Miracle Creek Christmas

by Krista Jensen

  “For you,” she added.

  He looked at her, giving her his left side. Again, her gaze darted everywhere but to him. Even so, he was warmed by her words. He hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted them. Gradually, she met his look, and something passed between them. An undeniable rush of heat pulled at his gut, and he found it hard to breathe. She took a step toward him.

  He backed up and started to turn away, grabbing a breath of air without showing it. He felt her hand on his arm. The pressure of it, anyway. He couldn’t feel the actual touch of his sleeve, and he wouldn’t feel her skin on his. How soft it would be on his. Not on that arm.

  “Mark?”

  He looked down at her hand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t imagine.” His Christmases, for the most part, had been everything he wished for. “I’m glad you told me.”

  “Thanks. I’m sorry about your . . . about what you’ve been through.”

  He nodded, fighting the idea that had been sitting in the dark corner of his head since he’d met her—that maybe this was charity work for her. Pity. Would she have stuck around after last night if he didn’t have a road map on the side of his face?

  Gainer’s veiled message came to mind. Maybe he was a little “off his game,” but Riley wasn’t like that. Still, the possibility crawled under his skin.

  “We all have stuff,” he threw out there. “Hard stuff.” He turned around, grabbing the boards. “Thanks for doing this. It will mean a lot to my family. To the town, I hope.” He gave her a smile, though it felt detached.

  She smiled back. But whatever had passed between them, or what he thought had passed, was gone.

  “Well,” she said, “what are friends for, right?”

  He felt a knot constrict in his chest. “Right.” Friends. Because he was who he was. And that’s all he’d ever be.

  Riley finished outlining the last figure—the baby in the manger—to be cut. She glanced toward Mark, working steadily at the saws. He was now making the finishing cuts with a jigsaw, the noise filling the room. She’d felt the heat between them dissipate as soon as they’d ended their earlier conversation. But they were making good time on the project, so maybe this was better.

  But there had been heat. It had drawn her to him despite her desire to stay away. Despite the pit growing in her stomach that told her she’d overshared.

  And then he’d extinguished it. Just like a fireman, she thought. Putting out fires that weren’t supposed to be there. Fires that were growing dangerous.

  She picked up the board and made her way to Mark and the jigsaw. He looked up when she drew near enough, his safety glasses bringing a small smile to her face. He smiled back, reserved, and she noticed that what she’d taken for a sly, sort-of-crooked smile was probably caused by damage to the muscles on the right side of his face. It was scarcely noticeable—the scars barely reached his mouth—but that didn’t mean damage hadn’t been done to the muscles that had once pulled his face into a full grin.

  “Last one,” she said, setting the board down.

  He nodded and went back to work, finishing the shepherd’s crook. On the table sat a stack of neatly trimmed life-size figures they would paint entirely black. It would be up to her to bring them to life with shape, color, and shadow.

  The saw paused, and she glanced up.

  “Here,” he said, shoving a small hand-sander in her direction. “If you can finish the edges, we can get these ready to paint by six.”

  He went back to the saw, and she plugged in the sander, but she didn’t turn it on.

  Why had she just blurted out such private things? She rarely told anyone about her past. He’d been moved once the words had left her lips, but then he’d withdrawn like she was the damaged one. Ha. She was damaged.

  She glanced at Mark.

  No.

  He’d said she was still healing, like he was. He’d given her that option.

  He glanced at her, and then turned off the jigsaw. “Is everything okay?”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” she said.

  “What?”

  “What you said—‘still healing.’ I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  He removed his safety glasses and watched her, waiting for her to continue.

  “I’d mostly thought of it as still wounded,” she said. “Still hurting.”

  He looked down, absently wiping away sawdust from the figure he was working on. His brow furrowed. “That’s understandable.”

  “If I’m still hurting, after all these years, it makes me feel like . . . like . . .” She frowned, unable to explain it.

  “Like you’re doing something wrong,” he answered. “Like you’re not trying hard enough to fix something you had no control over. Or you’re just . . . damaged beyond repair.”

  She lifted her chin. “Yes. Exactly. But saying you’re still healing, that changes it.”

  He shrugged. “It’s proactive. Moving forward. Working on it.”

  “That’s very wise.”

  “Well, my therapist is very wise, so . . .”

  She smiled at that.

  He watched her another moment, wary, but patient. And there it was again. That sensation of being drawn in.

  “I’m not sure how to work on it,” she said.

  He reached for something on the workbench and moved toward her. She steadied her feet, bracing herself, though his motions were smooth and unhurried. He stopped in front of her and lifted his hands.

  “Here.” He gently slid a pair of safety glasses over her ears and onto her nose. “Those eyes need protecting.”

  His fingertips brushed the soft skin just in front of her ears.

  She shivered, and he dropped his hands. “Thanks,” she managed to say, watching him, her mind dizzy with what she should be saying or doing or—

  “You start by helping someone else, even if you don’t want to.”

  “Is it okay if I want to?” she asked.

  He nodded, looking away. “Of course. Even if it’s a charity case.”

  “This isn’t a charity case,” she said, studying the beautiful left side of his face.

  His gaze returned to hers. “No?”

  “Of course not. Who do you think I am?” She folded her arms in front of her and leaned forward. “I’m trading you for backbreaking labor, remember?”

  He broke into a smile at the same time she did.

  “That’s right.” He put his safety glasses on. “And I’m not pulling up your carpet so you can stand around, lollygagging. Back to work, Ms. Madigan.”

  “Lollygagging?”

  He stepped back to the saw and switched it on. Once again, the room filled with noise. He brought two fingers up to his eyes, then pointed them at her.

  She grinned and switched on the sander. Movement drew her eye to the window of the classroom door, but she looked at the pile of wood and decided no one would be able to tell what they were up to. Then she got back to work, still grinning.

  Mark smoothed his hands over the boards. After he’d finished cutting out the last piece, he and Riley had both sanded and finished up just before six. They gathered everything they were taking with them, and Tom locked the door behind them on their way out.

  “Looks like you two made good use of the shop,” he said.

  Mark nodded. “Can’t thank you enough.”

  “Hey,” Riley said as they walked down the hall, “we should use the art room to paint these. They’re going to take up a ton of space as they dry, and my house doesn’t have much of that, even in the garage. I’ve got all the drop cloths and brushes in my classroom, and they’d be dry by the next morning. I could have them gathered up and out of there before school starts so nobody asks about them.”

  “I’ve got the paint in the back of my truck,” he said. “Just tell me when.”

&
nbsp; “If we start tomorrow after school, we’d have time for two coats. You could pick them up Wednesday morning and then drop them at my house for the real painting.”

  Mark nodded. That would definitely move things along. They paused as Tom unlocked the exterior door to let them out.

  “You two have a good night,” he said with a nod as he walked to his car. “And good luck.”

  Riley waved, then faced Mark. “So, you’ll just bring the cutouts tomorrow—Oh, wait,” she said, her hand going to her forehead. “I’ve got art club from three to five.” She stepped off the sidewalk, and he followed her.

  “It’s up to you, but if we started right at five, we’d probably still have time for two coats. We’d just be here later.” He waited on her reaction. He’d already spent one evening with her. He didn’t want to push another too soon. It wasn’t like they were dating or anything. It was the project. But still. “I could bring dinner,” he suggested, wondering what was going on with his brain. “Nothing fancy or anything. Drive-thru. Just burgers or something. Not even burgers. Just something quick.” Stop talking, Mark.

  “Wow. Not-even-burgers. That sounds amazing.” Her eyes lit with humor. “Maybe we could get some not-even-fries with that.”

  “They come with the whole not-even-a-meal.”

  She laughed, and it did something to his insides.

  “Okay,” she said, stopping next to her car. “Be here tomorrow after five with the cutouts, the paint, and two not-even-meals.” She looked around. “Where’s your truck?”

  He thumbed to the far side of the lot. “Over there. The lot was full when I got here.”

  “Then why did you let me keep talking while we walked this way?”

  He looked at the ground, then peered up at her. “You heard my dad. Always walk a lady to her car.”

  She nodded. “Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He backed away, watching her duck into the driver’s side of her car. As he walked across the lot, his thoughts starting spinning about tomorrow night. As soon as he’d pushed away any rising hopes about the work session—it was a work session, not a date—they’d come right back. Like those static Styrofoam peanuts. As soon as he’d get rid of one, five more turned up.

  He put the cutout figures in the back of his truck and glanced toward Riley’s empty parking spot.

  She’d laughed with him. She had a great laugh. The kind of laugh you wanted to keep bringing around.

  He rolled his eyes. She’s just a friend, Mark.

  Still, there had been moments . . .

  Gah. Styrofoam peanuts.

  The next day, Mark was sweeping up the loft space in the new storage building when he heard a voice bellow from below.

  Gus strolled in. “And here we have a three-bedroom, single bath, split-level with a great view of Mark’s dad’s house and an irrigation ditch out back for the kids. No kitchen, but it has this great pulley system for when your in-laws come to visit, if you know what I’m saying, right, Nancy? And take a look at those beams, Carl. A man’s castle is nothing without exposed beams. Kind of hits you right in the tenders, am I right?”

  Mark chuckled and brought the broom to the top of the stairs. “You trying to sell this place out from underneath us?” he asked.

  “Somebody’s gotta make a living around here.” Gus, alone on the main floor, beamed up at him. “Your dad told me where I could find you.”

  Mark came down the stairs. “I wish he’d said you could find me in Mexico.”

  “You want to be in Mexico?”

  “No, I want you to be in Mexico.” Mark smiled at his friend. Nate could be intense, but Gus had always been easy. Easy to talk to. Easy to mess with. And he gave as good as he got.

  “I’ll take that as the good wish it was meant to be.”

  “Suit yourself,” Mark said. “Can I get you anything? Tequila? Sombrero?”

  “Ha. No, thanks. I haven’t talked to you in a while, and I found myself with some free time. Thought I’d come up and see how you’re doing. So . . . how’re you doing?”

  “Good.”

  “That’s the short answer,” Gus said.

  “Long one’s the same.”

  Gus studied him. Mark started sweeping the floor.

  “You’re not wearing your hood.”

  Did the whole world notice whether or not he wore his hood? “Sweatshirt got bulky under my winter coat.”

  “Whatever. It’s a good move.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because, dude, one—you’re not a rap star. Two—the scars are fading. And three—you’re not freaking seventeen years old. I get it. I do. But this is a good move for you. So, good on you.”

  Mark shook his head, debating on whether he wanted to put Gus in a choke hold or hoist him up with the pulleys.

  Gus must have felt the vibe because he put his hands up in defense. “The hat looks great, though. Wear the hat. Own it. You know, until summer comes around ’cause then you’ll just look like one of them hipsters over in Leavenworth, and I’d have to kick the whoop out of ya.”

  Mark grinned at the image of Gus trying to do that.

  “Ah,” said Gus. “There’s that devilish scamp we used to follow around, hoping to catch his leftovers.”

  “Knock it off. That never happened.”

  “It did until Caylin came along.”

  Mark glared at him, then rolled his eyes. Not worth it.

  “Whatever, dude,” Gus said. “How about we go play some pool at Jake’s and then get dinner at Visconti’s. I’m jonesin’ for some pesce risotto.”

  Mark went back to sweeping. “I can’t.”

  “Why not? The kids are with Margot and Art. Heidi has her feet up, reading a book. I’ve got the minivan. We’re free and easy.”

  Mark kept sweeping.

  “Aren’t we?”

  Mark stopped and looked at his friend. “I have something.”

  “Something? No offense but since when do you ‘have something’?”

  “You’re a real jerk, you know that?”

  Gus shrugged. “And?”

  “And I’m sorry I can’t hang tonight. I’ve got a . . . thing.” He stepped past Gus to put the broom away.

  “Does this thing have a name?”

  Mark couldn’t hide the slight pause in his step. The question had thrown him. He cringed.

  Gus jumped on it. “It does, doesn’t it? Would it happen to have a woman’s name?”

  Mark took a deep breath and blew it out. Gus was his friend; he didn’t deserve a punch in the face. “Look, it’s not what you’re thinking.”

  To Mark’s frustration, Gus’s grin grew wider. “It’s that teacher from the bakery, isn’t it? The one we talked to at the bonfire.”

  Mark frowned. “You talked to her at the bonfire?”

  Gus’s eyes grew wide, and he exploded into a celebratory dance. “I knew it!”

  Mark ran a hand over his face. “Look, she’s just helping me with something. A project. I’m trading her for some work on her house.” He shook his head even as Gus kept nodding his. “Please don’t make more of this than it is. It’s nothing.”

  Gus stopped his awkward dance and scratched his head. “I thought she was with Gainer. On the other hand, all she did was talk about you.”

  Mark’s head came up. “What?”

  Gus shrugged. “She wouldn’t stop. Just went on and on about—well, you probably wouldn’t be interested.”

  “Gus, so help me—”

  “Nah.” Gus made a face. “It’s none of my business anyway.”

  Mark stepped within reach and swung at him. Gus ducked and popped up to his left.

  “You call that a swing? My grammy swings better than—” He ducked just as Mark swung again, but Mark recovered quickly and put him in a headl
ock.

  “What did she say?” he asked.

  “I take it back. You are seventeen.”

  Gus was shorter than Mark but stockier, and Mark wouldn’t be able to hold him very long. “Tell me what she said, or I’ll tell Heidi about the time you left Gabi in her baby carrier in the shopping cart at the IGA.”

  “You would not.”

  “Or the time you ran over the diaper bag, and Heidi’s camera was in there so you bought the exact same camera and said nothing when she couldn’t figure out how she’d lost all the pictures on it.”

  “Hey, that’s—”

  “Or the time you left the dirty diaper behind the—”

  “That’s enough!” Gus shouted and twisted out of Mark’s grip. He straightened his shirt and ran his hand over his head. “See if I ever tell you anything about the joys of fatherhood ever again.” He stretched his neck. “That’s quite a grip you’ve got there. You been working out?”

  “It’s all this manual labor my dad’s been having me do.”

  Gus reached and squeezed Mark’s bicep. “Hey, that’s coming along.”

  Mark flexed. “Yeah, I—gahh!” In a blink, Gus had Mark in a half nelson.

  “This is for threatening my happy time with Heidi. You never threaten a man’s happy time with his wife.”

  “Okay,” Mark shouted. “Okay, I give.”

  Gus shoved him away. They both bent over, out of breath, and laughing.

  “I can’t believe you still fell for that,” Gus said.

  “Happy time?” Mark asked, not wanting to know more. He stood and walked over to the couch they’d set up by the utility sink and mini-fridge. He collapsed against the cushions, gesturing to the small counter. “You were wrong. We have a kitchen.”

  “Nice.” Gus eased himself onto the couch. “I’ll have that tequila now.”

  Mark laughed. Then he quieted and shook his head.

  “So,” Gus said, serious. “What’s going on?”

  Mark considered the question. “I don’t know. I don’t. She’s just helping me with a project—something for Dad, for Christmas. A surprise, so don’t say anything. But I just . . .” He turned to Gus. “Was she really talking about me?”