Mark looked annoyed. “Yeah.”
“Well git.”
Mark turned, grabbing a coat and a pair of work gloves. “Point out a kid’s speech impediment and then send him off to chop wood,” he mumbled. “Brutal.”
As the door closed behind him, Cal smiled at Riley. “So, something to drink?”
After an hour of calculating dimensions, frames, “gallery value,” and comparing what was lost to what Leah had sold similar paintings for, Riley was able to help Cal complete the list. Cal had also taken her on a tour of the house to study the originals hanging in the rooms. Her favorite was a large oil hanging in the dining room, just above the table where they worked.
She studied it again as Cal gathered up the paperwork and adding machine. The small title plaque attached to the bottom of the frame read Miracle Creek Bridge.
“Her command of bokeh in the background is incredible. It brings the subject into such clear focus. And she’s bold with her contrast. It’s what I’ve tried to do with my own work. I really had to break out of my shell, but I feel so accomplished when I just go for it. It’s thrilling.” She turned and looked at Cal, who was watching her with a faraway look.
“Thank you,” he said. “She would’ve loved that compliment.”
She smiled and turned back to the painting. “Is this nearby?”
“Oh, sure. Miracle Creek comes all the way down from Mt. Stuart. After it leaves our little valley here, it joins up with the Wenatchee. Pretty hike along there. The bridge is one of the few original standing structures from the early days. Used to be several mines up that way. A lot of history there.”
“I can imagine.”
He leaned back in his chair. “There’s a legend surrounding it, you know. That bridge.”
She turned back to him. “What legend?”
He gazed at the picture. “Just some stories about wish-making. Goes back for generations.” He looked at her and chuckled. “Don’t look so impressed. Our little bridge isn’t as big a draw as the ski slopes or Leavenworth. I’m guessing you’ve been over to the Bavarian village to see all the hubbub?”
“Not since I moved here, no.” Riley had looked up the nearby German-themed village and vacation destination online when she’d applied for the teaching job. With its Alps feel and abundance of festivities, Leavenworth had the makings of a romantic storybook getaway in any season, which had fired her idea for a vacation rental.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. School started up as soon as I got here, and then there was the play. Yvette wanted to take me over there for Octoberfest, but it didn’t happen.”
He scratched his chin. “Yeah, I bet the both of you have been a bit busy.” He picked up the ledger and took it to a bookshelf in the front room. “Well, we’ll have to remedy that. Here in Miracle Creek we shine pretty well for the holidays, but Leavenworth . . . that’s the dazzler.”
The front door opened, and Mark came in, wiping his feet on the rug and pulling off his gloves.
“Mark, this lady has never been to Leavenworth,” Cal exclaimed.
“You don’t say,” Mark said, unimpressed, as he hung up his coat. His hood had fallen off but his knit cap stayed on, his right-side mask toward them. His complexion was rosy in patches from the cold.
“Christmas tree lighting’s coming up in a few weeks. Shame to miss it her first season here.” Cal smiled at Riley. “Most festive thing you’ll ever see.”
She politely smiled back.
“It happens every year, Dad. A billion people show up, they light the tree, and everybody crowds into the shops to get warm while the owners hope to sell a hundred more nutcrackers than they did last year.”
Cal looked affronted. “You did not just say that.”
Mark folded his arms. “What if I did?”
“I’d take you out back and tan your hide.”
“Too late, fire already did that.”
Riley’s eyes grew wide until she saw the two men exchange smirks.
Cal turned to Riley. “I knew this guy once. He’d get so excited for the tree lighting that he’d go early and save a place for his family with camp chairs. Once in the pouring rain.” He thumbed not-so-secretively at Mark.
Mark looked at her. “Don’t believe him.”
Cal cleared the water glasses from the table. “He’d pack a thermos of hot cocoa and bring mini candy canes for everyone. And I mean everyone.”
A real smile crept across Riley’s face as Mark shook his head, glancing at her. “I’d throw them at people.”
“Yeah,” Cal called from the kitchen. “Hit ’em right in the Christmas spirit.”
“Are you done?” Mark called back.
“Just about.” He returned to the dining room and offered a hand to Riley. “Thank you for your help. I feel like a weight has been lifted. I owe you, so anything you need, you name it.”
She took his hand, touched by the sincerity in his offer. “I’m glad I could help. It’s not often I get to study firsthand the work of an artist I admired.”
He placed his other hand over hers and gave her a second shake. “You’re welcome any time.”
He headed for the front door. “Well, I’m going to go have a roast beef dinner with mashed potatoes and gravy. I’d invite you, but I’ve been told you two have other plans.” He pulled on a wool peacoat and a bomber hat. “I’d say that was great, but I know how this guy cooks. So, I’ll just wish you luck.”
“Bye, Dad.”
“Goodbye.” Cal waved and shut the front door.
Riley held back her laughter, and Mark let out a low sigh.
“That seemed easy enough, getting him out of the house,” she said. “What exactly did you tell him?”
Mark shrugged. “That I was making you dinner. It’s the only way I knew he wouldn’t argue.”
“You knew that, huh?”
“Been a while since I’ve made anybody dinner.”
Riley imagined where Cal’s thoughts had gone with that information. “Maybe that’s a good thing. Your dad didn’t exactly build my hopes.”
“My dad didn’t know I bought steaks. I thought we’d grill. Is that all right?”
“It’s been a while since I’ve had a good steak.”
“Well, it might still be a while. I haven’t grilled since before—” He looked away, putting his hands in his pockets. “Anyway, I thought I’d give it a shot.”
“I can help,” she offered. “Maybe light the grill or something.” Inwardly, she cringed.
After a barely detectable pause, he nodded, though she couldn’t read his expression. “I’ll get the steaks,” he said, turning toward the kitchen. “Grill’s this way.”
She lit the gas grill with a pop and hiss and closed the lid to let it heat up. The chill in the air nipped at her nose and cheeks as she eyed Mark through the back-door window. Inside, he washed and prepped the steaks. His compression sleeve was gone, and he rubbed in some kind of seasoning and slapped the steaks on a plate. He washed his hands at the sink and looked up to catch her watching. He looked away immediately.
Riley slipped her hands in her pockets and studied the backyard in its winter darkness.
The sliding door squeaked open, and Mark brought out two New York strips and tongs. She took the plate from him and put one steak on the heat, the sudden sizzle a welcome sound in the quiet. She held out the tongs for Mark.
He looked at her and narrowed his gaze.
She lifted her chin. A little motion, but he read it correctly.
He took the tongs, and with a deep breath, he gripped the remaining steak and placed it on the hot grill. The tongs clattered on the plate where he returned them.
She smiled, casual. “Now what?” she asked, as if he’d merely dropped a letter in the mailbox.
He opened the back door and
waited. As she stepped past him into the house, he touched her arm.
She looked him in the eyes and saw unease beneath his dark brows. She’d overstepped her bounds. It wasn’t her place to make him face his fear. Not now, not ever.
He shot a glance toward the grill where a few flames licked the undersides of the steaks. “Thanks,” he said, his voice low.
She nodded, searching his face for irritation, his tone for sarcasm, but she found none. She entered the warm kitchen, and the sound of the door closing followed soon after.
“How are you with scrubbing potatoes?” he asked, placing a couple of bakers next to the sink.
“Oh, sure, give me the dirty work.”
While the meat sizzled outside, the potatoes steamed in the microwave, and Mark dumped a bagged salad into a serving bowl.
“I can do better than this,” he mumbled.
“Better than iceberg lettuce and shredded carrots?” She grabbed the empty bag and held it up, reading the label. “It’s a classic. Says so right here.”
He gave her a look that challenged her soft gibe and grabbed the bag, tossing it in the garbage can, then disappeared behind the fridge door. “Ranch okay?” He stood, looking more closely at the bottle. “It’s bacon ranch. My dad’s branching out.”
“Sure,” she said with a smile.
He set it down on the table. Shaking his head, he put his hands on his hips. “Living with my dad, I’ve learned that the kitchen is not his . . . strength.”
She looked around. “It’s clean.”
He turned and opened up cupboard after cupboard, ending with the fridge.
“Okay, so it’s clean and empty,” she said.
He closed everything back up.
“So, fill it up,” she said. “With as much as . . . two men living on their own need to eat. Does he cook?”
He shook his head. “Not if he can help it. Not if I can help it.”
She smiled. “Do you cook?”
He turned to get plates out of one of the cupboards. “Used to.”
She watched him, his hand and arm back in its sleeve. “You’re cooking now.”
He paused as the microwave dinged, and he arched a brow in her direction.
“I’ll check the steaks,” she said.
He continued to set the table while she turned the meat. The scent of whatever he’d done to them before they hit the flame made her mouth water. Inhaling deeply, she took a minute, chilly as it was, to drink in the moment. Not a sound could be heard except for the small noises from inside the kitchen and the sizzle from the grill. She could just make out the silhouettes of mountains against the night sky. Everything was still up here. And the stars . . . They didn’t show up like this in the city.
The back door opened. “You okay out here?” Mark held out a jacket.
“Thanks. The steaks are about done.” She took the jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. It smelled like wool and aftershave. “I was just noticing how dark and quiet it is up here.”
He nodded and hitched his shoulders up as if trying to warm himself. “Not much in the way of streetlights or neighbors. The highway is a couple miles that way.” He nodded in a northern direction. “You can see it from the new outbuilding, but not from here. It’s one of the reasons Mom picked this place when they left Tacoma. Their apartment had been right off the freeway. The traffic noise drove her nuts.”
“I can imagine it would be hard to create with that in the background.”
“Exactly. Her studio is upstairs in the attic. Did my dad show you?”
She shook her head. Cal hadn’t taken her up that far.
“She and dad converted the space when they first moved in. I’ll take you up there after dinner.”
“Did you keep it as she left it?”
His eyes narrowed in thought. “Most of it. Dad keeps saying if he ever sells this place, he’ll need to show the room in its best light. He keeps it clean.”
“Would he ever sell this place?” she asked. She couldn’t imagine giving up something like this house, after being here so long.
He shook his head. “No. He keeps my mom’s studio the way it is because they built it together. It’s as much a part of him as she is. He’s not fooling any of us.” He nodded at the house. “This place would be my sister’s when it gets too much for Dad. But she and Brian don’t want or need the work that comes with it, so I’ll be taking it.”
“You need the work?”
He shrugged.
She drew the coat more tightly around her. “Can I say something?”
“Haven’t stopped you yet.”
She watched him, remembering how he’d been himself—his real self—with her yesterday, once again wishing he wasn’t always so careful about giving her his left side. “You guys talk about your mom,” she said, “like she’s still a part of things here.”
“She is. That’s why I’m asking you to help me with this project. My dad still loves her, but he’s the kind of person who sees the big picture. ‘Get through the grieving and live on.’” He looked into the darkness. “I’ve heard that a hundred times.”
“That can be easier said than done,” she said.
He nodded. “Time has helped.”
He watched her, his dark brown eyes unwavering. She knew the smile they were capable of. Knew there was more to him than she should hope to learn.
The weight of Mark’s request settled on her shoulders like a blanket. The weight of keeping her emotions out of this project. The weight of potentially stepping into his mother’s shoes as an artist and replicating something that connected her to this house. To their lives. To Mark.
“The steaks are about ready,” she said. “Medium-ish?”
He handed her a clean plate, and she grabbed the tongs, her pulse flighty in her veins.
“Can I ask you something?” he said, turning toward her so the light from the porch lit the left side of his face.
“Haven’t stopped you yet,” she answered, bracing herself for the possible questions he could hurl at her now that she’d given him permission.
His high cheekbones and full mouth were the color of a Big Sky sunrise. The knit cap hid the dark mess of hair she’d seen when his hood had fallen at her house. Burns masked his face, but fingerlike scars stretched back from his temple in smooth stripes where no hair grew, and his ear was a patchwork of healed reconstruction.
“How do you do that?” he asked.
“What?”
His brow furrowed. “How do you look at me like that? Like . . .” His voice quieted. “Like you see this every day. Like it doesn’t bother you.”
She frowned and turned off the grill, wondering if she was so different from everyone else in town that he had to ask.
“Lette Mae doesn’t look at you differently. Neither do Nate or Gus. Or your niece. Ivy adores you.”
He gave her a weak smile. “It’s taken a long time for people in this town to look me in the eye, even Nate and Gus. Sometimes people look me so hard in the eye I know they’re trying not to look anywhere else.” He shrugged. “Ivy’s a kid. She was afraid at the beginning. Until she heard my voice.” He lifted his gaze out to the yard. “From that point on, I was her Uncle Mark again. That space, where she didn’t know me, where she cried and hid . . . that was rough.” He cleared his throat. “But you’re the only adult besides my family and my doctors who didn’t shrink back from the beginning. Who didn’t turn away quick when I caught them staring.”
“But you did catch me staring,” she said.
“You didn’t turn away.”
“In this whole town, I can’t be the only one who . . .” She wasn’t sure how to end that sentence.
He helped her out. “In this whole town, you’re the only one who looks at me like a person with burn scars, instead of burn scars walking around li
ke a person.”
She met his gaze, and a few seconds stretched between them. She knew that wasn’t true, but the way he said it, she could see how it could be. The people he grew up with were blinded by who he used to be. The memory of the old Mark got in the way of seeing him now.
“Everyone thinks you’re a hero. That’s who they see.”
“If seeing me as a hero helps them look at me, fine.” He shook his head. “But that’s not me, either.”
Her mind raced for something to say. She hadn’t expected the conversation to go this deep when she agreed to come over. “Well, maybe I’m insane. I’m the insane artist who moves to a small town and turns it upside down because I see people with burn scars instead of burns with people scars. I’m a freaking M. Night Shyamalan movie.” She clamped her mouth shut.
Oh, please, don’t let him be offended by the words that just came out of my mouth.
A smile appeared around his eyes, easing her distress.
“So,” she ventured, “in this movie, do we ever get to eat?”
He stepped back, opening the door for her and letting her pass through. She hadn’t really answered his question, but it seemed to be enough for him.
They sat at the smaller table in the kitchen.
“This smells great,” she said. “I haven’t grilled in forever.”
“That’s a really long time.”
She gave him a wry smile, and he gave one back as he reached for the water pitcher.
His smile turned to a frown of concentration as he carefully filled their glasses. “I’ve had to learn to do more stuff with my left hand. I’m strong enough. It’s the agility. Nerve damage. Pouring water was one of the things I took for granted. Seriously, pouring water.” He shook his head.
“I had a friend who hurt her back. She said the same thing about pouring water. She didn’t have to switch hands, but she had to adjust her balance differently.”
He nodded.
She lifted her glass for a toast. “To pouring water. May we never spill.”
“Or be thirsty,” he said.
“That, too,” she conceded. “Important.”
He smiled fully, then, and she felt a flush of warmth hit her cheeks as she sipped her water. She focused on cutting into her steak.
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