“So,” she said, peeling the second backing off the tape now surrounding the entire window. “Why did you come here this morning?”
“My dad sent me.” He began removing the old latch plate.
“Your dad? Do I know him?”
“Nope. But he asked around and someone gave him your name.”
This is something that should be asked in person, he heard his dad say. Not with his back to her, either. He put down his tools and stood, facing Riley. She had the plastic sheet spread out and was pressing it to the top edge of the taped window.
He steadied his nerves and went over to help her, holding the hanging portion of plastic and smoothing over the stretches of tape she’d already covered. Standing on the stepladder, she was a few inches taller than he was. “My mom passed away eleven years ago.”
She paused. “I’m sorry to hear that. How old were you?”
“Almost sixteen. She was an artist. Oil paints, mostly. Some metal sculpture.” He felt her eyes on him as her hands stilled. He was on her right side, so he didn’t mind her looking. “We had a lot of her artwork in the outbuilding when it burned down.”
She stepped down off the ladder. The plastic film hung where she’d left it. “That’s horrible.”
He nodded. “By the time my dad got to the building, it was too late.”
“I’m so sorry.” Her gaze drifted to the paintings on the wall. He’d assumed they were hers. They had her look.
He absently smoothed over the taped plastic again. “We had some of her favorites in the house, so at least those were saved. And most of the garden sculptures.”
She frowned. “What did your dad think I could do?”
“It’s the insurance. The last of the inventory. He’s listed the paintings as lost items, but he has no idea how to put a value on them. He could guess, but he’s too . . .” He searched for the words.
“Emotionally involved?” she offered.
“Exactly. And he’s hesitant to hand it over to the insurers. They’ve been pretty patient with him, giving him the option to get his own appraiser. He was hoping you could come look at the ledger, listen to a description, maybe give him ballpark figures. Honestly, I think if it were up to him, he’d just call it a loss and move on. But I think out of respect for my mom, he’s got to make them count. If he didn’t claim them, it was like they never existed. I think he’s considering doing something she’d like with the money. Something for the arts.”
“Of course,” she said. “I have a friend who works at an art gallery in Denver I can use as a reference. I’d be happy to help however I can.”
“Thanks. I’ll let him know, and you two can decide on a time to come over to the house.”
She nodded, and they went back to work. He helped her until she had the plastic film in place, and then he returned to the door while she finished the windows.
She turned the blow-dryer off. “There,” she said, looking at her handiwork. “That should make a difference.”
He opened and closed the door, pleased that the new doorknob seemed to be doing its job. After shutting the door tightly, he checked the brick fireplace, feeling for a draft. He peered up the chimney, checking the flu.
“Keep this damper closed unless you’ve got a fire in it. That will help, too.”
“Thank you,” she said, folding her arms and sighing. “I guess you’ve made up for breaking my door.”
He nodded, shifting his weight, suddenly unsure. But it had been such a strange day already, he might as well ride it out. “I have something else I wanted to ask you.”
“Oh?” She stuffed the trimmed strips of plastic and the rest of the mess into a garbage bag.
“Yeah. It’s for me, though. Sort of.”
She tossed the bag on the floor near the front door. “Okay, shoot.”
“I had this idea. I wanted to know if you’d be interested in painting something for me. Well, not for me, for my dad.”
“What’s the project?” Once again, she was looking at him expectantly. No pity or discomfort in her expression.
He took a deep breath and decided to just get it out. “It’s a nativity. Life-size. My mom painted one years ago. It’s always been up at Christmastime, so people can see it from the highway as they enter town. After she was gone, it was a reminder of what she loved most. But it burned up with the fire. I saw your backdrops at the play—your painting style is really similar to hers—and I thought I—we—could surprise my dad.”
She didn’t answer immediately.
“I have some photos of the original,” he continued. “They’re not great. But I could do the wood cutouts. We’ve got most of the materials.”
She walked past him to the couch. “That’s a big time commitment.”
“Yeah. I know. It wouldn’t have to be complete by Christmas. Just . . . underway.”
She began pushing the couch back into place in front of the window.
He stepped forward to help her. “We won’t have to work together, if that’s—”
“That doesn’t have anything to do with it,” she said, frowning. “If I don’t take this on, it’s because of time, not because I’d have to work with you. I have so little time with school and art club and needing to fix up this place.”
“I’d pay you, of course. Whatever your time’s worth. Six hundred dollars?”
“No—” She eyed the couch’s position.
“Nine hundred?”
“You skipped from six hundred to nine hundred,” she said, shoving the couch to the right with her knee.
“Seven-fifty?”
She laughed, and his hopes rose. But then she grew quiet again.
“Mark, thank you for asking, but I can’t. I just . . .”
He frowned. “No, it’s okay. It was just an idea.”
“It’s a good idea.”
They were both silent. Mark rubbed his face, the patches and furrows that would never go away, wanting to hide his disappointment.
