Riley stepped closer to have a better look. Leah had included a couple of copper metal sculptures in the summer gardens—tooled with a blade—and the mural on the front porch.
“That’s me on the tire swing,” Mark said behind her. “Steph’s in the window, reading. Mom knew this would be her last one. She didn’t finish.”
The children were shadows. A portion of the tree remained in charcoals, the rough sky painted in around it.
“So much movement,” she said. Even unfinished, the painting was filled with vibrant life.
“Sometimes I wonder what she’d think of Dad keeping the room like this. Is she shaking her head thinking this would make a great playroom for the grandkids?”
She smiled. “Who’s to say what we hang on to and what we let go?” She looked around, eager to redirect. “It’s not really hurting anyone, is it? Keeping this?”
He shrugged. “Eleven years and I’m the one asking you to recreate something of hers that we lost.”
“True,” she said.
She felt him study her, like a puzzle piece.
She wondered if Cal Rivers took his own advice about moving forward. Would he always be alone? She bit back the question. It wasn’t her place to question anyone about moving on after losing someone.
She turned to the large window. “Southwest facing?”
“Yep.”
“Does it catch sunsets?”
“Sometimes. Sunsets are tricky with the mountains so close.”
She nodded. “I miss the coastal sunsets in the Philippines, and Montana’s big sky. Miles of sunsets.”
“You’ll see plenty of sky come summer.”
“Surrounded by all these mountains?” she teased.
“We’ll get you up the mountains. See how you like that.”
“At sunset?”
“If that’s what you’re after.”
The confidence of his challenge stirred up her competitive side, and she imagine a hike up these beautiful mountains with Mark. For a sunset.
They locked eyes for a moment before he turned away. “I’ve got those pictures of the nativity downstairs.”
She nodded, glancing around once more. “Thanks for showing me this. She must have loved to work up here.”
“She did.” He paused as if to say something more, but then motioned her down ahead of him.
Stepping away from the stairs, she took the opportunity to glance over the family pictures in the hall, and one in particular drew her eye. The family of four lounged on a riverbank, parents seated under a tree, a young woman posed behind them. Next to her, one arm reaching up to a low tree limb, stood Mark, looking casual and confident, probably thirteen or fourteen years old. He was on the verge of laughter, whole and carefree. His mother had the same look of laughter, of joy in her family.
The bang of the stair door folding back into the ceiling startled her, and she spun away from the portrait.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked, brushing his hands on his pants. “A drink? More pastries? Are you warm enough?”
She brushed a stray lock of hair back from her face, her heartbeat returning to its normal pace. “I’m fine, thanks.”
He nodded, seeming distracted.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Yeah. Why?”
They descended the stairs to the main level. “You asked me if I wanted another pastry, and we both know I’m about to bust.”
He shook his head. “Just nervous, I guess.”
She nodded carefully. “About what?”
“About convincing you to do this project.”
“Ah.”
“Should I be nervous?” he asked, glancing at her sideways.
She drew in a deep breath. “I’m here to consider something I already told you I was interested in.”
“But there’s still a chance you might say no.”
She smiled. “Just show me the pictures you have, and I’ll decide for sure.”
He led her down another hall. “I shouldn’t have pushed the bollen.”
“Let’s not go that far.”
The corner of his mouth lifted.
Mark led Riley to a small room behind the garage. A washing machine and dryer were tucked into one corner, and a cot and desk sat in another. He grabbed a pile of folded clothes off the cot and shoved them into a basket.
“I used to sleep out here when we had a lot of company for Thanksgiving or whatever.” He went to the desk and opened the top drawer. “These were all I could find. They were shots I took as a kid with my cheap-o camera, so they’re not the best quality.” He held out a small stack of photos.
“Your mom didn’t take pictures of them when they were completed?”
“She did, but they were in the outbuilding . . .”
She took the photos from him.
“We kept most of the photo albums here in the house. A lot of family pictures. But we lost several boxes of pictures that were stored. Pictures of her childhood, and Dad’s. Their wedding. Mom had some framed here in the house, but when they turned the attic into her studio, the outbuilding became a storage unit. Can’t blame them. It was as insulated and weathertight as this house and had plenty of room in the loft for all kinds of stuff. Including the Christmas decorations.”
Riley tried to wrap her head around that kind of loss. Her family had so few possessions she hadn’t known they’d even had a storage unit until she was older. Her parents’ brief separation when she was a kid had shed light on a lot of things. One of those was a storage unit in Bozeman, and another in Madison, Wisconsin.
Riley leafed through the pictures, studying each one. They’d definitely been taken from a lower angle. She turned one in her hand, trying to see what the photographer had seen.
“I told you they were lousy.”
“They aren’t that bad. I can see most of Joseph in this one. This one of Mary is good.”
He peered over her shoulder.
“There isn’t a clear one of the baby,” she said, sorting through the pictures again.
“I was trying to get a close-up, I think. With a flash.”
“That explains the big shine over his face.”
A shiver of recognition ran down her back as she studied the figures, understanding why Mark had seen his mother’s style in her own. “The boards were
