Miracle Creek Christmas

by Krista Jensen

  “This one has the right eyes, I think.” He tried to picture his mom’s baby Jesus. “Yeah, I think these are really close. You know, looking up but really simple. Maybe not such a round nose.”

  She picked up a pencil and the sketch pad and drew the eyes.

  “The nose was more of just a swoop underneath. And the mouth was like this one here.”

  She followed his directions, filling in the space around the baby, the swaddling wrapped around the little body. She stopped and reviewed her work.

  He leaned over her shoulder. “That’s good.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “That’s the one.”

  She nodded and let out a deeper breath of relief than he’d expected. “Good.”

  It would have been easy to put his arm around her, to pull her closer and tell her not to worry, that anything she did would be great. But he couldn’t do that and risk what he already had with her.

  “You nervous?” he asked.

  She shrugged, brushing her hair back. “Well, you know, Son of God, King of kings, hallelujah, and everything. It’s a lot of pressure.” She glanced at him like she was kidding, but he sensed otherwise. “Not to mention I’m doing this for a family who lost an awful lot and deserves something that reminds them of better things.”

  He watched her a moment as she began sketching out more of the image, biting her lip in concentration.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “So,” he said, tapping the new sketch. “What is this one thinking?”

  A small smile came to her lips as she studied the baby. “He’s not quite warm enough.”

  He chuckled lightly, and her smile widened.

  “I think he just hopes to be loved,” she said. “Like everybody else.”

  Mark sobered and let the quiet surround them a few moments. Nothing but the pop and hiss of the fire. “I think you’ve got that right,” he finally said. Then, in an unplanned move, he smoothed his hand over her hair. It was soft, the waves like silk under his skin. His heart played a hard rhythm beneath his ribs.

  Time to go.

  She blinked as he stood. “You’re leaving?”

  “Yeah. I’ve still got stuff to do, and I’m beat. I’m glad you called, though.”

  She stood. “Thanks for your help.” She gestured to the fire. “With everything.”

  “Not a problem. Make sure it’s completely out before you turn in.”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  They faced each other for another moment, then he headed for the door. He stopped and turned back. “I know you didn’t have the best time tonight with Gainer.”

  She waved her hand. “Nothing a little hot chocolate and some focused painting won’t fix.” She looked away, and he again wondered what exactly had happened.

  “I know I’ve asked you for a lot of help,” he said, “but I got a call this afternoon, and . . . I was wondering if you’d consider playing hooky with me on Friday.”

  Her eyes grew large. “Play hooky?”

  “Yeah, you know where you pretend you’re sick and skip school—”

  “I know what hooky is.” She folded her arms.

  He grinned. “So you’ll come?”

  “For what?”

  “I told you. I need help with something. It’s for a friend over in Wenatchee.”

  “What will we be doing?”

  He knew why she asked. Dalton had sprung Christmas town on her. “It’s nothing to do with the holidays.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me what it is, then?”

  He hesitated. “Because if I told you, you’d think it was the most boring thing on the planet and you wouldn’t come. And I could really use your help. Call it volunteer work. Please?”

  She scrutinized him. “You make it sound so magical,” she teased. “I’ll call in a personal day. Do I need to wear muck boots or anything like that?”

  He grinned. “I don’t think so. But I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to wear those killer boots from earlier—”

  She gave him a push to the door. “Never mind. Out.”

  “But—”

  “Out. Good night.” She opened the door and continued to push, which was useless because he only moved when he stepped back himself.

  “Friday morning. Nine thirty,” he said.

  She hid her smile, but not very well. “I’ll see you then.”

  He’d backed out to the porch. “Maybe you could wear the skirt, too—”

  She closed the door on him.

  His smile remained.

  The silver minivan pulled up in front of the Riverses’ house, and Mark stepped out to meet it. Stephanie got out and opened the side door. She grabbed the covered infant car seat with baby Mark inside.

  “Hey, help me with the groceries, will you?” she asked.

  “That’s what I’m here for.” Mark hefted a large box in his arms along with a bag of onions.

  “Don’t keep the onions in the garage,” she said, walking ahead of him into the house. “They’ll freeze and turn to mush.”

  “Understood.” He set the box down on the counter next to her bags, then set the bag of onions on top of the fridge.

  She threw him a look. “No.”

  “What’s wrong with the top of the fridge?” he asked.

  She pulled the bag down. “The bag is mesh and onion skins are dry and crackly. Anytime you move it, onion skins will flake down the front of the fridge.” She opened the broom closet and put the bag on the floor.

  He peeked under the baby tent on the floor. Baby Mark seemed to sleep ninety percent of the time. “What are you feeding this kid?”

  “Breast milk. Dramamine.”

  He dropped the cover, looking back at her. “Really?”

  “No, not really. You don’t give a baby Dramamine. Come on, EMT, we’ve got frozen stuff to bring in.”

  He rolled his eyes and followed her back out to the car. This time they detoured through the garage, stopping at the freezer.

  “You know,” Mark said, “you don’t have to keep doing this.”

  She tossed a package of frozen burritos onto a shelf. “It’s no big deal to pick up extra for you and Dad when I do the big shopping.”

  Stephanie’s “big shopping” meant driving to Costco in Wenatchee once a month to stock up on diapers and toilet paper. And a whole case of hash browns, apparently.

  “We won’t eat all this,” he said.

  “You don’t need to eat all of it. Some of it’s mine. I need the extra freezer space.” She pushed the freezer door shut against a huge bag of chicken. “There. Now, help me with the stuff that goes in the refrigerator.”

  “I can do this, Steph,” he said, following her back into the house. “I don’t mean just putting things away. I mean the shopping.”

  “Good. Next time, I’ll take you with me, and you can learn what to get.”

  He picked up a gigantic package of toilet paper and hefted it to his shoulder. “I think I’ve already got the idea. Anything bigger than Ivy, I throw in the cart.”

  She turned to him and smiled. “Basically.”

  “Seriously, Steph. I lived on my own for how many years? I can do the shopping. I’m getting out more. Not sure I need to go all the way to Costco for milk, though.” He turned to take the year’s supply of toilet paper upstairs as she shoved a gallon into the fridge. Unlike the freezer, there was plenty of space in there.

  “You’re welcome,” she called up after him.

  When he came back down, she was dividing up fresh vegetables.

  “It’s like you expect us to actually cook or something,” he said, taking a few tomatoes from her along with a couple of lemons.

  “I do. You’re feeling better, and Dad needs real food. People can’t li
ve on frozen potpies and corn dogs.”

  “Uh, yes they can.”

  She pushed a block of cheese and a box of eggs big enough for the firehouse at him. “No, they can’t, Mark. Dad works hard. Make him good food.”

  He sighed, putting the eggs and cheese in the fridge. They sat down at the table, and Stephanie scooted the baby carrier closer.

  “So, speaking of getting out more . . .” She rocked the baby carrier with her foot a few times. “Word is you’ve been getting over to the new art teacher’s house.” She raised her eyebrow at him.

  Gus.

  Gus’s wife, Heidi, was good friends with Steph. He grunted. “For Dad.”

  “And she came over here?”

  “For Dad.”

  “Um, no, she stayed, and Dad came to my house.”

  Oh yeah.

  “And what about the school?”

  He froze. “What about it?” He loved his sister, but she couldn’t keep a secret to save her life.

  “I hear you’ve met her after school a few times.”

  “Twice.” He refused to look at the mirth in her eyes.

  “And stayed late.”

  “Not true.”

  “Mark.”

  “What?” His leg bounced. He stopped it.

  “What’s going on?”

  He studied the grain in the old cherrywood table. Finally, he lifted his gaze to meet his sister’s. “I’m working on something.”

  “Is that what the kids call it these days?”

  “Knock it off.”

  Her expression softened. “Do you like her?”

  “What is this, sixth grade?” He frowned. “She’s not even sure she’s going to stick around here much longer.”

  “Okay, but do you like her?”

  He shook his head, still running his hand along the table. “We’re friends. And she’s helping me with something, so that’s why we were at the school.”

  “What is the thing?” she asked. The baby fussed, and she lifted him out of the carrier.

  “Can’t tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  He smiled. “Because Christmas is coming, Steph.”

  She smiled shrewdly back, and he knew he had her.

  “You should take her to Leavenworth,” she said.

  He laughed. “Why does everyone think Leavenworth is the place to take a girl at Christmas?”

  She stared at him. “Because it’s picturesque, romantic, charming, and nestled in the mountains like the Alps themselves complete with all the trimmings of the most wonderful time of the year?”

  He rubbed his face and sat back in the chair. “I’ve got an idea. You and Dad take each other to Leavenworth. Then everybody wins.”

  She frowned. “What does that mean?”

  He shook his head. “It means I have a better idea.” He hoped.

  Her face brightened. “So, you are taking her somewhere.”

  He dropped his head. Yes. He was taking her somewhere. And if his sister knew where, he would never hear the end of it.

  Stephanie rose from the table and handed him the baby. “You do like her.” She kissed the top of Mark’s head, then headed upstairs.

  He looked down at his nephew, sleeping soundly again. “A word of warning, kid. I love this town, but you can’t burp without your friend’s wife’s cousin’s grandpa knowing about it.”

  On Thursday after school, Riley entered grades into her laptop and hung the sixth-graders’ interpretations of The Starry Night on the display board. She wanted to get home. Mark had finished framing and would be putting up drywall.

  She held up the last picture in the stack and halted. It was her own drawing, the one she’d done the day after Mark had taken her up the dirt road to see the lights. She smiled, remembering the conversation they’d had, and the easy silence. Her smile faded recalling her students’ argument over Mark and Dalton. As she tacked the picture up on the board with the others, her phone rang, and she answered it without looking at the name on the screen.

  “Riley? Honey?”

  Her stomach tightened. “Mom?”

  “I know you asked me not to call—”

  Riley leaned against the edge of a table. “Mom, of course you can call. I just didn’t want you to try to talk me into coming back.”

  “I know, but . . .”

  Riley could hear the strain in her mom’s voice. She steadied herself. “Mom, I’m not coming back.”

  “Riley, baby,” her mom said, “I’ll be home from this trip on the first. Christmas won’t be the same without you.”

  Riley could’ve argued that her parents had had a lot of Christmases without her. But she was trying to work past that. “You know why I left. I’m not ready to do all that again.”

  “You wouldn’t have to do anything.”

  “We both know that’s not true. Dad would insist I go to every party, every opening, every gala, with everyone there wondering how I’ve survived after such a humiliating breakup, but nobody actually caring that I’m doing just fine.”

  “It wouldn’t be like that. And besides”—her voice dropped to a murmur—“Dad has someone he’d like you to meet.”

  Riley closed her eyes. “Mom, that’s how things went bad last time.”

  “He’s not an actor. And he’s gorgeous.”

  “Being an actor didn’t make Gavin a weak, cheating scumbag. Being Gavin made Gavin a weak, cheating scumbag.”

  “Still angry, huh?”

  “I wasn’t insulting him, I was merely describing him.”

  “Well, I would describe this new guy as perfection. You could slice an apple on his jaw.”

  “That sounds . . . sharp.”

  “I’ll text you a picture.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “He’s an orthodontist. You have the straightest teeth.”

  “Because of braces.”

  “See? It’s fate.”

  “Mom. Stop. I’m not meeting Dad’s friend.”

  Silence filled the line between them. Then her mom sighed.

  “I see. And how are you doing, honey? Are you really ‘just fine’?”

  “Yes. Really. I love my job. The house is coming along. I’m painting.”

  Her mom’s tone perked up. “What are you painting?”

  “It’s a commission piece for Christmas. Which means I’m working here through the holiday. I’m staying in Miracle Creek, in my own house, with my own stupid wreath on my door, if I get one.”

  Her mom sighed again. “Jeremy will be disappointed.”

  “Who’s Jeremy?”

  “The orthodontist.”

  “He doesn’t even know me. Mom, you and Dad need to stop trying to set me up.”

  “But, sweetheart, we have connections with so many beautiful people.”

  “You, of all people, know beauty isn’t everything, Mom.” Riley waited, knowing she’d struck a chord. “You and Grandma were the ones who taught me to see beauty in the broken things, the worn-out things. The gritty and real things. I’m done with Dad’s shiny, airbrushed world. You can have it.”

  “I’ve had both, Riley,” her mom said quietly. “And I’ve tried to do my best with it. Your dad wishes he could go back and do things differently. We both do. He’s only trying to make up for how things went with Gavin.”

  “That’s not his responsibility. I’m sorry, Mom, but I’m staying here.”

  After a moment of silence, her mom spoke again. “I’m glad you’re painting again. Do you remember my friend, Cheri Mathison?”

  “The artist in New Orleans?”

  “Yes. She’s establishing an artist’s residency program there this summer, and she wondered if you’d be interested in joining the faculty. Sort of a junior teacher-in-residence. Imagine, New Orleans.�
�

  Riley paused. She could imagine. “Did you tell her I’m teaching here?”

  “I told her I would let you know about the opportunity and that you would contact her. I’ll send her information along.”

  Her earlier conviction wavered. “Thanks.”

  “I can’t imagine your little Creek town could hold a candle to one of the most art-fueled cities in the country.”

  Riley’s gaze swept over her well-worn classroom. No. No, it couldn’t.

  At home, Riley worked on the nativity while Mark cut and fit drywall onto the new, wider arched entryway between the front room and the kitchen. She glanced at her phone to find it long past dinnertime.

  She came out of her art room, rolling her shoulders. “I’m ordering pizza. What do you like?”

  “Everything.”

  “You’re easy.”

  “Hardly.”

  She gave him a smirk and turned to her phone, grateful that the nearest pizza place delivered to Miracle Creek. She looked up the number and sat down at the rolltop desk, rubbing the spot between her shoulder blade and neck. After the pizza was ordered, she dropped her phone on the desk and sighed. She couldn’t get the conversation with her mom out of her head.

  “My neck is killing me.”

  “Can I help?”

  She looked behind her, and Mark gestured to her hand on her neck.

  It had been too long a day, and she scarcely hesitated. “Yes, please.” She lowered her forehead to the desk.

  But nothing happened.

  “Did you change your mind?” she asked, hoping he hadn’t.

  She felt her hair being gently swept aside, and he began working the spot she’d been rubbing. He began almost too gently, but as his pressure increased, she exhaled and let him work the tight muscles in her neck and shoulders loose.

  “Something’s bothering you,” he said.

  “Yes.” She kept herself from groaning under his firm touch.

  “Hard day at school?”

  “Yes.” Oh. He did this well. Her breath hitched.