She picked up the board and made her way to Mark and the jigsaw. He looked up when she drew near enough, his safety glasses bringing a small smile to her face. He smiled back, reserved, and she noticed that what she’d taken for a sly, sort-of-crooked smile was probably caused by damage to the muscles on the right side of his face. It was scarcely noticeable—the scars barely reached his mouth—but that didn’t mean damage hadn’t been done to the muscles that had once pulled his face into a full grin.
“Last one,” she said, setting the board down.
He nodded and went back to work, finishing the shepherd’s crook. On the table sat a stack of neatly trimmed life-size figures they would paint entirely black. It would be up to her to bring them to life with shape, color, and shadow.
The saw paused, and she glanced up.
“Here,” he said, shoving a small hand-sander in her direction. “If you can finish the edges, we can get these ready to paint by six.”
He went back to the saw, and she plugged in the sander, but she didn’t turn it on.
Why had she just blurted out such private things? She rarely told anyone about her past. He’d been moved once the words had left her lips, but then he’d withdrawn like she was the damaged one. Ha. She was damaged.
She glanced at Mark.
No.
He’d said she was still healing, like he was. He’d given her that option.
He glanced at her, and then turned off the jigsaw. “Is everything okay?”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” she said.
“What?”
“What you said—‘still healing.’ I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
He removed his safety glasses and watched her, waiting for her to continue.
“I’d mostly thought of it as still wounded,” she said. “Still hurting.”
He looked down, absently wiping away sawdust from the figure he was working on. His brow furrowed. “That’s understandable.”
“If I’m still hurting, after all these years, it makes me feel like . . . like . . .” She frowned, unable to explain it.
“Like you’re doing something wrong,” he answered. “Like you’re not trying hard enough to fix something you had no control over. Or you’re just . . . damaged beyond repair.”
She lifted her chin. “Yes. Exactly. But saying you’re still healing, that changes it.”
He shrugged. “It’s proactive. Moving forward. Working on it.”
“That’s very wise.”
“Well, my therapist is very wise, so . . .”
She smiled at that.
He watched her another moment, wary, but patient. And there it was again. That sensation of being drawn in.
“I’m not sure how to work on it,” she said.
He reached for something on the workbench and moved toward her. She steadied her feet, bracing herself, though his motions were smooth and unhurried. He stopped in front of her and lifted his hands.
“Here.” He gently slid a pair of safety glasses over her ears and onto her nose. “Those eyes need protecting.”
His fingertips brushed the soft skin just in front of her ears.
She shivered, and he dropped his hands. “Thanks,” she managed to say, watching him, her mind dizzy with what she should be saying or doing or—
“You start by helping someone else, even if you don’t want to.”
“Is it okay if I want to?” she asked.
He nodded, looking away. “Of course. Even if it’s a charity case.”
“This isn’t a charity case,” she said, studying the beautiful left side of his face.
His gaze returned to hers. “No?”
“Of course not. Who do you think I am?” She folded her arms in front of her and leaned forward. “I’m trading you for backbreaking labor, remember?”
He broke into a smile at the same time she did.
“That’s right.” He put his safety glasses on. “And I’m not pulling up your carpet so you can stand around, lollygagging. Back to work, Ms. Madigan.”
“Lollygagging?”
He stepped back to the saw and switched it on. Once again, the room filled with noise. He brought two fingers up to his eyes, then pointed them at her.
She grinned and switched on the sander. Movement drew her eye to the window of the classroom door, but she looked at the pile of wood and decided no one would be able to tell what they were up to. Then she got back to work, still grinning.
Mark smoothed his hands over the boards. After he’d finished cutting out the last piece, he and Riley had both sanded and finished up just before six. They gathered everything they were taking with them, and Tom locked the door behind them on their way out.
“Looks like you two made good use of the shop,” he said.
Mark nodded. “Can’t thank you enough.”
“Hey,” Riley said as they walked down the hall, “we should use the art room to paint these. They’re going to take up a ton of space as they dry, and my house doesn’t have much of that, even in the garage. I’ve got all the drop cloths and brushes in my classroom, and they’d be dry by the next morning. I could have them gathered up and out of there before school starts so nobody asks about them.”
“I’ve got the paint in the back of my truck,” he said. “Just tell me when.”
“If we start tomorrow after school, we’d have time for two coats. You could pick them up Wednesday morning and then drop them at my house for the real painting.”
Mark nodded. That would definitely move things along. They paused as Tom unlocked the exterior door to let them out.
“You two have a good night,” he said with a nod as he walked to his car. “And good luck.”
Riley waved, then faced Mark. “So, you’ll just bring the cutouts tomorrow—Oh, wait,” she said, her hand going to her forehead. “I’ve got art club from three to five.” She stepped off the sidewalk, and he followed her.
“It’s up to you, but if we started right at five, we’d probably still have time for two coats. We’d just be here later.” He waited on her reaction. He’d already spent one evening with her.
