“Right, well . . .”
She wasn’t going to tell him she’d researched the fire, read all about the pain and rehab he’d likely been through. She wouldn’t tell him the images of burn victims, before and during and after treatment, had turned her gut and torn at her selfish resolve. She wouldn’t tell him that any timeline she’d given herself with the house seemed inconsequential now.
“I’ve been thinking. About your mom,” she said. “I’m interested in learning more about her. Maybe trying to restore something of hers that was lost is an opportunity I shouldn’t take for granted. Are you all right with that?”
He paused. “We don’t mind sharing about my mom.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Does tomorrow afternoon work?” he asked. “I’ll tell Dad you’re coming before dinner to go over the ledger. Dinner is at my sister’s, so he’ll be leaving after you’re done. We can discuss the nativity then.”
“Aren’t you eating at your sister’s, too?”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
She chewed on her lip. “I don’t mean to disrupt your plans.”
“We eat at my sister’s every Sunday. It’s no problem to miss this one. Come at four. That’ll give you enough time to sort through numbers and get some questions answered.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“And Riley . . . I’ll make us something. Can’t talk business on empty stomachs.”
She reached out and touched the glass doorknob. “No, of course not. That would risk disaster before we even got started.”
“No disasters, then.”
The quiet, deep way he spoke sent unnerving shivers through her body. She withdrew her hand from the glass. “Four o’clock, tomorrow,” she said. She couldn’t promise no disasters. They seemed to follow her pretty closely.
He gave her directions, and after they said goodbye, she hung up and sat back in her chair, staring at the ceiling. She hadn’t expected him to ask her to stay for dinner. While she certainly wasn’t trying to “draw him out” like Nate had been so concerned about, she remembered what he’d said. For whatever reason, Mark trusted her. Enough that he seemed to have forgotten his scars for a few minutes today. He seemed to have forgotten that he was trying to hide. And in those few minutes, Riley had seen who he was behind the scars.
And she was having a hard time unseeing it.
Sunday afternoon, Riley drove a winding road with tall pine trees climbing the hill on her left and rows of winter orchard sloping down on her right.
She hadn’t slept well, sifting through memories and dreams, second-guessing herself. She’d spent the morning huddled in her quilt, researching Leah Dolan and similar artists on the internet, perusing online galleries and making notes about valuations, getting in touch with her friend who worked at the art gallery in Denver, ignoring the clock and her growling stomach until she was forced to admit that if she didn’t get up and shower soon, she’d have to show up at Mark’s house in her Spidey pajama pants and fuzzy slippers. So, she showered and dressed in jeans, a thermal T-shirt, and her Chucks. Her concession to laziness had been to skip shampooing her hair, wrangling it into braids instead. She’d yanked on a parka as she’d left the house. The weather had taken a frosty turn.
As she pulled up to the Riverses’ home, she was struck by the timelessness of it. White farmhouse, wide front porch, and dormer windows she guessed were functional and not the fakes people added for looks only. An old flagstone chimney climbed up the right side of the house, and trees at least thirty years old flanked both sides. They would offer nice shade in the warmer months. Flagstone steps climbed up from the gravel U-drive where she’d parked and led through an over-wintered garden.
When she stepped onto the porch, she paused. A tumbling river had been painted from the far end of the porch ceiling all the way across the covered front exterior and the front door itself to the bottom left where the siding met the porch floor. Watery grays, blues, and greens flowed over and around painted submerged rocks like a riverbed. Above the door, a painted sign read, “A Rivers Welcome.”
She rang the doorbell and waited, marveling that a little-known artist she’d read about in a magazine had painted such a magnificent mural.
The door opened, and a tall man with broad shoulders, silver-gray hair, and clear blue eyes greeted her.
“Hello, Ms. Madigan. Cal Rivers. Thanks for coming.” Mr. Rivers opened the door wide and beckoned her inside.
She obeyed. “Riley, please. I love this door. The whole porch is extraordinary.”
“Thank you. Leah believed a doorway should make a visitor feel like an adventurer, and a family feel like they never truly left. Look here.” He pointed to the lower right corner of the door where the painting gave the illusion of shallow water running over smooth rocks. On four of the rocks, she’d painted names as if they’d been carved into the stones. Calvin. Leah. Stephanie. Mark.
“The Rivers,” Cal said with a grin. “Been there a long time. I do my best to keep it from fading.”
“What a beautiful use of a name.”
“I was four or five when Mom painted that,” Mark said as he came down the stairs behind them wearing a knit skullcap and pulling up the hood of his sweatshirt.
Cal shut the door against the cold. “You couldn’t say your Rs. Cutest thing—‘Mahk Wivews.’”
“Aww,” Riley said.
“He’d point and say, ‘This is Mahk’s wock.’” Cal grinned and gave her a quick wink, and it became clear to Riley where Mark got his smile when he wasn’t protecting it.
“Thanks for sharing that, Dad.”
Cal chuckled again and took Riley’s coat. After hanging it on a hook, he waved her toward the dining room. “Speaking of pictures, Riley, we’ll be working in here. Do you need anything? We’ve got water, juice, soda, coffee.” He peered behind her at Mark, who leaned against the wall. “Don’t you have something to do?”
Mark looked annoyed. “Yeah.”
“Well git.”
Mark turned, grabbing a coat and a pair
