Miracle Creek Christmas

by Krista Jensen

  “Well,” she continued, as more people shuffled past, “you look great. I mean, really. Look at you. How are you feeling?”

  Look at me.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his brother-in-law try to pull the others away, but Stephanie shook her head, handing Brian the baby and placing her hands on her hips. His dad stayed where he was.

  How am I feeling?

  This girl had been his girl. His future. His anchor. Then the fire burned everything down, including her interest in Mark.

  “I’m feeling good, thanks.” He turned his face from the shadows and saw her flinch, ever so slightly. “You look great, too.” It wasn’t a lie, with that strawberry-blonde hair falling past her shoulders and blue eyes to go with it. Same pouty lips. He held out his hand, which was covered by a fingerless compression sleeve. Stephanie had suggested he get black so it looked tough. “Don’t be a stranger.”

  She glanced at his hand and hesitated just long enough.

  A knot tightened in his chest, and he withdrew his hand. “Still can’t touch me?”

  Her face reddened. “I didn’t mean—”

  “What? What exactly did you mean?”

  Her mouth set in a line, and she glanced at a few more people who excused themselves as they made their way to the exit.

  “Hey, Caylin. Mark.” Jeff Cranston mumbled the greetings.

  “Hey,” Mark replied.

  After they passed, Caylin stepped to his side of the wall. “I didn’t want to cause you more pain. I couldn’t be what you needed. I’m sorry for that.”

  He gritted his jaw and steadied himself. “Hey, it’s history. Everyone got what they wanted in the end, right?”

  Her brow furrowed as she deciphered his meaning. Slowly, she nodded. “Right. Well, you’re the hero.” She turned to his family as if to say more, then, with another uncertain look his way, took her long legs off to find perfectly undisfigured Nick.

  “That wasn’t very nice,” his dad said.

  Mark shrugged, hiding the emotion her presence had kicked up, her final words cutting more than he thought they would. “She never was very nice, was she?”

  “I wasn’t talking about her.”

  Mark frowned. “Excuse me?”

  “C’mon, Ivy,” Brian said. “Let’s go get your coat and things.” He took Ivy’s hand and disappeared up the stairs with the baby. Steph stayed put.

  “Dad, give him a break,” she said. “What was she thinking, coming over here and telling him he looks good?”

  “Gee, thanks,” Mark said.

  She looked at Mark. “You know what I mean. It took all I had not to tell her what she could do with those boots—”

  Dad cut her off. “Nothing gives Mark the excuse to use what he’s been handed to . . .” He trailed off.

  “Hurt someone?” Mark finished for him. “Make them uncomfortable? Ashamed?” He fought to lower his voice as a few people looked their way. He stepped closer. “Like they’re not worth the effort?”

  Dad folded his arms across his chest. “The word is intimidate. And no. Never. Do you feel any better?”

  Mark didn’t have to replay the look of aversion on Caylin’s face. He felt like he’d been kicked in the gut twice over. He was over her. She’d just made an easy target for the anger that still roiled up inside him on occasion. And no, he didn’t feel better. Bugs on a windshield felt better than he did.

  “If you ask me, she had it coming,” Steph said.

  Mark and his dad turned to her.

  “What?” she asked, wide-eyed. “Sure, he could’ve taken it on the chin, helped her feel good about her magnanimous journey all the way across the auditorium. But our boy’s got some fight. I, for one, am happy to see it.”

  Dad sighed.

  Steph reached for Mark’s arm. “Forget her. She’s not worth a fraction of you.”

  He lifted his gaze, the right side of his face to the shadows. “I bet you say that to all the burn victims.”

  “Only the heroic ones.”

  Mark remembered his time in the burn unit. “That’s all of them.”

  Later at the house, Mark pulled an envelope from the pile of bills on the front table and retreated to his old room. After leaving the hospital, he’d moved out of the apartment he shared with Jay in Wenatchee and back home to focus on his recovery. Twenty-seven years old and living at home. He was waiting for a sign that it was time to move out, but he couldn’t bring himself to look for an apartment—or a roommate. Besides, his dad needed his help with the property. It was a big house for just one man; it was a big house for two.

  He clicked on the desk lamp with a flick of his finger. He opened the envelope and pulled out the contents. Smoothing out the paper, he saw a boldly scrawled picture of a man in a yellow shirt and hat holding a small boy on his hand like a tray of dishes. Around them, a giant red fire loomed with tiny scary faces drawn on each flame. Above the figures in blue crayon it read, “Firefighter Mark saved me from the fire.”

  Mark pulled out a shoebox from the top shelf in his closet. He added the picture to the nearly full box and put it away. He brushed his teeth and undressed for bed. After sitting for some time with his head in his hands, he pulled himself up, twisted the lid off his skin cream, and began the necessary ritual of tending his scars.

  Riley shut the front door of her new-old house and locked it. She’d been lucky to even find a house in this tiny town, let alone one on this avenue with its small but stately old homes. The house was definitely “historical,” complete with a solid oak front door and a real glass doorknob that occasionally fell off on the outside. She’d have to get a dead bolt for better security, though she suspected she was the only person on her street who bothered with locks. Miracle Creek seemed to be stuck in a past decade, and she liked it that way.

  Unlike other homes on the block, Riley’s house hadn’t been kept up, languishing for years on the market. Her parents had been skeptical, but she knew what she was doing. She’d gotten a great deal on the house, and her family had renovated a few fixer-uppers before. Plus, she’d studied the real estate market in Washington. The location might have been rustic, but being surrounded by national forests, skiing, and just a few miles from the alpine destination village of Leavenworth reflected in property values. Riley was sure she could make a profit, whether she stayed here long-term or not.

  She shivered and rubbed her arms. The old place needed a lot of work. The previous owner had considered getting new vinyl windows retrofitted to replace the drafty originals but had hesitated because “they just didn’t make dimpled glass like that anymore.” She had to agree; they did not.

  As charming as the original windows were, winter had come to the Cascade Mountains, and she was going to have to get some of those plastic insulation kits from the hardware store to cover up the dimpled glass. She had a lot of things in her skill set, but changing out hundred-year-old windows was not one of them. She’d have to hire someone to update the windows. In the meantime, she’d wear more sweaters.

  That feeling returned—the one that had her questioning her decision to take this teaching job in a tiny town in the middle of a state she barely knew and buying this old house when she wasn’t even sure she wanted to stay.

  You know exactly why you left. You’re right where you need to be. Maybe. For now.

  She rolled her eyes at her stalwart resolve as she removed her coat and hung it up in the closet. She checked the thermostat. At least she had central heat, though a few more inches of insulation in the attic wouldn’t hurt.

  The play had exhausted her, and nothing sounded better than sleep. She turned, and the house across the street caught her attention through her big front window. Innumerable Christmas lights had blinked on, covering not only the house but the detached garage, picket fence, several trees, shrubs, and—Riley narrowed her eyes—the mailb
ox? She crossed the room. Mr. Taggart waved at her from his driveway and gestured toward his house.

  She waved back and gave him two thumbs up. He seemed to appreciate that, even as she closed her curtains.

  “It was just Halloween,” she murmured. “I don’t even own Christmas lights.”

  Her gaze roamed over her own space. She’d decorated sparsely, but the things she owned she loved: the old maple rolltop desk with someone’s initials carved on the inside, three small canvas paintings she’d left frameless, and a green velvet couch she’d grabbed from an estate sale in Cashmere. She’d found the dinette set in the kitchen at an antique store in the valley. Her rocker, of course. All a little dinged up but solid and, she thought, perfectly aesthetic. Add her equally simple bedroom furniture and kitchen things, and the art stuff she kept in the second bedroom, and she could pack up and move in a day. Maybe two. If she decided to rent out the house, the furnishings she’d leave behind were charming and inexpensive. A great combination. And so different from the sleek, modern style she’d been heading toward in Studio City. Different, but more her. Like a favorite pair of jeans and a comfy sweater after a long day.

  To be honest, Riley wasn’t sure how long she’d be here. Thinking of the future made her uneasy. Like standing at the top of a waterslide and trusting there was a pool on the other side of the turns and tunnels.

  Nobody in California had heard of Miracle Creek or Wenatchee Valley. Which was perfect. Start at the start.

  Maybe after putting enough work, enough of herself, into something like this house, she’d have more of a reason to keep it. Or not. But the option would be there.

  She sighed. She liked Miracle Creek. She’d rarely lived in one place for more than a year, and she’d liked a lot of the places her nomadic upbringing and schooling had taken her. And she’d liked Studio City, working with her dad in Hollywood. Her parents had even been getting along, but then, after a string of dead-end relationships, she’d made the mistake of giving her heart away and allowing herself to believe love could be different.

  She’d been wrong.

  Miracle Creek was where she could nurse her wounds in obscurity, teaching at little Mt. Stuart K-12 where nobody had ever heard of her and nobody cared.

  She appreciated the job. Art departments were already obsolete in elementary schools, and more were being cut out of middle and high school curriculums—along with home ec, woodshop, and orchestra. Art had been her favorite class in second grade, and yet now it was possible to find kids who had never been in an industrial, hodgepodge, color-chaos, clay-and-turpentine-smelling art classroom. But it was what Riley loved, and of all the things she’d left behind, she loved returning to this. She’d missed having a classroom and students. Her classes at Mt. Stuart were small, and her art room felt timeless. And she couldn’t deny, between the busyness of the school play, her classwork, and the town’s absolute non-Hollywood atmosphere, she’d done some forgetting and some healing in the last few months.

  Maybe she’d stick it out and find a bit of peace in Miracle Creek, Washington.

  Apprehension bloomed in her chest as it did whenever she thought about settling down.

  A knock at the door broke her from her thoughts.

  She opened it to see the entirety of her student art club—all four of them.

  “Hey, Ms. Madigan,” Justice said. “We were making cookies, and we thought you’d like some.” She held out a paper plate covered in plastic wrap.

  Riley spied chocolate chips as she took the warm plate. It had been hours since she’d eaten. “Thanks for thinking of me.”

  “Thanks for bringing back art club,” Holly said.

  “My pleasure. You guys have been a great help.”

  “We messed up the trees,” Paulo said, nudging Jack.

  She smiled. “Oh, I’m sure somebody somewhere has successfully grown a palm tree in London. Besides, we have tomorrow to get it right. Right?”

  They nodded and waved goodbye.

  Riley watched them walk down the street. Two more houses turned on their Christmas lights, and her mouth dropped open. Seriously?

  She peeled back the plastic wrap and bit into a cookie, peering at her own eaves and wondering if a wreath on the door would be sufficient enough decoration.

  Mark pounded nails into the framework of the new outbuilding. Trusses were going up Monday, and they needed to be ready. He paused and wiped his forehead. They had a nail gun, but Dad had made Mark do it by hand to build up strength and coordination. It had been painfully slow going at first. A few swear words had been shouted, and the hammer had been dropped—or thrown—more than a few times, but eventually, Mark had been able to pick up his speed and accuracy.

  He’d spent most of the day focused on the work in front of him, but just now, sitting up on the frame, listening to the sound of his dad’s electric screwdriver and overlooking the gentle slope to the trees, their various shades of fading orange, yellow, and red, and the mountains climbing in the background under a pink sky . . . He breathed in the fresh orchard air and drank in the last of the colors.

  The apple trees to the south had produced like mad this season. Harvest was over, but remains of dropped fruit—those the deer hadn’t eaten yet—tinged the air with a tangy sweetness he’d known his whole life. That, mixed with crisp mountain pine, was the smell of winter coming to Miracle Creek. He closed his eyes, and his nose picked up the faint scent of woodsmoke. His gut lurched, an automatic response to the warning and a call to danger. His pulse raced to fight-or-flight mode.

  He scanned the area but saw no definite signs, no billowing black clouds or even thin traces. It’s a woodstove. Everyone has a woodstove. They’ll be used all winter. Get used to it. His senses, on high alert, finally listened to his logic, and backed off.

  Prying his hand from the frame, he wiped sweat from his brow.

  “You okay up there?” His dad was moving the ladder under him.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Liar. Get down here before you fall.”

  “I won’t fall.” He picked up the hammer and tried placing a nail. “I was just taking a break.” His fingers shook, and he hesitated.

  His dad took off his ball cap and rubbed his head. “Mark, please come down.”

  If his dad had said it any other way, Mark would have argued. But when Cal Rivers spoke with patience and fatigue in his voice, Mark had to obey.

  Once on the ground, he sat on a ladder rung and watched the concrete. “I’m fine, Dad. I just . . . smelled smoke.” He hated to admit that. It was the tail end of autumn. People burned their rubbish piles and woodstoves and backyard firepits.

  “Ah, son.” Mark felt his dad’s hand heavy on his shoulder, keeping him from blowing away like a leaf.

  “Caught me off guard.” He shrugged. “I spent most of last winter inside.” He’d been in and out of hospitals and clinics with skin grafts, reconstruction, and recovery.

  Dad nodded. “Do you need to call the doc?”

  “No.” He knew what his therapist would say. Did you do your exercises? Yes. Did you place the emotions in their proper box? Eventually. What do you need to change to make it better?

  “I’m going to smell smoke out here. Next time I’ll be able to sort it out faster.”

  His dad watched him a moment, then seemed to accept his answer. He looked up at the framework. “Okay. Good plan. Let’s stop for today.”

  “We don’t have to stop just because I lost it up there for a minute.”

  “We’re stopping because I’m starving, and it’s your turn to make dinner. We gotta eat before Ivy’s play.” He started to walk toward the house. His dad always walked back to the house, even if they’d driven the truck there.

  “But we’ve got a lot to do before the trusses come on Monday.”

  His dad turned, walking backward and pulling off his work gloves.
“Then I guess we get up extra early in the morning.” He grinned. “Your favorite. Meet you at the house.”

  Mark sighed and pulled off his gloves. When they’d had Maize and a couple other cows, Mark and Steph had to milk morning and night. His dad’s definition of “extra early” was ungodly. They’d be working by the light of construction lamps before the neighbor’s rooster crowed.

  All because he couldn’t keep it together when he smelled a little smoke.

  He put away the tools and got the site ready for morning, then climbed into his truck and drove up to the house, beating his dad by a couple of minutes.

  Ham sandwiches and canned soup made up dinner. The men ate steadily without many words. When they finished, his dad pulled out a ledger while Mark cleaned up the dishes.

  “What’re you looking at?” he asked.

  “The last of what we lost in the outbuilding. Just going over it for the insurance company so they can wrap this up.”

  Dad had that same masked look on his face he always got when they discussed the loss from the fire. Half the stuff in the storage building had been equipment, tools, and machinery, easily replaced by insurance. But the other half had been memories. Boxes of baby things, stuff from Stephanie’s wedding, his parents’ old photos and keepsakes, holiday decorations, and, of course, nearly all of Mom’s original oil paintings. Some had stayed in the house, thank goodness, but the rest had been carefully stored, waiting to be treasured by future kids and grandkids. Steph was still sick that she hadn’t picked up the paintings when she and Brian got their house. It had been on her to-do list. Now they were gone.

  And then there was the nativity.

  Dad suddenly shut the ledger and rubbed his eyes. “I’m going to lie down for a minute before we leave.” He pushed back from the table and left without another word, walking with an age he rarely showed.

  Mark pulled the ledger over and opened it up. There in his dad’s neat, blocky handwriting were lists of items and their estimated values. Some had check marks next to them, some didn’t. The list was made up of orchard equipment and machinery. Then irrigation stuff. He turned the page. More business items already compensated for.