“Am I hurting you?”
“No.” It did hurt, but in a good way.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
He kept working, kneading rock-hard ropes of muscle until they were smooth before moving to the next spot.
“You’re good at this,” she said with a tiny grunt. “How are you so good at this?”
He laughed quietly. “I’ve been on the receiving end of a lot of these during my recovery. I guess you get a feel for it after a while.”
He placed one hand on her shoulder while he worked the area between her shoulder blades. “So . . . my dad and I wanted to know if you’d have Thanksgiving with us.”
She paused.
“My sister and her family will be at Brian’s folks’ this year, so it’ll be . . .”
“Quiet?” she asked.
“Boring.”
She smiled. “I’d like that. Thank Cal for me.”
His hands rested on her shoulders. “You can thank him yourself.” He slowly spun the chair to face him and crouched down. “Are you okay?”
She blinked at him, staring at his walnut-brown eyes ringed with black. She brushed her hair back off her face. “Better now.”
He nodded, then stood and went back to work.
“Mark?”
He turned, waiting.
“Thank you.”
He smiled and picked up the power drill.
“Mark?”
He lifted his gaze again.
“The wall is going to look amazing.”
His smile widened. “So is the nativity.” He nodded his head toward the back of the house.
“Man,” she said, groaning. “You are such a boss.”
He pointed at both of his eyes, then at her.
She pulled herself out of the chair and made her way back to the art room. Grinning.
On Friday morning, Mark was back on Riley’s porch. He heard a horn beep beep behind him and turned. Alli Kent and her sister, Liv, waved enthusiastically from their blue Bug. He lifted a hand as they sped down the street.
Yet more spectators of the Mark Rivers Show. When the pizza was delivered last night, Dave Capshaw could barely keep from gawking between Mark and Riley, and then had outright nudged Mark. “I see the rumors are true,” he’d said with a wink. “Way to get after it.” Mark told him they were just friends. Riley had grown very quiet after that.
He was spending time nearly every day here, though, granted, most of that time Riley was away at work. He frowned. He hoped he’d done the right thing inviting her to Thanksgiving. It was already costing him. The grin on his dad’s face when he’d told him . . . The old man was going to be unbearable.
Mark knocked on Riley’s front door and waited. After a minute, he rang the bell. Footsteps padded on the wood floor, and the door swung open.
Riley held her hair on top of her head, and she had something stuck between her lips.
“Come in,” she said around the bobby pin. He remembered Steph holding them in her mouth like that when she’d get ready for dances.
“I’m not too early, am I?”
She shook her head, walking away from him. He closed the door behind him.
“No.” She padded back to the bathroom and leaned at the mirror. She took the bobby pin out of her mouth and jammed it in her hair. “I totally slept in. I’m so sorry.”
He laughed. “You slept in? It’s a school day.”
“Oh, don’t you do that. Don’t you dangle a hooky day in front of a teacher and then get upset when her body senses freedom.”
He chuckled. “You hit snooze, huh?”
“I hit off. I didn’t mean to.”
“Don’t worry about it. We have time.”
“I just need to slip on my shoes,” she said around her toothbrush. “This is okay, right?” She turned in a half circle, showing him what she was wearing—tight, dark jeans and a fitted flannel that accentuated her figure.
He had a hard time keeping his eyes from roaming. “I have those exact socks.”
She glanced at her pink fuzzy socks, rolled her eyes, and finished with her toothbrush before disappearing into her bedroom.
He raised his voice. “My dad keeps throwing out the idea that you need to see Leavenworth and all the Christmas stuff going on. You know, lights, Santa, Christmas trees. A million people. You should have seen his face when I told him Gainer had beaten him to the punch.”
She came out of her room. “You did not. Mark.”
He nodded. “Broke his heart. I think he has a thing for you.”
She shook her head, walking toward him. “You’re so mean.” She pulled her coat and a scarf out of the closet.
“He gives more than he gets.” He lifted the side of her coat she was struggling with, and she slid her arm inside. “He cheered up when I told him you were coming for Thanksgiving.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I’m glad.”
He watched her hands come together, fidgeting nervously. He reached out and held both her hands in his one, and she stilled. He quickly let go. “I told him what I have planned for today was better than Leavenworth.”
Her brow rose. “Oh?”
He nodded. “But it’s not very glamorous.”
“A girl can only handle so much glamour in one week.”
“Exactly. But . . . do you have a problem with blood?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Blood?”
“Do you trust me?”
She wrapped her scarf around her neck a couple times. “You’re not a vampire, are you?”
He smirked. “I don’t think so.”
She studied him. “I’m fine with blood. But I have no idea what you’re up to.”
“Trust me.”
“What are we doing here?” Riley asked as they pulled up to a tan building.
“I told you. They called, and I thought I could use your help.” He parked and turned to face her.
She knew he did that to give her more of his left side. Or less of his right. “I don’t have any experience with this.”
He looked out the window at the surrounding rural scenery, then smiled at her. “Won’t matter.”
They’d left the hills of Miracle Creek and, in a few miles, reached Wenatchee’s lower orchards and farmland. The parking lot was mostly empty, and at ten in the morning, the town was quiet. She read the sign on the building.
West Wenatchee Dialysis Center.
“All right,” she said. “But why are you here? I’m guessing you’ve been here before, and yet you obviously don’t need dialysis.”
He frowned. “Are you a doctor?”
She faltered. “Oh—”
“I don’t need dialysis, Riley.”
She thwapped his right arm.
He immediately grabbed the place she’d hit him and grimaced, sucking in air through his teeth.
Her eyes flew wide. “Oh no! I’m so sorry—” She leaned toward him, gripping his hand, patting his shoulder, unsure of what to do and feeling horrid. “I’m so sorry, Mark. What can I do?”
“Riley.”
She paused and met his gaze, inches from his face.
“I was joking.”
She pulled back and thwapped him harder.
He laughed deeply, and she fought the blush she knew was coming.
She lifted her finger. “That. Was. Not. Cool.”
He covered his mouth, still shaking with laughter. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t look sorry.”
He relaxed against his window and reached up, touching her very warm cheek. “It wasn’t nice. I am sorry.” He put his hand over his heart. “You really care.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Dummy. How am I supposed to know what hurts?”
&nb
sp; “That’s a good question.” He studied her for a few moments and grew serious. “My therapist suggested this,” he said, motioning to the clinic. “He set up the times and everything to start. At first, we thought maybe I should volunteer at a burn center, but the closest one is in Tacoma, and at the time, I wasn’t sure I could handle it. He came up with this instead. The center was desperate for volunteers, and they’re just down the road. So here I am.”
“And you brought me because—?”
“Because of what I said before. Sometimes to heal, you have to help somebody else.”
“But what will I be doing?”
“Just come in with me. Carmen’s waiting for us.”
“Who’s Carmen?”
“A friend,” he said. “Her husband travels for work, so she needs someone to help her off the machine and give her a ride home. You’ll like her, I promise.” He nodded at the front doors. “Ready?”
“Ready,” she said, though she wasn’t sure that was true. She hoped she didn’t mess anything up.
They entered the building and put on disposable gowns and gloves at a dressing station. She followed Mark to a long front desk where a woman in scrubs looked up from a computer screen.
“Hey, Mark.”
“Hi, Sheila. I brought a friend today. This is Riley.”
Sheila smiled at both of them. “Great. Sign in, both of you.” She pushed a clipboard toward them. “Carmen’s waiting for you on number ten.”
“Of course she is.”
“Her lucky number,” Sheila said with a wink at Riley, and went back to work.
Mark signed in, then passed the clipboard to Riley. After adding her name and phone number, she followed Mark beyond the desk. The room opened up into a large area filled with stations, defined mostly by the reclining chairs and the big machines sprouting tubes and cords next to them. Only three were occupied, and Riley felt eyes on her as they passed two men who were hooked up, their tubes filled with a red liquid.
She felt like she was intruding. Like when she’d realized Mark hadn’t meant for her to see him without his hood. One of the men smiled at her, and she relaxed. If he could smile while being hooked up to whatever these machines were doing, what claim did she have to be uncomfortable?
In a corner chair next to a window, a woman with a silk scarf wrapped around her head was already waving them over.
Mark grinned. “There she is.” He reached her and took her outstretched hand. “Carmen, how are you?”
She beamed up at him, pale, but bright-eyed. “Oh, I’m wonderful. Thank you. I’m so happy to see you. Tell me your name again?”
Mark didn’t blink an eye at not being remembered. “Mark Rivers.”
“Yes, Mark! You come to help me when they’re done with me. Oh, forgive me for not remembering.”
“That’s all right. Carmen, this is my friend, Riley Madigan.”
The woman shifted her gaze. “Riley Madigan, what a beautiful name.” She held out her hand, and Riley took it. Her grip was soft, her hand cold. “You’ll have to forgive me. I don’t remember names well. Sometimes I forget information I’ve just been given, but I can remember all kinds of other things.”
“That’s all right,” Riley said, unable to look away from the woman’s pale blue eyes. She couldn’t guess her age. Maybe fifty? “It’s nice to meet you. Mark’s been mysterious about where he was taking me today.”
“He has?” She turned to Mark. “Oh, that’s not very nice, bringing such a pretty girl here. And you didn’t tell her anything?”
He shrugged as a nurse came over to start working with the machine next to Carmen. “I told her there would be blood.”
Carmen put her hand over her mouth, covering her laugh.
Mark leaned toward her. “Nothing wrong with coming here. All the prettiest girls are here, after all.”
“Oh, you!” Carmen shook her head fondly at Mark and smiled at Riley.
She was sweetness and light in a body no bigger than Riley’s. Frail, maybe, but not enough wrinkles to be old.
The nurse took a seat on the rolling stool.
Carmen reached for the nurse’s arm. “Mark, Riley, this is nurse Amy. All the nurses here are so nice. Oh—Mark, you probably already know that.” Carmen rolled her eyes at herself.
Mark turned his attention to Amy as she started clamping tubes and unhooking things. Carmen distracted Riley with talk.
“Riley . . . It’s Riley, right? That’s a beautiful name. And you’re a beautiful girl. Isn’t she beautiful, Mark?”
Mark grinned, trying to focus on Amy’s instruction.
“Oh, look,” Carmen said. “I’ve made him blush. Riley, what do you do? Are you from . . . Where is Mark from? Cashmere?”
“Miracle Creek,” Riley answered. “I’m a new teacher there.”
Amy tied a rubber strap around Carmen’s upper arm and removed the tubing from its place above her inner elbow.
“What do you teach?”
“Art.” Riley glanced to see Mark take Amy’s place next to Carmen, applying pressure at the vein site with his own hands. Amy slid off the stool, and Mark sat down.
As Amy removed the rubber strap, Carmen gasped. They all looked, alarmed at the sound, but Carmen only exclaimed, “You’re an art teacher!”
Mark and Amy exchanged smiles, and the nurse made a few more checks and left them.
Riley blinked at the smooth transition of everything, noting that Mark had never once tried to hide his right side from anyone here. She glanced at Carmen, who still waited for a response.
“Yes,” she said. “I teach art.” Brilliant, Madigan.
Mark chuckled, and Riley threw him a glare as she sat in a nearby rolling chair.
Mark leaned closer to Carmen’s arm, adding pressure with both hands stacked on top of each other. They moved with a slight thump-thump of Carmen’s pulse. He looked up at Riley, catching her watching. “Carmen’s an artist, too.”
Riley looked from him, as he literally held in the woman’s life blood, to Carmen. Carmen’s eyes were wide as she nodded.
“In what medium?” Riley asked.
Carmen rested her head against her recliner. “Watercolor, mostly. At least, I used to. I had a stroke. My kidneys failed—I almost died—while I was in the hospital trying to—” She looked at Mark.
“Recover.”
“Yes, recover from the stroke.” She lifted her right arm, the one she’d given Riley when they were introduced. “I lost a lot of muscle control on my right side, so . . .” She looked around, as if searching for the right word. “Umm, partial paralysis. That’s why I need someone to come and put pressure on my arm. I can’t do it myself like the other patients.”
“I’m happy to help,” Mark murmured.
Carmen patted his arm. “I’m unable to paint anymore. The stroke is why I don’t remember the way I used to. I forget new information quickly. Sometimes I lose words. I had to learn to read all over again! My grown daughter taught me, if you can believe that. I picked up a magazine after the stroke, and I thought, why would anybody give me this magazine? I thought it was written in Latvian or something! I don’t know Latvian.”
Riley didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“But I can remember a lot of other things.” She took Riley’s hand again. “You’re . . . Riley.”
Riley nodded, and Carmen smiled, pleased.
Riley was struck both by the magnitude of loss this woman had suffered and by how much joy she still exuded. “I’d love to see something you’ve painted.”
Carmen’s eyes lit up. “I have some pieces around town, you know.”
“Carmen has done commission pieces for fruit growers all over,” Mark said. “Families have had her paint pictures of their homes in the orchards or vineyards.”
Carmen nodded. “And I think . .
. yes, I’m sure . . . I knew Mark’s mother. But you and I didn’t know that when we met, did we, Mark?”
Mark shook his head as he adjusted his pressure on Carmen’s arm. How long did he have to hold it?
Carmen continued. “Leah Dolan. We were in the artists’ guild together. She was lovely. Mark, your mother was lovely. You look like her, around the eyes.”
“Thank you,” Mark said.
Carmen sighed. “It was so sad when she passed.” She reached across and patted Mark’s hands. Then she sat back in her chair and closed her eyes for a moment. When she looked at Riley again, she smiled. “Thank you so much for coming.”
How was this woman smiling? How was she so grateful? Riley suppressed the welling emotion behind her own eyes. She took a breath. “Do you miss painting?”
Carmen nodded, her smile subdued. “Very much.” Pain clouded her eyes for a moment, and then it dissipated. “Tell me about what you do. Do you paint?”
“Riley paints amazing oils,” Mark answered for her. “And she did all the backdrops for the school play.”
“Oh, wonderful. What was the play?”
“Peter Pan.”
“Oh, I bet it was fantastic.”
“It was,” Mark said. “Your husband took you.”
Carmen covered her eyes. “Oh, yes,” she groaned. “I remember now. It was wonderful.” She dropped her hand in her lap. “Are you a realist, Riley? Or more abstract?”
Riley gathered herself. “A blend of both, I think. I like a lot of color. A lot of contrast.”
“Who are your influences?”
“Oh, Caravaggio and Rembrandt. Delaroche.”
“Mmm, light against dark, yes.”
“Cezanne and Van Gogh, of course.”
“Of course, with the color. Brilliant.”
“And, um, Samuel John Peploe?”
“Oh, I don’t know him, but I want to. Can you get me my bag? I have a notebook in there and a pen.”
Riley helped her rummage through a small duffel bag and wrote down Samuel Peploe’s name. “There’s something about his still lifes that makes me look and look.”
“This gives me such an image of your painting, Riley,” Carmen said. “Will you bring me something next time you come?”
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