you.”
She studied him, and he was grateful she could only see the left side of his face.
“Ms. Madigan, can I have a word with you, please?” Les motioned toward his unit.
She nodded and followed him. Mark watched them in the side mirror, stewing over what a mess he’d made. And now Les was probably telling her Mark’s sob story and how pathetic he was and to show a little mercy. She stood—all 5'4" of her—arms wrapped around her torso in an attempt to stay warm, glancing Mark’s way. Finally, she shook her head, and as Les left her and approached the truck, she turned away.
Les rested his arm on Mark’s window frame. “Well, she’s not pressing charges.”
Mark swallowed, considering for the first time that that was even an option.
“You understand why she thought what she thought, right?”
Mark nodded, fully ashamed.
“She’s pretty shook up. I’d give her space if I were you. Just until things settle down.”
Mark pressed his lips together in a line. “That shouldn’t be a problem.” He wanted nothing more than to head home and lock himself inside. “But she believes me about never hurting anyone, right?”
Les nodded thoughtfully. “I think so. Most likely your reputation will eventually change any ideas she has about you.”
“You mean the one about being a deformed, unhinged recluse?” Mark grumbled.
Les furrowed his brow and looked him in the eye. “I mean the one that you’re a hero.” His words were measured and filled with conviction. “You saved those boys’ lives.”
Mark looked away.
“Like it or not, that’s what people say about you.” He sighed. “Gotta be tough, though, all that admiration.” He waited for Mark to respond.
Mark didn’t.
“Okay. Well, you’re free to go. Tell your dad hello. And again, I’m sorry about your mom’s nativity. That was a county treasure. Come to think of it, so was your mom.” He glanced Riley Madigan’s way. “Maybe she’ll still consider it.”
Mark huffed.
“You never know,” Les said, backing away from the truck. “Miracles happen.”
It took Mark a moment to realize Les was waiting for him to leave and would stand there until he did. He looked back at the art teacher, and she returned his gaze. He gave her a quick but sincere nod, shifte
d the truck into gear, and pulled into the street, driving past the neighbors still standing on their porches. Roger and Beth Simons waved enthusiastically. Mark couldn’t help raising his hand in return. Everybody knew everybody in this town.
The kids had chosen the ’59er Diner in Cashmere for their after-party. There weren’t any actual restaurants in Miracle Creek, just the Grill-n-Go drive-thru, the bakery, and a bar called Jake’s. Riley almost hadn’t come, but after all their hard work—and the evening’s events—she would at least have a milkshake. On the school’s tab.
Hit with the fortifying smell of onion rings, Riley slid into a vintage red vinyl booth across from Yvette. Most of the kids had eaten. A few greeted her with enthusiasm, wired from the success of the performance, sodas, and ice cream.
“You made it. Here.” Yvette pushed a menu at Riley, who glanced over it half-heartedly. She motioned a waitress over.
“Can you mix milkshake flavors?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ll have onion rings and a peanut butter, marshmallow, hot fudge milkshake.”
“Anything else?”
“I’ll let you know.”
“That was decisive,” Yvette said after the waitress left.
“It called to me.”
Yvette smiled.
Riley tried to relax into the atmosphere of the ’50s-style diner, complete with black-and-white checkered floor, posters of Marilyn, Frank, and Doris on the aqua-blue walls, a jukebox, and a life-sized statue of Elvis standing in the corner. But Riley’s mind was replaying her evening so far. Not in a good way.
When her food came, Riley started with the milkshake.
“Hittin’ it hard tonight, huh?” Yvette ventured.
She swallowed and pinched the bridge of her nose as the brain freeze struck. “I just did something horrifying and humiliating at the same time.”
“What happened?”
Riley shook her head, hesitant to share anything. Finally, she leaned heavily on her fist. “What do you know about Mark Rivers? The man we saw tonight after the play?”
Miracle Creek Christmas Page 3
