Miracle Creek Christmas

by Krista Jensen

  He nodded, looking around more carefully. “Most of the homes in this neighborhood were built in the 1920s and have been completely updated. I’ll have to mention it to Alan. It’s a hazard.”

  “Alan Gorecki? You know the people who owned this place?”

  “Yep. Took their granddaughter to junior prom. Do you have lamps and things like that in the bedrooms?”

  “Yes.”

  “How are you finding appliances that fit in the outlets?”

  “Antique stores. The Goose. New2You. Old stuff fits in old outlets, go figure.”

  He nodded. Wenatchee Valley had more than its share of shops full of old stuff. “Are the cords in good shape?”

  A smile spread across her face.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You sound like a fireman.”

  Again, Mark felt heat rise in his face. He dropped his gaze and turned away. He picked up the old doorknob pieces and walked to the door. “I’ll get you a replacement at Ace.”

  “Could you pick up another roll of tape for the window?” she asked behind him. “This one only has a few more feet on it.”

  He nodded. It was the least he could do.

  “Oh, and text me a pic of the doorknobs you find.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “No.”

  “I’m a certified EMT with a bachelor’s degree in fire sciences, and I’ve helped build and restore homes and barns all over this county.” She stood her ground as he stepped forward. Who knew his pride would feel a hit over home improvement? “I think I can pick out a doorknob.”

  “Who is the designer credited for Americanizing the Craftsman style?”

  He blinked.

  She took advantage of his silence. “Gustav Stickley—1858 to 1942. Furniture designer and architect. See that rocking chair?”

  He glanced at an old square rocker next to the fireplace. Oak.

  “It’s a Stickley,” she said. “Someone was throwing it out! You don’t throw out an old Stickley just because it’s a little beat up—” She shook her head. “You bring it home and polish it, tighten the joints, and put it in a Craftsman-style home that maybe you’re only renovating but maybe you’d like to keep if you decide someday you want to actually live in a town no bigger than a Hollywood back lot, that’s what you do.” She had thrown out her arms and pulled in a breath.

  He blinked again. “Would you . . . like to come pick it out?” She was out of her freaking mind.

  She marched over to the front door and swung it shut. It bounced, shuddered, and slowly swung open again. “I would, but somebody broke my front door. I have to stay and protect the Stickley, among other things.” She shivered from the draft coming inside.

  He rubbed his face. This was not the morning he had planned. “With your baseball bat?”

  She gave him a hard look. “Send me a pic from the store.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I am not your mother.”

  He covered a smile. “No, ma’am.”

  She growled and put her hands on her hips. “You’ll need my number.”

  “Yes, I will. Riley.”

  She paused, and in that brief moment, with the banter stopped, he found it hard to breathe. Then just like that, Riley Madigan was standing close to him, putting her number into his phone.

  She gave it back to him. “There. I didn’t mean to be so bossy. I tend to go a little nuts over old things.” She looked up at him, her freckles clear in the light streaming through the window.

  He swallowed. “Your eyes are the color of moss. It’s a cool, soothing color.”

  She blinked and looked away, her turn to blush.

  “It’s deceiving,” he said. “You’re not very soothing at all.”

  He watched her eyes open wide.

  “You . . .”

  He chuckled and made for the door.

  “You . . .” she repeated.

  He waved goodbye and made it off the porch.

  “You are no Gustav Stickley!” she called from the open door.

  He faked a knife wound to his heart and staggered into his truck. She held her hand over her mouth, her eyes smiling as she shut the door.

  He started his truck, unable to wipe the stupid grin off his face, when he caught his reflection in the mirror.

  He stilled. His smile weakened as he jerked his hood up over his head. It had fallen back at some point. When? Maybe from the beginning after he’d burst through her door.

  A sickening cold seeped through him. That whole time he’d been exposed.

  Riley watched Mark drive away, biting her thumbnail, heart pounding in her chest from the adrenaline of his “visit.” She’d watched him pull his hood up and drop his head on the steering wheel. So different from who he’d become in her living room. The hood had fallen back when he’d first tripped over the stepladder, and he never fixed it. For the first time, she saw what the fire had done to his skin. And for the first time, she saw what it hadn’t.

  When he’d left the hood off, she’d hoped he’d decided it didn’t matter. But seeing his posture in his truck, she knew differently. And now she felt like she’d seen something not meant for her. An accidental invasion of something deeply private. They were, after all, strangers.

  It hadn’t bothered her, seeing his scars. Only in considering what he must have gone through for scars like that. Imagination was a strange thing. Most times, things imagined were far more fantastic or horrific than the reality. She had a feeling that wasn’t the case this time. What happened to Mark must have been a nightmare.

  He’d been a beautiful boy. The burns had transformed a portion of that, of course. But a transformation was a change, not necessarily a destruction.

  She felt her own hypocrisy at the thought.

  Riley sighed, gathered up the tangled window tape, and threw everything in the garbage. She glanced at the clock and realized she hadn’t eaten since seven. She could use this forced “break” to make a decent lunch. If Mark was hungry when he returned, she could at least offer him food.

  She washed her hands and took inventory of her fridge. She grabbed ingredients for BLTs, and soon the sizzling sounds and scent of bacon filled the kitchen as she sliced a tomato.

  Then, for the first time since she’d spied him walking up to her front porch, she wondered why he’d stopped by at all.

  At the bonfire, she’d told his friends she didn’t think Mark needed to be drawn out of a cocoon if he didn’t want to be. And from her point of view, he clearly didn’t want to be. And yet Nate said Mark wasn’t cut from that kind of cloth.

  He used to be social. Well-known and liked. And people missed him, wanted him back. But the way Nate had said it, she got the feeling they didn’t want him back for them. They wanted him back for him. Because it was who he was.

  She puzzled over what she knew about Mark Rivers. He was funny. And smarter than she’d given him credit for. He’d wanted to ask her a question twice now. About painting something.

  Halfway through removing the bacon to paper towels, her phone buzzed. He’d sent pics of three different doorknobs, each perfect for a Craftsman-style house. She chose one that closely matched the drawer pulls in the kitchen.

  He responded. Got it.

  She texted again. Why did you stop by this morning?

  After a few moments, he answered. Honestly?

  Yes, please.

  I’m collecting glass doorknobs.

  She pressed her lips in a smile.

  He added, I’ll tell you when I get back.

  The sandwiches were ready and on plates with chips when she heard him come through the front door. She went out to meet him, ignoring the uptick of her pulse.

  He glanced her way and averted his gaze. “Hey.” He set a couple of bags and the broken glass knobs on the r
olltop desk and a tool chest on the floor. His hood was all the way up, shading his face.

  “Hey,” she said as he knelt by the door, his back to her.

  “Your tape’s in that bag,” he said.

  She opened a bag and pulled out the window tape, but there was more. “What are these?”

  “I got you a few adapters for the outlets.”

  She read the package. “Three-prong to two-prong outlet adapters.” She found three more in the bag and a new extension cord. “Thank you.”

  She watched his head nod from behind.

  “Your outlets still need to be grounded, but this way you can use modern stuff if you need to. I talked to Alan. The updates were professional. I can give you the name of the guy he hired.” He used a utility knife to open the plastic casing on the doorknob.

  “Okay. Thanks again. What do I owe you?”

  “It’s on me. I did break your door.”

  She smiled at that. “Can I offer you lunch?”

  He paused.

  “I made BLTs.”

  He turned halfway in her direction. So different from when he wasn’t worried about that hood.

  “It’s all ready,” she said. “I’m gonna eat. You’re welcome to join me.”

  He turned back to the box he was working on.

  “Or I can bring you a plate?”

  He nodded again.

  Okay, if that was what he wanted. She brought him his plate and a glass of apple cider and set it on the rolltop desk. “The cider’s Orondo’s. Yvette said it’s the best.”

  “Yvette’s right.” He stopped what he was doing and turned toward the plate and juice. Finally, he glanced at her directly. “Thanks. It smells great.”

  She turned to the kitchen. “Tastes better.”

  Mark swallowed the last bite of the sandwich and washed it down with cider. That lunch was about perfect, and he allowed himself to relax and focus on installing the doorknob properly. It would be tricky enough with the old door; being on edge wouldn’t get the job done any faster.

  Riley had turned on music, eating at the table just inside the kitchen, which worked fine for him. The nearer she was, the more he was forced to think about how much she’d seen of him. And how he’d acted like an idiot with her.

  “Can I get you more of anything?” she asked from the kitchen. “More cider?”

  “No, thanks. It was good, though.”

  She hummed while she cleaned up, and he stood to bring in his dishes. He could at least do that. He rounded the corner and paused. She was dancing. Nodding her head and moving her hips as she rinsed a fry pan under hot water. At the chorus, she lip-synced into a pair of tongs.

  He cleared his throat.

  She jumped so hard the tongs went flying, clanging against a cupboard and dropping to the floor with a clatter.

  She rested her palms on the edge of the sink. “You really need to stop doing that.”

  He kept his mouth straight. “I was just bringing in my plate.”

  She held out her hand. He handed her his plate. Then his glass.

  “Thanks for lunch,” he said.

  “Mhmm,” she answered, vigorously scrubbing.

  He bent to pick up the tongs and set them in the sink. “I never really liked that song.” When she didn’t answer, he turned to go. “I’m reconsidering, though.”

  “Don’t you have a door to fix?” she asked.

  He smiled to himself. The knot inside him eased a little.

  Riley returned to the front room a few minutes later and began taping the window for plastic. He had the knob installed on the door and hoped it would line up once he put the new latch plate on the jamb.

  “So,” she said, peeling the second backing off the tape now surrounding the entire window. “Why did you come here this morning?”

  “My dad sent me.” He began removing the old latch plate.

  “Your dad? Do I know him?”

  “Nope. But he asked around and someone gave him your name.”

  This is something that should be asked in person, he heard his dad say. Not with his back to her, either. He put down his tools and stood, facing Riley. She had the plastic sheet spread out and was pressing it to the top edge of the taped window.

  He steadied his nerves and went over to help her, holding the hanging portion of plastic and smoothing over the stretches of tape she’d already covered. Standing on the stepladder, she was a few inches taller than he was. “My mom passed away eleven years ago.”

  She paused. “I’m sorry to hear that. How old were you?”

  “Almost sixteen. She was an artist. Oil paints, mostly. Some metal sculpture.” He felt her eyes on him as her hands stilled. He was on her right side, so he didn’t mind her looking. “We had a lot of her artwork in the outbuilding when it burned down.”

  She stepped down off the ladder. The plastic film hung where she’d left it. “That’s horrible.”

  He nodded. “By the time my dad got to the building, it was too late.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Her gaze drifted to the paintings on the wall. He’d assumed they were hers. They had her look.

  He absently smoothed over the taped plastic again. “We had some of her favorites in the house, so at least those were saved. And most of the garden sculptures.”

  She frowned. “What did your dad think I could do?”

  “It’s the insurance. The last of the inventory. He’s listed the paintings as lost items, but he has no idea how to put a value on them. He could guess, but he’s too . . .” He searched for the words.

  “Emotionally involved?” she offered.

  “Exactly. And he’s hesitant to hand it over to the insurers. They’ve been pretty patient with him, giving him the option to get his own appraiser. He was hoping you could come look at the ledger, listen to a description, maybe give him ballpark figures. Honestly, I think if it were up to him, he’d just call it a loss and move on. But I think out of respect for my mom, he’s got to make them count. If he didn’t claim them, it was like they never existed. I think he’s considering doing something she’d like with the money. Something for the arts.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I have a friend who works at an art gallery in Denver I can use as a reference. I’d be happy to help however I can.”

  “Thanks. I’ll let him know, and you two can decide on a time to come over to the house.”

  She nodded, and they went back to work. He helped her until she had the plastic film in place, and then he returned to the door while she finished the windows.

  She turned the blow-dryer off. “There,” she said, looking at her handiwork. “That should make a difference.”

  He opened and closed the door, pleased that the new doorknob seemed to be doing its job. After shutting the door tightly, he checked the brick fireplace, feeling for a draft. He peered up the chimney, checking the flu.

  “Keep this damper closed unless you’ve got a fire in it. That will help, too.”

  “Thank you,” she said, folding her arms and sighing. “I guess you’ve made up for breaking my door.”

  He nodded, shifting his weight, suddenly unsure. But it had been such a strange day already, he might as well ride it out. “I have something else I wanted to ask you.”

  “Oh?” She stuffed the trimmed strips of plastic and the rest of the mess into a garbage bag.

  “Yeah. It’s for me, though. Sort of.”

  She tossed the bag on the floor near the front door. “Okay, shoot.”

  “I had this idea. I wanted to know if you’d be interested in painting something for me. Well, not for me, for my dad.”

  “What’s the project?” Once again, she was looking at him expectantly. No pity or discomfort in her expression.

  He took a deep breath and decided to just get it out. “It’s a nativity
. Life-size. My mom painted one years ago. It’s always been up at Christmastime, so people can see it from the highway as they enter town. After she was gone, it was a reminder of what she loved most. But it burned up with the fire. I saw your backdrops at the play—your painting style is really similar to hers—and I thought I—we—could surprise my dad.”

  She didn’t answer immediately.

  “I have some photos of the original,” he continued. “They’re not great. But I could do the wood cutouts. We’ve got most of the materials.”

  She walked past him to the couch. “That’s a big time commitment.”

  “Yeah. I know. It wouldn’t have to be complete by Christmas. Just . . . underway.”

  She began pushing the couch back into place in front of the window.

  He stepped forward to help her. “We won’t have to work together, if that’s—”

  “That doesn’t have anything to do with it,” she said, frowning. “If I don’t take this on, it’s because of time, not because I’d have to work with you. I have so little time with school and art club and needing to fix up this place.”

  “I’d pay you, of course. Whatever your time’s worth. Six hundred dollars?”

  “No—” She eyed the couch’s position.

  “Nine hundred?”

  “You skipped from six hundred to nine hundred,” she said, shoving the couch to the right with her knee.

  “Seven-fifty?”

  She laughed, and his hopes rose. But then she grew quiet again.

  “Mark, thank you for asking, but I can’t. I just . . .”

  He frowned. “No, it’s okay. It was just an idea.”

  “It’s a good idea.”

  They were both silent. Mark rubbed his face, the patches and furrows that would never go away, wanting to hide his disappointment. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I can see it’s not worth your time.”

  “Mark—”

  “No, I get it. My dad’ll be happy to have your help with the appraisals, anyway. Thanks.” He gathered up his tools quickly, wanting to get out of there.