“So,” he said after a few minutes of silence, “where are you from, Riley Madigan?”
She paused and swallowed her bite. “I’m from a lot of places. I tell people I’m from Montana.”
“Are you from Montana?”
“Once I was from Montana.”
He stopped his chewing and gave her an odd look. He swallowed. “And the other times?”
She sat back and sighed. “Wisconsin, Illinois, New York—twice—Florida, Germany, DC, Maine, Louisiana, Sydney, Ontario, the Philippines, Colorado. And then California.”
He stared at her, all self-consciousness gone. So that was the trick. Stun him with her nomadic history.
“Your family moved around that much?”
She shrugged, uncomfortable. “My dad’s a photographer. A driven, ambitious man. It was important to my mom to be with him. We went where the job was. Sometimes. Sometimes he went without us.”
“I can’t imagine what that would be like.”
She looked around the kitchen where he’d probably eaten dinner since first grade. “No, I suppose not.”
He turned his attention back to his food. Almost. “Was it hard?”
“I spent as much time as I could with my grandma in Montana. Holidays, mostly. It’s all I knew, so . . .” She stabbed some salad. “You sure are talking a lot for someone who was afraid to come to my door to ask me a question.”
“I did come to your door.” He jabbed a piece of steak with his fork.
“Yeah, and then you broke it.”
His fork paused, and he narrowed his eyes at her, then took his bite.
She fought to hide the smile that surfaced from that one small action. She worked on her potato.
Mark sat back. “How did you learn to renovate houses?”
He was definitely getting more comfortable asking questions. She swallowed her bite of potato, wanting to shove more in her mouth. “My mom. If she knew we were going to be in an area for a while, she’d get her hands on a diamond in the rough in a good neighborhood and challenge herself to flip it before we moved again. My dad would help sometimes.” She stabbed another forkful of salad, remembering it was usually better when her dad didn’t help. “I learned a lot from her.” She glanced at him, painting on a smile.
“I’m sure you were a big help.”
She pulled in a deep breath. “Oh, I don’t know. There were times when I definitely did not help.”
“Like when?”
She lifted her glass. “C’mon. I can’t tell you all my secrets.”
“I’ll remember you said that,” he said, leaning forward to put another bite of steak in his mouth.
She finished her drink. “Fine. We both have secrets. There’s nothing wrong with mutual understanding between friends.”
“Is that what this is? We’re friends?” He kept his expression neutral.
She shrugged. “Why not? I’m new in town with a shadowy past. You’re the uncertain town hero coming out of hiding. Sounds like we could both use a friend. Now that you’re being talky and all.”
He shook his head. “You are insane.”
“I told you so.”
After a few more bites, she said, “You aren’t wearing your hood.”
He didn’t look up. “Nope.”
When they finished dinner, she moved to start clearing the table.
“Stay,” he told her, standing. “We’re not finished.”
“But I’m so full.”
He ignored her, but she stayed and waited until he returned with a plate.
“Are those—?”
“Tender, flaky pastries? Yes. The best Bavarian cream you’ve had outside Bavaria. Wait, you’ve lived in Bavaria.”
She grinned up at him. “Munich. You are evil.”
“I’m not gonna lie. I’m trying to soften you up.”
“Literally?”
He chuckled. “For the project.”
“Very cunning.”
“You gave me the weapon.” He offered her the plate.
“And you chose to use it,” she said, taking one of Lette Mae’s bollen.
“Better than a baseball bat.”
She licked the cream off her finger, smooth and cold and infused with vanilla and sugar. “Mhph” was all she could say.
After they cleared the dishes, Mark led her upstairs. At the top, he walked past several rooms and, at the end of the hall lined with family pictures, he pulled down a set of folding stairs from the ceiling. He stepped back and motioned her up.
As Riley climbed the stairs to the attic, anticipation tickled the back of her neck. It was an art room, for heaven’s sake. She had an art room. It didn’t give her tingles any time she walked into it.
Maybe it should.
She emerged from the stairs into darkness and stepped aside for Mark. He flipped a switch, and the room lit up.
The track lighting was no surprise, but the floor-to-ceiling window draped with white Christmas lights made her gasp. “I bet this gets great light during the day.” Riley approached the easel in the center of the room. She glanced at Mark, who nodded.
A few tubes of oil paint, old and bent from being squeezed, lay in the easel tray. Umber. Chrome Green. Cerulean.
Riley smiled. “Sennelier.”
“She used other brands, but mostly this.” Mark watched her, his arms folded, his expression unreadable.
“Monet painted with Sennelier. And Gaugin, Matisse.”
“Picasso,” he added.
Riley nodded. She shoved her hands in her pockets, afraid if she didn’t, she’d pick up the tubes just to feel them.
Mark inhaled deeply. “It used to smell like her in here. The paint, of course. Turpentine. But she had this perfume. Sunflowers. Dad always got it for her for Christmas.”
“I remember that one.”
His head ducked. “Go ahead. Look around.”
She lightly ran her hand over the worktable to her left. Small boxes of feathers and hooks littered the top.
The attic walls rose about four feet before they pitched up to the roofline. A long shelf of cubbies pressed against the wall, each one stuffed with books, magazines, jars of brushes and sponges, old linseed oil, spatulas, and rolls of newspapers. Several palettes were stacked vertically into taller slots. She pulled one out a few inches. Blobs and smears, mixes of colors still covered the surface, cracked and dried after so many years.
She looked at Mark.
“I don’t think Dad knew what to do with that one. Mom had cleaned the others like she always did after a project. That one was what she was working from until the end.”
“What was she painting?”
He nodded toward the opposite wall where two dormer windows let in more light. Fixed to the wall between the dormers was a painting of the house and the orchard behind it, tall mountains, a shimmering cerulean sky.
Riley stepped closer to have a better look. Leah had included a couple of copper metal sculptures in the summer gardens—tooled with a blade—and the mural on the front porch.
“That’s me on the tire swing,” Mark said behind her. “Steph’s in the window, reading. Mom knew this would be her last one. She didn’t finish.”
The children were shadows. A portion of the tree remained in charcoals, the rough sky painted in around it.
“So much movement,” she said. Even unfinished, the painting was filled with vibrant life.
“Sometimes I wonder what she’d think of Dad keeping the room like this. Is she shaking her head thinking this would make a great playroom for the grandkids?”
She smiled. “Who’s to say what we hang on to and what we let go?” She looked around, eager to redirect. “It’s not really hurting anyone, is it? Keeping this?”
He shrugged. “Eleven years and I’m the one askin
g you to recreate something of hers that we lost.”
“True,” she said.
She felt him study her, like a puzzle piece.
She wondered if Cal Rivers took his own advice about moving forward. Would he always be alone? She bit back the question. It wasn’t her place to question anyone about moving on after losing someone.
She turned to the large window. “Southwest facing?”
“Yep.”
“Does it catch sunsets?”
“Sometimes. Sunsets are tricky with the mountains so close.”
She nodded. “I miss the coastal sunsets in the Philippines, and Montana’s big sky. Miles of sunsets.”
“You’ll see plenty of sky come summer.”
“Surrounded by all these mountains?” she teased.
“We’ll get you up the mountains. See how you like that.”
“At sunset?”
“If that’s what you’re after.”
The confidence of his challenge stirred up her competitive side, and she imagine a hike up these beautiful mountains with Mark. For a sunset.
They locked eyes for a moment before he turned away. “I’ve got those pictures of the nativity downstairs.”
She nodded, glancing around once more. “Thanks for showing me this. She must have loved to work up here.”
“She did.” He paused as if to say something more, but then motioned her down ahead of him.
Stepping away from the stairs, she took the opportunity to glance over the family pictures in the hall, and one in particular drew her eye. The family of four lounged on a riverbank, parents seated under a tree, a young woman posed behind them. Next to her, one arm reaching up to a low tree limb, stood Mark, looking casual and confident, probably thirteen or fourteen years old. He was on the verge of laughter, whole and carefree. His mother had the same look of laughter, of joy in her family.
The bang of the stair door folding back into the ceiling startled her, and she spun away from the portrait.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked, brushing his hands on his pants. “A drink? More pastries? Are you warm enough?”
She brushed a stray lock of hair back from her face, her heartbeat returning to its normal pace. “I’m fine, thanks.”
He nodded, seeming distracted.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Yeah. Why?”
They descended the stairs to the main level. “You asked me if I wanted another pastry, and we both know I’m about to bust.”
He shook his head. “Just nervous, I guess.”
She nodded carefully. “About what?”
“About convincing you to do this project.”
“Ah.”
“Should I be nervous?” he asked, glancing at her sideways.
She drew in a deep breath. “I’m here to consider something I already told you I was interested in.”
“But there’s still a chance you might say no.”
She smiled. “Just show me the pictures you have, and I’ll decide for sure.”
He led her down another hall. “I shouldn’t have pushed the bollen.”
“Let’s not go that far.”
The corner of his mouth lifted.
Mark led Riley to a small room behind the garage. A washing machine and dryer were tucked into one corner, and a cot and desk sat in another. He grabbed a pile of folded clothes off the cot and shoved them into a basket.
“I used to sleep out here when we had a lot of company for Thanksgiving or whatever.” He went to the desk and opened the top drawer. “These were all I could find. They were shots I took as a kid with my cheap-o camera, so they’re not the best quality.” He held out a small stack of photos.
“Your mom didn’t take pictures of them when they were completed?”
“She did, but they were in the outbuilding . . .”
She took the photos from him.
“We kept most of the photo albums here in the house. A lot of family pictures. But we lost several boxes of pictures that were stored. Pictures of her childhood, and Dad’s. Their wedding. Mom had some framed here in the house, but when they turned the attic into her studio, the outbuilding became a storage unit. Can’t blame them. It was as insulated and weathertight as this house and had plenty of room in the loft for all kinds of stuff. Including the Christmas decorations.”
Riley tried to wrap her head around that kind of loss. Her family had so few possessions she hadn’t known they’d even had a storage unit until she was older. Her parents’ brief separation when she was a kid had shed light on a lot of things. One of those was a storage unit in Bozeman, and another in Madison, Wisconsin.
Riley leafed through the pictures, studying each one. They’d definitely been taken from a lower angle. She turned one in her hand, trying to see what the photographer had seen.
“I told you they were lousy.”
“They aren’t that bad. I can see most of Joseph in this one. This one of Mary is good.”
He peered over her shoulder.
“There isn’t a clear one of the baby,” she said, sorting through the pictures again.
“I was trying to get a close-up, I think. With a flash.”
“That explains the big shine over his face.”
A shiver of recognition ran down her back as she studied the figures, understanding why Mark had seen his mother’s style in her own. “The boards were painted black first.”
“She did that often. Used gesso. She said the colors didn’t have to fight so hard to glow.”
She turned her head, startled by his nearness. A few more inches and she could’ve reached up and touched her nose to his jaw. He must have felt it too, because he stepped away, leaving a blend of aftershave and grilled steak and pastry in his wake.
She drew in a breath and cleared her head. “You know a lot about her painting.” He’d recognized terminology and showed familiarity with the art; she couldn’t help being impressed.
He studied the floor. “I asked a lot of questions.”
She could imagine the exchanges—probably similar to the ones she’d had with her dad about photography. The trick of priming, or gessoing, a surface matte gray or black instead of leaving it white was used when—like Mark said—an artist wanted the colors to pop. Blues shimmered, reds flamed, greens came alive. Whites shone. Leah had used the black base to create a dense outline and add depth to the figures. And—as Mark said—they glowed. Riley had used the same technique in the Peter Pan backgrounds and props.
“You see it, don’t you?” Mark asked.
Yes. She saw it. “They’re stunning.”
“Every year I told myself I needed to take better pictures after they were set up. And every year when I finished, my mind was on getting back to the house to warm up or getting to town or . . .” He looked away, his hands resting at his hips.
“You never know when something special is going to be gone,” she heard herself say.
His expression clouded. “I’ve learned that lesson too many times.” He took the photos from her hand and shuffled through them. “I drew up some sketches and dimensions, too.” He set the photos on the desk and lifted his gaze to hers. “Will you help me do this?”
She wanted to have some valid excuse to back out. To say, no, she couldn’t take on something of this magnitude.
But that wouldn’t be the truth.
He noticed her hesitation. “What makes it a hard decision?”
The obvious answer was time, but he’d offered to help her with the house. She’d painted three backdrops for the play in a few weeks, and she’d been just as busy. She couldn’t deny the spark she’d felt looking at the images and feeling challenged to create again. But the knot in her chest was made of fear, deep and familiar.
She shook her head. “I want to have the house done by th
e end of the school year, and Yvette’s already talking about next semester’s play, and art club twice a week and—I just don’t know if I could take on a project this size and have it finished for you when you want it,” she lied. “I don’t want to promise you something I can’t deliver.”
“I told you I can help with the house,” he said.
She folded her arms. “I’d like to have it ready as a vacation rental by summer.”
His gaze narrowed a fraction. “While you’re somewhere else.”
Watching the cement floor, Riley shrugged. “Like I said. I’m still deciding if I belong in Miracle Creek.”
A few uncomfortable seconds ticked by.
“You belong,” Mark said quietly.
Riley lifted her gaze to find him focused on the wall. His words echoed through her.
“It’s the Christmas thing,” he said. “Right?”
He’d paid too close attention last night. “It’s complicated.”
His brow pulled forward. “I know the best guys who can do the electrical and plumbing. And the windows. I’ll do everything I can to help you with the rest of the house.”
“Just like that?” she asked.
“Just like that.” He kept his left side to her.
She shook her head, but could feel herself caving. What was she getting herself into?
He stepped to the doorway. “Take all the time you need to consider. I’ll get you another donut—”
“Mark.”
He paused.
She took a deep breath. “I’ll do it.”
He turned back to her. “What?”
“You heard me—whoa—” In two steps, he’d reentered the room, held her arms, then kissed her cheek.
“Thank you,” he said, holding her gaze, his face close to hers.
She caught her breath. His eyes weren’t as dark as she’d first thought. Not that she’d been thinking about his eyes. Even if they were a true walnut-brown ringed in black.
“I’ll help you,” he said. “I promise.”
Her gaze followed the scars trailing from his eye down to the corner of his mouth.
He abruptly stepped away. “I-I’m sorry,” he stammered, his voice low and quiet. He didn’t look at her. “I don’t know where that came from. It won’t happen again.”
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