“She did that often. Used gesso. She said the colors didn’t have to fight so hard to glow.”
She turned her head, startled by his nearness. A few more inches and she could’ve reached up and touched her nose to his jaw. He must have felt it too, because he stepped away, leaving a blend of aftershave and grilled steak and pastry in his wake.
She drew in a breath and cleared her head. “You know a lot about her painting.” He’d recognized terminology and showed familiarity with the art; she couldn’t help being impressed.
He studied the floor. “I asked a lot of questions.”
She could imagine the exchanges—probably similar to the ones she’d had with her dad about photography. The trick of priming, or gessoing, a surface matte gray or black instead of leaving it white was used when—like Mark said—an artist wanted the colors to pop. Blues shimmered, reds flamed, greens came alive. Whites shone. Leah had used the black base to create a dense outline and add depth to the figures. And—as Mark said—they glowed. Riley had used the same technique in the Peter Pan backgrounds and props.
“You see it, don’t you?” Mark asked.
Yes. She saw it. “They’re stunning.”
“Every year I told myself I needed to take better pictures after they were set up. And every year when I finished, my mind was on getting back to the house to warm up or getting to town or . . .” He looked away, his hands resting at his hips.
“You never know when something special is going to be gone,” she heard herself say.
His expression clouded. “I’ve learned that lesson too many times.” He took the photos from her hand and shuffled through them. “I drew up some sketches and dimensions, too.” He set the photos on the desk and lifted his gaze to hers. “Will you help me do this?”
She wanted to have some valid excuse to back out. To say, no, she couldn’t take on something of this magnitude.
But that wouldn’t be the truth.
He noticed her hesitation. “What makes it a hard decision?”
The obvious answer was time, but he’d offered to help her with the house. She’d painted three backdrops for the play in a few weeks, and she’d been just as busy. She couldn’t deny the spark she’d felt looking at the images and feeling challenged to create again. But the knot in her chest was made of fear, deep and familiar.
She shook her head. “I want to have the house done by the end of the school year, and Yvette’s already talking about next semester’s play, and art club twice a week and—I just don’t know if I could take on a project this size and have it finished for you when you want it,” she lied. “I don’t want to promise you something I can’t deliver.”
“I told you I can help with the house,” he said.
She folded her arms. “I’d like to have it ready as a vacation rental by summer.”
His gaze narrowed a fraction. “While you’re somewhere else.”
Watching the cement floor, Riley shrugged. “Like I said. I’m still deciding if I belong in Miracle Creek.”
A few uncomfortable seconds ticked by.
“You belong,” Mark said quietly.
Riley lifted her gaze to find him focused on the wall. His words echoed through her.
“It’s the Christmas thing,” he said. “Right?”
He’d paid too close attention last night. “It’s complicated.”
His brow pulled forward. “I know the best guys who can do the electrical and plumbing. And the windows. I’ll do everything I can to help you with the rest of the house.”
“Just like that?” she asked.
“Just like that.” He kept his left side to her.
She shook her head, but could feel herself caving. What was she getting herself into?
He stepped to the doorway. “Take all the time you need to consider. I’ll get you another donut—”
“Mark.”
He paused.
She took a deep breath. “I’ll do it.”
He turned back to her. “What?”
“You heard me—whoa—” In two steps, he’d reentered the room, held her arms, then kissed her cheek.
“Thank you,” he said, holding her gaze, his face close to hers.
She caught her breath. His eyes weren’t as dark as she’d first thought. Not that she’d been thinking about his eyes. Even if they were a true walnut-brown ringed in black.
“I’ll help you,” he said. “I promise.”
Her gaze followed the scars trailing from his eye down to the corner of his mouth.
He abruptly stepped away. “I-I’m sorry,” he stammered, his voice low and quiet. He didn’t look at her. “I don’t know where that came from. It won’t happen again.”
“It’s okay,” she said, her heart still recovering from his sudden show of gratitude. “I know this is important to you.”
“I really didn’t know if you’d say yes.”
“Well, I could use the help with the house. And I like your dad. And your mom.”
A moment hung in the air where she should have said, “And you.” They’d declared themselves friends. But she didn’t say it, and the space was filled with nothing. Awkward nothing.
“I’ll get you the notes I made.” He left her in the cold room while he returned to the house.
Riley folded her arms against the chill and walked over to the desk, grabbing the stack of photos again. She sat on the cot and shuffled through the pics. She shook her head.
This was not in the plan, Madigan.
Mark returned and set some drawings and a pad of graph paper on the desk. “I’ve got the boards. I can get the figures cut tomorrow if we draw them out tonight. And I can paint them black, or both of us can. That would speed things along. You probably have family stuff planned for the holidays, huh?”
She huffed a laugh, his nervous energy contagious. “No. I don’t have any plans for Thanksgiving or Christmas. That should help.”
He sat down next to her on the cot. “No family stuff?”
She shook her head, staring blindly at the top photo.
“Can I ask why?”
She shrugged. “My parents are traveling over Thanksgiving. They’ll be in California for Christmas, but I need to . . .
