Miracle Creek Christmas

by Krista Jensen

  Riley glanced at Mark, then back to Carmen. “Of course. I’d love to.”

  “You know, Carmen,” Mark said, “Riley’s painting reminds me of my mom’s work.”

  Riley nodded. “She’s another influence, if you can believe that.”

  “Is that how you got to know each other?” Carmen asked, looking between the two of them.

  Riley remembered that first night, when he’d wanted to ask her to paint the nativity and she’d thought he was a stalker. “You could say that.”

  Carmen beamed.

  Amy returned and checked Carmen’s blood pressure against Mark’s hands. If he was tired, he didn’t show it. He got the okay and slowly released his hands, giving them a little shake. He removed his gloves and tossed them in a wastebasket.

  Amy cleaned up Carmen’s arm and applied a bandage, while Mark washed his hands. He helped Carmen walk to the scales to record her weight, and Riley gathered up Carmen’s things.

  When they were ready to leave, Carmen, weighing about as much as a bird, took both Mark’s and Riley’s arms and let them lead her out to the car.

  As they drove, Carmen asked Riley questions about being a teacher, interspersed with quick bits of trivia about Wenatchee. Mark parked in front of a modest little house with a picket fence. As Mark helped Carmen out of the front seat, Riley slipped from the back seat.

  Carmen turned to her once more. “Thank you, Riley. I loved talking with you today. If I don’t remember you next time, just remind me. I won’t mind at all.”

  Riley gently put her arms around the woman. “Thank you, Carmen. I think you’re remarkable.”

  The woman brushed the comment away with her hand and a smile, but Riley saw gratitude in her eyes. Acknowledgment, maybe. She took Mark’s arm and let him help her into her house.

  Later, Mark and Riley drove away in silence. Mark stretched and squeezed his right hand. She wasn’t surprised it ached, pressing like he had on Carmen’s arm for so long.

  “Are you okay?” he asked quietly after they left Carmen’s neighborhood.

  “Me? I’m fine.” She paused. “What will happen to her?”

  “She’s waiting for a new kidney. She’s been waiting for a long time.” He glanced at her. “Her chances are good, though.”

  “Good.”

  A few more minutes ticked by.

  “Does it always feel like this?” she asked. “After leaving her? It’s like you don’t want any noise.”

  “That’s a good way of putting it.”

  “I can’t imagine never painting again.”

  He nodded.

  “I can see why your therapist wanted you to do this.”

  “Like you said, Carmen is pretty remarkable.”

  She studied him, her gaze following the pattern of his scars as they disappeared down his neck. “So are you, Mark.”

  He didn’t answer.

  The next traffic light turned red, and he stopped, glancing at her. “Can I take you to lunch? To thank you for your help?”

  “You don’t have to do that. I liked Carmen, and—”

  “Can I take you to lunch, Riley?” This time when she looked up, he was watching her, his gaze unsure but deep.

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  The car behind them honked, and he continued through the green light.

  Mark pulled up to the restaurant, wishing his nerves would settle, and parked. “Do you like Thai food?”

  “It’s one of my favorites. I haven’t had it in a long time.”

  He’d planned to take her to this restaurant if she said yes to lunch. He wasn’t known as the “town hero” in Wenatchee, which meant he was treated like anybody else. No free appetizers or complimentary desserts.

  The place wasn’t crowded, and the host seated them quickly.

  “What’s good?” Riley asked, looking over the menu.

  “I’ve had both the Tom Kah and the cashew nut chicken. The spring rolls are really good.”

  “If I ordered them, would you share with me? I want to order the Thai basil chicken, too, and if I eat them both myself, you’ll have to roll me out of here.”

  “We wouldn’t want that to happen.”

  Mark’s hunger peaked just as the food came. Helping Carmen always wiped him out both physically and emotionally. His right hand still shook from the exertion of applying pressure to her IV site. He’d come a long way since he first started at the clinic, but with all the work he’d been doing on the house, he knew he was pushing it. The last thing he needed to do was spill his water or drop the soy sauce.

  “You don’t use chopsticks?” Riley asked. She snapped hers expertly in the air.

  “Show-off,” he said, gripping his spoon. The truth was, he’d been great at chopsticks . . . with his right hand. He hadn’t even tried with his left.

  “Come on,” she said, handing him the pair that sat in a paper envelope at the top of his plate. “You’re never too old to learn.”

  “I believe the saying is ‘You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.’” He scooped another spoonful of curry and rice into his mouth to make his point. “Mmm.” He chewed and swallowed. “Mark likes food to make it all the way to his mouth.”

  “But Mark also said he wanted to try new things.” She waved the chopsticks at him again. “Mark could do it if he tried.”

  He grabbed the packet out of her hands. “If Mark wanted to try, he would, and he’d be great at it.”

  She raised her eyebrows at him. “Prove it.”

  He growled but set down his spoon and grabbed the pair of chopsticks. She watched like a kid at a magic show.

  Great.

  He gripped the chopsticks in his right hand the way he used to hold them. The tremor grew worse, but he just needed to study it for a few seconds. Then he flipped the sticks mirror-like to his left hand.

  “Oh, Mark, I’m—”

  “Shh,” he said. He didn’t need to hear the pity in her voice. “You can feel sorry after I’ve made a fool of myself.”

  He tightened his left-hand grip, the lower stick becoming immobile. He should have been able to move the top stick up and down with his forefinger and thumb. He focused on a slice of carrot in his bowl. It took a few tries, and he might’ve given up had Riley not been so irritatingly eager. But he finally gripped the carrot, lifted it to his mouth, and took the bite. He chewed and set the chopsticks down on the small plate where half of his spring roll remained.

  “Satisfied?” he asked.

  “Well, I feel horrible, but yes. Are you? You did it.”

  He nodded, picking up his spoon. “I’m king of the world.”

  “I was only trying to help.”

  “I know.”

  Several uncomfortable minutes passed, and for the most part, Mark gazed out the window, eating his food and drinking his ­water and wondering how a great start had led them to this awkward . . . nothing.

  “Mark?”

  He shifted his gaze to Riley.

  “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I wish you understood that.”

  He gave her a nod and picked up his glass. “I understand it better than you think.”

  “Okay. Good. And you don’t have to do that.”

  “Do what?” He took a drink, gazing back out the window.

  “Give me your left side all the time.”

  He paused, his glass frozen to his lips. A mixture of anger and humiliation rose in his throat. He set his glass down and stared at it, his face hot. “Why would you say that?” His pulse thumped in his temples.

  “I don’t mean to upset you.”

  He made an effort to breathe, to stay in his seat. “Really? Because you could have said just about anything else and I would’ve been fine.”

  “I think you underestimate me.”

  He fl
icked a look at her, then rolled his eyes. That was probably true.

  “Hey, would you look at me?” she asked quietly. “I’m not done. Please?”

  “Why?” He was half angry with her and half frustrated with himself. He managed to keep his voice low. “What else do you want to say?”

  “You’ll never know until you look at me.”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “Fine.”

  A minute passed, and begrudgingly, he turned her way. He met her calm expression with defiance. “It’s a habit,” he said. “A ‘coping skill’ I use to ‘make others less uncomfortable.’” Great. He was quoting his shrink again.

  She studied him like she often did, but this time he wanted to turn away. He wanted a hole to open beneath him and swallow him up.

  She leaned across the table and put her hand on his arm. “I need you to get it,” she said, also keeping her voice low. “I don’t want you to be constantly worried about how to hold your head or which side of me to stand on. I just want you to know that all I see—no matter which side—is my friend, Mark Rivers. It’s the only way I’ve ever seen you.”

  How could words be so encouraging and so infuriating at the same time? “Is that right?” he asked, an edge to his voice.

  “Yeah, that’s right.” She sat back. “Take it or leave it. You’re stuck with me and my crazy ability to see you—as you are.”

  He mentally chewed her words, trying to decide what to do with them. “Lucky me.”

  She looked away, muttering.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  She looked back at him, her jaw set. “I said—I’m the one who’s lucky.”

  He stared at her.

  She shook her head. “I’m the one”—her voice became louder, as if he couldn’t hear her—“who is lucky to be here with you.” She waved both hands in the air. “All of you. You plunk head.”

  He glanced around the restaurant, feeling eyes on both of them. The curious onlookers quickly got back to their meals.

  He leaned forward. “Plunk head?”

  She narrowed her own eyes, challenging him. “Are you going to eat the rest of that roll?”

  He reached his hand around the dish and pulled it toward him. He squared himself to her. “Yes.”

  She took a bite of her Thai basil chicken with her chopsticks, grinning triumphantly.

  After lunch, Mark turned the car toward Miracle Creek.

  “So, what’s next?” Riley asked.

  “You want to keep going?” he asked, hoping that was the case. “Because I don’t know if I can take more of your torment.”

  “I only torment people I like.”

  He glanced at her. “That’s demented.” He wondered if she tormented Dalton Gainer.

  Her brow lifted. “I’m a work in progress.”

  “Okay,” he said, sighing deeply. “But I gave you a chance to get out of this. Remember that.”

  “What, more blood?”

  He glanced at her again. “I hope not.”

  They drove in comfortable silence until they reached a large, boxy city building in the town of Cashmere. Mark parked the car, his pulse already up. He turned off the engine and sat there, turning his keys over in his fingers, his knee bouncing.

  “So,” she said, eyeing the building. “The fire department.”

  “Yep.”

  “What are we doing here?”

  “We’re going to go into the fire department and talk to someone about volunteering.” His keys continued to turn in his fingers.

  “Volunteering? You mean . . . to be a fireman?”

  He nodded again. He felt her hand on his arm, and his leg stilled.

  “Mark, that’s . . . that’s big.”

  “Yep.”

  “Are you ready?”

  He shrugged. “I can’t just do nothing anymore. This is what I know. I’ve got my comp pay, but I can’t just . . .”

  “I get it,” she said. “I do. My dad spent a lot of time teaching me what he knew. A camera. A lens. He taught me how to shoot, how to develop. I got to work with the best equipment.” She shook her head. “But any other time—most any other time—I was drawing or painting. I can hardly remember a day going by without getting something on paper or canvas. Or a wall.”

  He watched her, silent, recognizing that it was hard for her to share this about herself. He didn’t want to spook her.

  “My dad was teaching me, but I was also learning about him. He was demanding. Brilliant, but a perfectionist. Always needing to get the best lighting, the best minutes of the day, the best side—to capture the symmetry, the ideal. It’s what made him successful. But he was teaching me that I couldn’t be myself. In my young mind, his focus on perfection only emphasized my imperfections. I wasn’t the ideal. My mom always worried about being enough for him. And the things I wanted to photograph or paint . . . they were the broken things. Gradually, we grew apart, and though I studied photography, I got my degree in education with a minor in art. The paintbrush won out; I got to teach what I knew and loved best. And then something weird happened.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “My dad offered me a job on a crew, and I took it. I had reasons. And it was good. Until it wasn’t.” Her expression darkened. “That’s when I knew I needed to get back to what I loved. Where I knew I needed to be.” The light in her eyes returned. “Like the fire truck in your parade.”

  He nodded. Nobody had gotten it before. Nobody had understood what he lost.

  After a minute of silence, she spoke again. “It’s volunteer, right? So only as needed?”

  “Yep.” He looked out his window. “We really need snow. But it’s November, and we’ve only had a few inches. They’ll need volunteers. That’s all they’ve got for Cashmere and Miracle Creek.”

  “All right,” she said, grabbing her purse. “Let’s go.”

  She placed her hand on the door handle. The determined look in her eyes stirred something hungry inside him.

  He looked at his door handle and reached for it.

  Riley’s heart beat erratically as they approached the front desk of the Cashmere Fire Department. She wanted to take Mark’s hand or hold his elbow—anything that would ease his nerves. She dug through her purse and found a sucker.

  “Here,” she said, pushing it into his hand.

  He looked down at it in confusion.

  “I got it at the bank. It’s a mystery flavor. It might be watermelon; it might be butterscotch. Who knows?”

  He blinked at her, then put it in his back pocket. “I’ll save it for later.”

  “Good idea. I bet all that mystery-flavor anticipation will keep your mind off what we’re doing here.”

  He shook his head. But his posture relaxed as he continued to the desk.

  A man with glasses and a goatee got up from his chair and held out his hand. “Mark Rivers. To what do we owe this pleasure?”

  Mark shook his hand. “Good to see you, Don. How are things?”

  “Quiet. Good. Prayin’ for snow.”

  “Aren’t we all?” Mark said.

  As the two men made small talk, Riley’s heart raced.

  Mark’s standing at the edge of a cliff and about to jump, she thought. And I’m at the bottom telling him the water’s fine. Who am I to say how the water is? It could be full of . . . not-fine water.

  When Mark set his hands on the desk, pressing down to still the tremors, Riley held her breath. This was the moment.

  “Don, I think I’m here to sign on as a volunteer.”

  Don took his glasses off and studied him. “Are you sure?”

  “No. Honestly, I can’t believe my feet got me into the building.” He glanced at Riley, and she nodded. “But I’ve got the experience, all the know-how in my head. Even if I’m just trainin
g or working here in the office. Running the radio. I can do that. Unless you think . . .”

  Don cocked his head. “Unless I think what?”

  Mark looked out the window, pressing his lips in a thin line. He turned back to Don. “Unless you think me being here would be uncomfortable. For the fighters.”

  Riley’s mouth opened, but Don spoke first.

  “I think you being here would be one of the best things to happen to this little unit. You have experience, you have nerve, obviously or you wouldn’t be at this desk, and you’re one of us. We’ll put you anywhere you want to be. Anywhere.”

  Mark held Don’s gaze, then nodded. “Thanks.”

  Don turned to grab some forms, and when he set the papers on the counter, Riley picked up a pen on impulse.

  “Me, too,” she said.

  Don and Mark looked at her.

  Her gaze bounced between them. “Women can volunteer, too, right?”

  “Of course, they can,” Don said. “Do you have any training?”

  “Not even a little,” she said, smiling broadly.

  Don chuckled at her enthusiasm. He picked up another form. “This is the application. You’ll need to take a drug test, and there’s a physical exam as well. Your application will be reviewed, and we’ll let you know if you’ve been accepted to the program. We train everyone, from the ground up.”

  Mark put his hand on hers. “Are you sure about this? This isn’t like the PTA. It’s a commitment to help protect the community. The people. This is a volunteer job, but the program is tough.”

  “You don’t think I can do it?” she asked.

  His expression softened. “It’s not about that and you know it.”

  “I want to help,” she said, and realized she meant it. “I can at least look it over.”

  After another moment, he narrowed his gaze and squeezed her hand. “I doubt anyone could stop you, anyway.”

  She took the papers from Don with a grin.

  Mark pulled his own form in front of him. “This is insane,” he muttered.

  “For your information, the PTA can be cutthroat,” she said.

  He chuckled as his pen touched paper.