“Are you from Montana?”
“Once I was from Montana.”
He stopped his chewing and gave her an odd look. He swallowed. “And the other times?”
She sat back and sighed. “Wisconsin, Illinois, New York—twice—Florida, Germany, DC, Maine, Louisiana, Sydney, Ontario, the Philippines, Colorado. And then California.”
He stared at her, all self-consciousness gone. So that was the trick. Stun him with her nomadic history.
“Your family moved around that much?”
She shrugged, uncomfortable. “My dad’s a photographer. A driven, ambitious man. It was important to my mom to be with him. We went where the job was. Sometimes. Sometimes he went without us.”
“I can’t imagine what that would be like.”
She looked around the kitchen where he’d probably eaten dinner since first grade. “No, I suppose not.”
He turned his attention back to his food. Almost. “Was it hard?”
“I spent as much time as I could with my grandma in Montana. Holidays, mostly. It’s all I knew, so . . .” She stabbed some salad. “You sure are talking a lot for someone who was afraid to come to my door to ask me a question.”
“I did come to your door.” He jabbed a piece of steak with his fork.
“Yeah, and then you broke it.”
His fork paused, and he narrowed his eyes at her, then took his bite.
She fought to hide the smile that surfaced from that one small action. She worked on her potato.
Mark sat back. “How did you learn to renovate houses?”
He was definitely getting more comfortable asking questions. She swallowed her bite of potato, wanting to shove more in her mouth. “My mom. If she knew we were going to be in an area for a while, she’d get her hands on a diamond in the rough in a good neighborhood and challenge herself to flip it before we moved again. My dad would help sometimes.” She stabbed another forkful of salad, remembering it was usually better when her dad didn’t help. “I learned a lot from her.” She glanced at him, painting on a smile.
“I’m sure you were a big help.”
She pulled in a deep breath. “Oh, I don’t know. There were times when I definitely did not help.”
“Like when?”
She lifted her glass. “C’mon. I can’t tell you all my secrets.”
“I’ll remember you said that,” he said, leaning forward to put another bite of steak in his mouth.
She finished her drink. “Fine. We both have secrets. There’s nothing wrong with mutual understanding between friends.”
“Is that what this is? We’re friends?” He kept his expression neutral.
She shrugged. “Why not? I’m new in town with a shadowy past. You’re the uncertain town hero coming out of hiding. Sounds like we could both use a friend. Now that you’re being talky and all.”
He shook his head. “You are insane.”
“I told you so.”
After a few more bites, she said, “You aren’t wearing your hood.”
He didn’t look up. “Nope.”
When they finished dinner, she moved to start clearing the table.
“Stay,” he told her, standing. “We’re not finished.”
“But I’m so full.”
He ignored her, but she stayed and waited until he returned with a plate.
“Are those—?”
“Tender, flaky pastries? Yes. The best Bavarian cream you’ve had outside Bavaria. Wait, you’ve lived in Bavaria.”
She grinned up at him. “Munich. You are evil.”
“I’m not gonna lie. I’m trying to soften you up.”
“Literally?”
He chuckled. “For the project.”
“Very cunning.”
“You gave me the weapon.” He offered her the plate.
“And you chose to use it,” she said, taking one of Lette Mae’s bollen.
“Better than a baseball bat.”
She licked the cream off her finger, smooth and cold and infused with vanilla and sugar. “Mhph” was all she could say.
After they cleared the dishes, Mark led her upstairs. At the top, he walked past several rooms and, at the end of the hall lined with family pictures, he pulled down a set of folding stairs from the ceiling. He stepped back and motioned her up.
As Riley climbed the stairs to the attic, anticipation tickled the back of her neck. It was an art room, for heaven’s sake. She had an art room. It didn’t give her tingles any time she walked into it.
Maybe it should.
She emerged from the stairs into darkness and stepped aside for Mark. He flipped a switch, and the room lit up.
The track lighting was no surprise, but the floor-to-ceiling window draped with white Christmas lights made her gasp. “I bet this gets great light during the day.” Riley approached the easel in the center of the room. She glanced at Mark, who nodded.
A few tubes of oil paint, old and bent from being squeezed, lay in the easel tray. Umber. Chrome Green. Cerulean.
Riley smiled. “Sennelier.”
“She used other brands, but mostly this.” Mark watched her, his arms folded, his expression unreadable.
“Monet painted with Sennelier. And Gaugin, Matisse.”
“Picasso,” he added.
Riley nodded. She shoved her hands in her pockets, afraid if she didn’t, she’d pick up the tubes just to feel them.
Mark inhaled deeply. “It used to smell like her in here. The paint, of course. Turpentine. But she had this perfume. Sunflowers. Dad always got it for her for Christmas.”
“I remember that one.”
His head ducked. “Go ahead. Look around.”
She lightly ran her hand over the worktable to her left. Small boxes of feathers and hooks littered the top.
The attic walls rose about four feet before they pitched up to the roofline. A long shelf of cubbies pressed against the wall, each one stuffed with books, magazines, jars of brushes and sponges, old linseed oil, spatulas, and rolls of newspapers. Several palettes were stacked vertically into taller slots. She pulled one out a few inches. Blobs and smears, mixes of colors still covered the surface, cracked and dried after so many years.
She looked at Mark.
“I don’t think Dad knew what to do with that one. Mom had cleaned the others like she always did after a project. That one was what she was working from until the end.”
“What was she painting?”
He nodded toward the opposite wall where two dormer windows let in more light. Fixed to the wall between the dormers was a painting of the house and
