Miracle Creek Christmas

by Krista Jensen

  She let go of Dalton’s hand and took a step back. He must have taken it as a cue to applaud the music, too. As he clapped, she stepped back again. When he realized she’d vacated the space, he simply steered her through the crowd, away from the gazebo and onto the sidewalk again.

  “Not ready for Christmas music yet?” he asked.

  No, she wasn’t. Not ever. “I just like to take my holidays in order—have a little Thanksgiving after Halloween.” She managed to smile up at him. “What’s next?”

  He gestured to the shops. “We stroll. Make our way to the restaurant.”

  Dalton led her across the street, pointing out the highlights of each shop as they meandered through the crowds.

  The shops glowed from the inside, cheerful and—she had to admit—not overly filled with holiday glitz. The toy store displayed nothing but colorful block sets, puppets, puzzles, and trains, and the kids still pulled their parents inside the doors.

  She found herself being steered into a bakery.

  “Pick something out. Anything. We’ll save it for later. They have the best bollen.”

  She looked up at Dalton at the familiar name. “Better than Lette Mae’s?”

  His head bobbed with indifference.

  She perused the glass cases and found them: a tray of beautiful round chocolate-topped pastries split in half and filled with Bavarian cream.

  “I’ll have a napoleon,” she heard herself say to the girl behind the counter.

  “You would choose that one,” Dalton said, chuckling.

  “Why is that?” she asked.

  “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

  “That wouldn’t be a short joke, would it?”

  “I wouldn’t dare,” he said, looking very much like he would dare.

  “Of course not,” she said. “I’m sure you could come up with far more clever ways to comment on your date’s physical attributes.” As he opened his mouth to speak, she cut him off. “That wasn’t a challenge, just an observation.”

  Again, he chuckled.

  The girl behind the counter, who was carefully placing Riley’s napoleon in a paper sack, smiled shyly.

  Dalton winked at the girl. “I’ll have a bollen and an apple strudel.”

  She couldn’t help wondering if he had any idea how predictable he was, and what his reaction would be if he ever found out that she’d noticed.

  He paid for the desserts and turned to Riley as if he’d just conquered Denmark. “Shall we go?” He offered her his elbow.

  She nodded. This was easier. Easier than depth and searching and oversharing.

  Except Dalton insisted on going into Kris Kringl, one of the favorite stops in Leavenworth. The sign on the towering storefront boasted “Where it’s Christmas all year long!”

  “We’ll explore the whole store,” he said. “The trains, the villages, downstairs and up. It’s a requirement. You need to see everything.”

  “Oh, I really don’t,” she muttered.

  “C’mon. It’s like being a kid again.”

  As much as this playful side of Dalton Gainer was refreshing, she hung back as he pulled her along while instrumental Christmas carols played loudly through the store. She focused on the people and the floor as he steered her past displays of Santas and ornaments and mountains of miniature Christmas villages until they were climbing a staircase to the second floor, where the crowd thinned out.

  Up here, themed Christmas trees took up one side, but the other half featured . . .

  Nativities.

  All shapes, sizes, origins, and materials—carved wood, fabric, clay, polymers, and porcelain.

  She couldn’t look away. Her heart pounding, she stepped toward a small porcelain set, all white, no color, just a matte glaze. Very much like the one her dad had brought home all those years ago. Carefully, she picked up the figure of baby Jesus.

  “Do you like it?” she heard Dalton ask.

  She set the figure back down, unable to answer.

  “It’s simple compared to the rest, isn’t it?” he said. “I bought one of these giant sets for my mom a few years ago. She loved the ghastly thing.”

  Riley shook her head.

  “Can I buy this one for you? Early Christmas gift.”

  “No.” The word was rough in her throat. “I mean, no, thank you. The last thing I need is another nativity.” She tried to laugh.

  He joined her. “Yes, I guess it’s a little trite, isn’t it? As if anyone remembers this part of it anymore. You should have seen the one old Rivers used to put up off the highway, all lit up every year, cramming that down our throats. I suppose it’s sentimental, though, right?”

  She nodded, unable to choke down the lump in her throat or suppress the burn rising in her cheeks. “Yes,” she managed to say without sounding too forced. “Sentimental. His wife painted those, did you know?”

  “No, I didn’t.” His gaze wandered over the nativities. “Poor guy. Never remarried. You know he dated Yvette for a while.”

  Her chin shot up. “Yvette Newsome?”

  He shrugged. “Didn’t stick, I guess. Ended after Mark got himself burned up. Oh well. If it’s meant to last, it’s meant to last, right?”

  She stared, then took a deep breath through her nose, running a hand over her hair. “You know what?” she said, eyes wide. “I’m so hungry. If we don’t get to that restaurant, I’m going to eat dessert first.” She lifted her white bakery bag.

  He didn’t hesitate taking her hand and leading her back downstairs and outside. Even with the fresh mountain air and the drift of tiny snowflakes making the moment picturesque, she wanted to run. She wanted to yank her hand out of his and tell him where he could go.

  But she knew his type. He’d blink at her. Laugh it off. Coddle her back to his side, telling her he was sorry and to at least finish dinner.

  It wasn’t worth the fight. It wasn’t worth the possibility of tears or the attempt to reveal a deeper truth than he could grasp. Because Dalton Gainer was a shallow, selfish player.

  Like so many men she’d dated.

  Her pace slowed at the revelation. Dalton’s hand left hers as the sounds of the world faded. He turned, concern etched in his expression. She returned the look.

  “Riley, are you all right?”

  The merry noises of the street filled her ears again, and she blinked. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “C’mon. Let’s get some food in you, new girl.”

  She nodded. She’d go to dinner with Dalton. Smile and listen. Order something light and not finish it. None of it would register on his radar as being off. He’d drive her home, try to kiss her, ask if he could come in.

  And she’d tell him it was a school night.

  Riley shut her front door and watched Dalton’s taillights disappear into the night. She closed her front curtains and tossed her little sack of pastry into the garbage can. Her boots came off next. She flung them into the hall to pick up later.

  She pressed her hands to her pounding head as she headed to the kitchen, her bare feet cold on the hard linoleum. Grabbing the bottle of Tylenol out of the cupboard and filling a glass with water, she walked to her art room and stared at the easel. At the sketches she’d attempted, of Mary’s face, and Joseph’s, and the shepherd.

  She downed two pills, not taking her eyes off the photo of baby Jesus. There was no face to study; the glare from Mark’s old flash had wiped it out.

  Setting down the empty glass, she picked up the charcoal pencil and grabbed the photo. Taking a deep breath, she sketched the manger, the swaddling and the hay, a round head. She paused, her heart pounding.

  Next to her sketch lines, she drew a larger, faint circle. Ears. Chin. Fleshed out an infant’s head and ran the pencil line in a swift arc from ear to ear to place the eyes. But she stopped.

  What shape were
the eyes? And how wide? Asleep or awake? Happy? Surprised?

  Wise? Could babies’ eyes be wise? This baby?

  She put her hand over her own eyes and sighed. She took two steps and dropped down into the desk chair.

  You should have seen the one old Rivers used to put up off the highway, all lit up every year, cramming that down our throats.

  Riley’s jaw clenched.

  Ended after Mark got himself burned up.

  She squeezed her eyes tight, sick.

  Mark grunted with each push-up. Forty regular push-ups, then twenty with each arm. Well, twenty with his left arm and as many as he could with his right before he collapsed. Which was about twelve.

  Thirteen.

  Fourteen—

  His phone rang, and he dropped to the floor with a groan. Gritting his teeth, he reached his left hand out and checked the number.

  Riley.

  “Hello?” He tried to calm his heavy breathing as he fumbled his phone to his ear.

  “Hi. Are you . . .”

  “Working out.”

  She paused.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, pushing himself up on his elbow. He winced, stretching his right arm.

  “Could you come over?” she asked.

  “Now?”

  “Yes. I know it’s late.”

  “It’s only eight.”

  “Oh.” Another pause. “Please?”

  “On my way.”

  She hung up, and he stared at his phone, still out of breath. She’d sounded small. Riley wasn’t small.

  He took the quickest shower he could, threw on a fresh shirt, jeans, and a beanie, and clamored down the stairs. “I’m going out,” he called, and slammed the door before his dad could begin the questions.

  A few minutes later, he stood on Riley’s porch and knocked on the door. It took every ounce of patience in him to stand there and wait. On the drive over, his imagination had run wild with all kinds of possibilities why she’d called. Most scenarios had something to do with Gainer and ended with Mark wanting to pound him.

  Mark lifted his hand to knock again, but the door opened, and Riley stood there in a big sweater and leggings, holding a box of matches in her hand. Her hair was still wild and wavy all over, but her eyes were rimmed red.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi.” She backed into the house. “Come in.”

  He did, looking around. She closed the front door behind him. Papers were scattered in a semicircle over the floor in front of the green sofa along with some of his old photos, but she passed those.

  She knelt in front of the brick fireplace. “Can you help me with this?”

  He took off his coat and knelt beside her, looking hesitantly at the couple of logs she’d piled in the grate. “You’re serious? You called me over here to start a fire in your fireplace?”

  She dropped the box of matches in her lap and put her hand to her head. “I’m sorry. No. I’m cold. I can’t stop shivering, and I thought maybe I’d use this thing to get warm, but the logs won’t catch. I should know how to do this, right?” She turned to him, and he saw what he hadn’t yet.

  “You’re crying,” he said.

  She smiled, pulled her sleeve over her fist, and wiped at her eyes. “Yeah, a little.”

  He wanted to ask what Dalton had done, but figured he’d better take care of her first. He looked back at the sofa and spied a blanket in a heap on the cushions. He got up, grabbed that, and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  “Thanks,” she said, watching him.

  He squatted down and checked the flue.

  “I opened it up, like you said.”

  “Good job.”

  “I just couldn’t get anything to stay lit. The newsprint burned right up.”

  She sounded so lost. So . . . un-Riley.

  “Is your woodpile out back?”

  “Through the kitchen.”

  He nodded. “Be right back.” He hurried through the kitchen, out the back door, and down a few steps. He found what he needed against the house and hurried back inside.

  “On the other side of your woodpile is a crate of scraps for kindling.” He pushed a few pieces of tinder under the grate, arranging them so air would circulate between them and the logs above. “Do you have more newspaper?”

  She nodded and stood from her cross-legged position and went to the dining table. She tore off a few pieces of paper from a large pad of artist’s newsprint and returned.

  She sat down again and slowly fell over sideways, staying there. “I’ll just let you do that while I lie here.”

  “Not getting off that easy. Up.” He pulled her arm, and she let him.

  When she was upright again, she pushed her hair off her face. The perfume she wore earlier still lingered.

  “So—” He took a sheet of paper and demonstrated how to twist it. “What happened?” He peeked up at her.

  She concentrated on his twisting. “Your hand is shaking.”

  “It’s from the workout. What happened with Dalton?” He wasn’t going to let her change the subject. She’d called him over here in tears, and he was done trying to be patient.

  “Nothing horrible. Well, his depth of character is about”—she held a piece of paper horizontally—“this deep, so, there’s that.”

  “Figured that out, huh?” He took his twisted paper and showed her how to tuck it into a space between the kindling.

  She followed. “He took me to Leavenworth.”

  He pulled back.

  She finished tucking her piece of paper in and then brushed her hands. “He didn’t tell me where we were going. He wanted it to be a surprise. And he didn’t know my history. So . . .” She looked up and lifted a shoulder. “I’m not sure it would’ve mattered, though.” She took another twist of paper and wiggled it under the logs.

  “Maybe.” He liked to think Dalton would have considered her feelings if he’d known about her thing with Christmas. “Maybe not.” He handed her the box of matches, trying not to look too eager to be rid of them. “You do the honors.”

  She took the box from him, and he sat back. She struck a match, and a whiff of sulfur dioxide hit his nose. His pulse kicked up, and his jaw clenched. She held the match close to the papers. They caught fire and flamed up.

  He pointed. “Do the same over here.”

  She obeyed, and in a couple of minutes, the kindling was burning, and the flames had begun to lick up the sides of the logs.

  Mark retreated to the rocking chair, putting some space between him and the fire, wiping sweat from his brow. He wondered how he’d ever get past this fear.

  “Thanks,” she said, pulling the blanket up around her shoulders. She looked back at him. “It’s hard for you, isn’t it?”

  He tried not to be drawn in by the orange-hot light. Instead, he focused on her eyes. “It is.” He narrowed his gaze. He didn’t want to talk about him. “What happened in Leavenworth?”

  “I couldn’t eat a bollen.”

  “What?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. Bollen are our thing, right?”

  He stilled at the words “our thing,” then nodded quickly. They had a thing.

  The weight of fear from the flames started to dissipate.

  She continued. “I was doing okay. I remembered what your dad said about how you used to pass out candy canes.” Her smile flickered and faded. “But then we went into this Christmas store, and I don’t know . . . By the time we got to the Holy Hall of Nativities, I was ready to lose it, and Dalton didn’t seem to notice—or care—so I came home and curled into the fetal position.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, trying to sort through her explanation. But he knew the feeling of being on an emotional edge, and he didn’t want it for her.

  “Me, too. I actually wanted t
o enjoy the schnitzel.” She shook her head and looked back at the fire.

  “Why am I here,” he finally asked, “if it wasn’t to help you build a fire?”

  She sighed and gestured to the drawings on the floor. “I need a face.”

  “You have a face.”

  She crossed her eyes at him, and he laughed. She crawled in front of the sofa and drew her legs beneath her. She’d dragged her blanket along with her. “I need a face for the baby. You need to help me.”

  He joined her on the floor and sorted through the sketches she’d done. A page of eyes. A page of noses. A page of mouths. Hair. All babies, definitely.

  “Riley, the figures are more abstract. You won’t need this much detail.” He lifted the page of eyes and ran his fingers over them, impressed with how she’d given them depth and even reflection. “How do you people do this?”

  “‘You people’?” She took the page from him.

  “Artists. Painters. People who draw. Draw-ers.”

  She smiled at him. “We draw. A lot. Every day. All the time. We study people and other draw-ers. We learn. We erase. We start over. You know that.”

  “Yeah, I guess I do. Sounds a little like physical therapy.”

  She looked back down at the eyes. “I know the nativity is more abstract. This was just exercise. I’ve done some other images over here that take the styling into account.”

  She handed him another page from the floor.

  Sure enough, she’d pieced together several different baby faces in his mother’s style. “Any of these would work,” he said.

  “No. These all have a slightly different expression, and I’m not sure which to give him.” She scooted closer, brushing his shoulder with hers. “This one is pretty generic, like, ‘I’m a baby, but I’m kind of important, look at me.’ And this one is more like, ‘Whee, I’m loving this king gig.’ And this one kind of— Well, I was going for wise, but he looks like he’s filling his diaper—”

  Mark barked a laugh, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

  She grinned up at him. “Then help me.”

  He was grateful she sat to the left of him. They were so close he could count each and every freckle across her nose, even in the soft light from the fire and the single floor lamp behind them. “I’ll try,” he said, begrudgingly turning his focus back to the page they were studying.