Miracle Creek Christmas

by Krista Jensen

  “Maybe you can find somebody else to do it. There are so many artists in the area.”

  He nodded. “Yeah.” He lifted his head. “The thing was the similarity. You really do paint like her.”

  She said nothing, and he put his hand on the doorknob.

  “What was her name?” she asked.

  “She signed her paintings with her maiden name, Leah Dolan.”

  “Leah Dolan was your mother?”

  He brightened. “Did you know her?”

  She shook her head. “Not personally. But I saw her featured in American Artist Magazine years ago. And some of her works were in an exhibition in the Myhren Gallery at the University of Denver where I was going to school. Contemporary Women Artists of the West. Her stuff caught my eye, and seriously, I pushed myself to try to master her technique.”

  He shook his head. “That’s . . . unbelievable.”

  “I’d always kept this part of the country in the back of my mind because of her paintings. When I saw the job opening, I had to take a chance.”

  “And here you are.”

  She shrugged. “And here I am.”

  Mark remembered that interview for the magazine. His mom had been nervous and excited and mortified at the same time. “She said giving that interview was like holding one of us kids up for the whole world to pick apart. But she was proud of it.” It was the last interview she’d given. He vaguely remembered something about an exhibition tour.

  “I remember her picture. You look like her,” Riley said.

  He nodded, feeling her gaze focus on his face. Mark had inherited his mother’s olive skin, dark hair, and angular features, though most people told him he was built like his dad, broad and lanky at the same time. His mom had never seen how tall he’d gotten. He looked away. People studying his face was never comfortable.

  “I look like my dad,” Riley offered. “He is quite Irish.”

  His laugh rushed from him, brief and unexpected. “Wouldn’t have guessed with a name like Riley Madigan.” He met her gaze again.

  She smirked.

  He waited for her to say more. To call the connection a sign. To change her mind about the project.

  When none of that happened, he reached for the door again. “Thanks for lunch.”

  “Thanks for helping fix things. Really. I feel safer. That other knob was always sketchy. Here.” She went to the desk and grabbed half of the glass knob he’d broken off. She held it out to him. “For your collection.”

  He took it from her and smoothed his thumb over the facets. “Thanks.”

  He opened the door and stepped outside, taking a deep breath of the fresh cold. It had been too much to ask. After what she’d seen of him, she probably figured she could only take Mark Rivers in small doses. He shook his head. She didn’t need his work, and she didn’t need him hanging around, showing up and breaking things and scaring her to death. Forgetting to make sure his face was hidden. Forgetting he wasn’t the old Mark anymore . . .

  He was quick down the stairs and just loading his toolbox in the back of the truck when he heard her call his name.

  “Mark! Wait.”

  He stopped, reining in his hopes that she’d changed her mind.

  She ran up to him, still barefoot, carrying the garbage bag. “I could use some help with the renovation.”

  “The what?”

  She motioned her head toward the house. “You said you’ve worked at restoring houses. If you consider helping me, I’ll consider painting your nativity.”

  The breath left his lungs, and he tried to play it cool. “Okay. Yeah.”

  “I’d like to see the photos you have before I commit.”

  He hesitated a fraction. Being near her for so much time during the project—that was not a small consideration. But he thought of his dad bent over that leger. “Anything you need.”

  “The house needs to be done by summer.”

  He looked back at the house. That was a tall order. No wonder she guarded her time. “Why the deadline?”

  “I’m hoping to turn it into a vacation rental.”

  He frowned. “So, if you do that, where will you go?”

  She folded her arms and shrugged. “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  She paused.

  “Sorry,” he said. “None of my business.”

  “I just haven’t decided if this is where I want to stay. Forever.”

  He nodded, considering what his tiny town looked like to the seasonal tourists visiting the valley. “That’s fair. Hard for Miracle Creek to compete with bright lights, big city.”

  “That can get old, too.”

  He took a deep breath. “What do you want done with the house?”

  She counted on her fingers. “Open up the wall between the kitchen and front room. New light fixtures. Update the bathroom. Floors, paint. More insulation in the attic. And update the rest of the electrical outlets, I guess. Exterior paint and new gutters when it warms up in the spring. Windows.”

  His eyebrows rose at the length of the list.

  She set the garbage bag on the ground and drew her arms tightly around herself. “Look, I wasn’t completely honest with you back there. I have this thing. With Christmas. It’s hard. I spend the whole season just . . . trying to look past it. It’s not that I don’t want to help you.”

  He nodded. “Christmas is hard for a lot of us.”

  “I guess we both have some considering to do.”

  “I guess we do.”

  As Mark pulled away from the house, he couldn’t tell if the ache in his chest was from his fear that she’d say no, or that she’d say yes.

  Riley locked the front door, running her hand over the new hardware. She picked up her half of the glass knob and polished it in her sweater. It was still beautiful, even attached to its wrecked metal base. She set it back down on her desk and padded to the spare bedroom.

  Winter light filtered through the bare lilac bushes outside the window. Her painting easel stood next to an industrial metal desk with lots of drawers for her supplies. Her camera bag sat on a shelf. The paint-smattered easel was empty at the moment. Finished and unfinished canvases leaned against the walls in a few stacks. Her paints were neatly put away, organized by color; her brushes waited in a mason jar on the desk. She opened a drawer of an old filing cabinet and walked her fingers through several files.

  She paused at one. Hesitating, she flipped it open and picked up the picture on top. A little girl sat in front of a fireplace. Dark pigtails, freckles, pale green eyes, grinning. To her right, a woman with long light-brown hair and the same smile pulled her in tight for a hug. The tree, all shiny with lights and ornaments, filled one side of the picture. She shuffled through and found a few more pictures—various years, but the same woman, the same fireplace. Same light and love shining in her eyes. Riley’s grandmother had been the closest thing to home she’d had. The only real Christmas she’d ever had.

  With a lump in her throat, she pulled out another file. This one contained black-and-white images, clean, sharp. Different places from her childhood. Mountain flowers, city concrete, architecture, people, sky.

  Her dad had taken hundreds of thousands of photos in his life. His job had taken them all over the world before landing him in Hollywood, where he became one of the most coveted still photographers in the industry. Riley had learned the art from him, but even as she was learning how to hold a camera, she was also learning to hold a paintbrush.

  Painting was where she soared, losing herself in the feel of a brush in her hand, the application of line and color, coaxing out shadow, emotion, light on a blank canvas. Photography faded from her life along with her dad’s presence, and she’d earned several art scholarships with her oil painting portfolio and took that path. She’d been teaching in Colorado for two years when her dad
called and offered her a spot on his crew for the newest Paramount picture he was working on. The imagery of the film, her dad said, reminded him of her photographic eye. Their relationship had been tenuous, and he’d called her. Asked for her. How could she turn that down?

  Had she known where that decision would lead, she knew exactly how she would’ve turned it down.

  Dad. As much as I’d love to rebuild our relationship after so much strain, if I do this, I’ll foolishly fall for the supporting actor so hard I can’t see straight, and then he’ll break my heart for all of Los Angeles to see—and perhaps beyond, although I’m a nobody so the articles only refer to me as “Gavin Darrow’s girlfriend of eight months” and “daughter of famed photographer, Craig Madigan”—but really how many connections do we have in the greater Hollywood area, anyway? Fifty billion? Oh, and you’ll be so angry about the whole thing, you’ll jeopardize your career over it. Thanks for asking, though.

  Riley closed the folder and put it away, pressing at the knot that had formed in her chest.

  Returning to her desk in the front room, Riley opened her laptop. Her fingers hovered over the keys, and then she typed fireman Mark Rivers Miracle Creek.

  Several articles came up. One about Mark’s promotion to lieutenant of his company—the youngest in decades—and more recent stories covering the fire. He’d been in what was called the Chelan Complex Fire, where more than fifty structures had been destroyed. The blaze had charred over 56,000 acres and had forced 1,500 residents to flee their homes. And that was before the fire was anywhere close to being contained.

  Mark Rivers, Jay Hendricks, and their crew had been sent up there along with hundreds of other firemen from around the state to help contain the fires raging through the area, including the lake town of Chelan and outlying rural communities.

  Riley read through the articles, none of them giving her enough details. But she learned that Mark and Jay had gone after a group of young boys who had run to save their tree fort a couple of miles beyond their homes. The boys were saved, but Jay had died in the rescue attempt, overcome as they made their escape. Mark had been transported to Seattle with severe burns.

  Another article titled “Chelan Fire Hero Returns Home” showed a picture of Mark in a wheelchair—the right side of him bandaged—Mark’s dad, and two women she didn’t recognize. The caption named the dark-haired girl as his sister, Stephanie Grady. The tall weepy blonde to Mark’s left was his girlfriend, Caylin Clark.

  The article didn’t say much more than what she already knew. Just that Mark would continue his physical therapy in Miracle Creek, and how proud the town was. A memorial fund had been set up in Jay’s name. No quote from Mark. She stared at the image. Mark was nearly unrecognizable, his look somber with half his face covered, his head shaved, but his chin up. The separate image of Jay Hendricks was a stark contrast. Smiling, blond, strong. Twenty-five years old.

  She sighed. Tapping the keys, she changed her search.

  severe burns, skin grafts, treatment

  After reading through several medical website links, she took another deep breath and hit images.

  After an hour of study, she closed her laptop. With shaky hands, she picked up her phone and called Mark.

  “Hello?” He sounded tired. Groggy.

  “Hi. It’s Riley. Did I wake you?”

  “No.” He sucked in his breath like he was stretching.

  She’d woken him. “Have you talked to your dad about when he wants to meet with me?”

  “Um, yeah. I was going to call you after—”

  “Your nap?”

  “—after I gave you some time. I didn’t want to push things.”

  “Arranging time to meet your dad about the paintings isn’t pushing anything. I’ve already agreed to that.”

  He was quiet on the line. “We were going to talk about the nativity after, so I didn’t want to push it. Push you.”

  “Right, well . . .”

  She wasn’t going to tell him she’d researched the fire, read all about the pain and rehab he’d likely been through. She wouldn’t tell him the images of burn victims, before and during and after treatment, had turned her gut and torn at her selfish resolve. She wouldn’t tell him that any timeline she’d given herself with the house seemed inconsequential now.

  “I’ve been thinking. About your mom,” she said. “I’m interested in learning more about her. Maybe trying to restore something of hers that was lost is an opportunity I shouldn’t take for granted. Are you all right with that?”

  He paused. “We don’t mind sharing about my mom.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. Does tomorrow afternoon work?” he asked. “I’ll tell Dad you’re coming before dinner to go over the ledger. Dinner is at my sister’s, so he’ll be leaving after you’re done. We can discuss the nativity then.”

  “Aren’t you eating at your sister’s, too?”

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  She chewed on her lip. “I don’t mean to disrupt your plans.”

  “We eat at my sister’s every Sunday. It’s no problem to miss this one. Come at four. That’ll give you enough time to sort through numbers and get some questions answered.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “And Riley . . . I’ll make us something. Can’t talk business on empty stomachs.”

  She reached out and touched the glass doorknob. “No, of course not. That would risk disaster before we even got started.”

  “No disasters, then.”

  The quiet, deep way he spoke sent unnerving shivers through her body. She withdrew her hand from the glass. “Four o’clock, tomorrow,” she said. She couldn’t promise no disasters. They seemed to follow her pretty closely.

  He gave her directions, and after they said goodbye, she hung up and sat back in her chair, staring at the ceiling. She hadn’t expected him to ask her to stay for dinner. While she certainly wasn’t trying to “draw him out” like Nate had been so concerned about, she remembered what he’d said. For whatever reason, Mark trusted her. Enough that he seemed to have forgotten his scars for a few minutes today. He seemed to have forgotten that he was trying to hide. And in those few minutes, Riley had seen who he was behind the scars.

  And she was having a hard time unseeing it.

  Sunday afternoon, Riley drove a winding road with tall pine trees climbing the hill on her left and rows of winter orchard sloping down on her right.

  She hadn’t slept well, sifting through memories and dreams, second-guessing herself. She’d spent the morning huddled in her quilt, researching Leah Dolan and similar artists on the internet, perusing online galleries and making notes about valuations, getting in touch with her friend who worked at the art gallery in Denver, ignoring the clock and her growling stomach until she was forced to admit that if she didn’t get up and shower soon, she’d have to show up at Mark’s house in her Spidey pajama pants and fuzzy slippers. So, she showered and dressed in jeans, a thermal T-shirt, and her Chucks. Her concession to laziness had been to skip shampooing her hair, wrangling it into braids instead. She’d yanked on a parka as she’d left the house. The weather had taken a frosty turn.

  As she pulled up to the Riverses’ home, she was struck by the timelessness of it. White farmhouse, wide front porch, and dormer windows she guessed were functional and not the fakes people added for looks only. An old flagstone chimney climbed up the right side of the house, and trees at least thirty years old flanked both sides. They would offer nice shade in the warmer months. Flagstone steps climbed up from the gravel U-drive where she’d parked and led through an over-wintered garden.

  When she stepped onto the porch, she paused. A tumbling river had been painted from the far end of the porch ceiling all the way across the covered front exterior and the front door itself to the bottom left where the siding met the porch floor. Watery grays,
blues, and greens flowed over and around painted submerged rocks like a riverbed. Above the door, a painted sign read, “A Rivers Welcome.”

  She rang the doorbell and waited, marveling that a little-­known artist she’d read about in a magazine had painted such a magnificent mural.

  The door opened, and a tall man with broad shoulders, silver-­gray hair, and clear blue eyes greeted her.

  “Hello, Ms. Madigan. Cal Rivers. Thanks for coming.” Mr. Rivers opened the door wide and beckoned her inside.

  She obeyed. “Riley, please. I love this door. The whole porch is extraordinary.”

  “Thank you. Leah believed a doorway should make a visitor feel like an adventurer, and a family feel like they never truly left. Look here.” He pointed to the lower right corner of the door where the painting gave the illusion of shallow water running over smooth rocks. On four of the rocks, she’d painted names as if they’d been carved into the stones. Calvin. Leah. Stephanie. Mark.

  “The Rivers,” Cal said with a grin. “Been there a long time. I do my best to keep it from fading.”

  “What a beautiful use of a name.”

  “I was four or five when Mom painted that,” Mark said as he came down the stairs behind them wearing a knit skullcap and pulling up the hood of his sweatshirt.

  Cal shut the door against the cold. “You couldn’t say your Rs. Cutest thing—‘Mahk Wivews.’”

  “Aww,” Riley said.

  “He’d point and say, ‘This is Mahk’s wock.’” Cal grinned and gave her a quick wink, and it became clear to Riley where Mark got his smile when he wasn’t protecting it.

  “Thanks for sharing that, Dad.”

  Cal chuckled again and took Riley’s coat. After hanging it on a hook, he waved her toward the dining room. “Speaking of pictures, Riley, we’ll be working in here. Do you need anything? We’ve got water, juice, soda, coffee.” He peered behind her at Mark, who leaned against the wall. “Don’t you have something to do?”