He glanced at Riley, put the canvas down, and picked up the next one. A portrait of a child, bundled up in bright, haphazard colors, pink-cheeked in the snow, following an adult, holding her hand, but looking back toward the artist.
He picked up another. A bird at the edge of a puddle in the street, fallen maple leaves on the ground. She’d shown the rain. In that bold, raw, painting-on-black style of hers, she’d somehow depicted rain.
“You’re not saying anything,” she said. “Should I be worried?”
He looked away. “I’m wondering why you’re not in a magazine.”
She made a tsk sound. “Come on.”
He looked over the painting a few more seconds, then set it down with the others. He went to the easel and saw pretty quickly that she’d been sketching faces for the nativity. A few of his photos were clipped to the corners. “I’m dead serious, Riley.” He gave her his full attention. “Why aren’t you in a gallery somewhere?”
She shook her head, her cheeks flushed. “I’ve only been serious about it for a little while. I mean, I’ve always studied, but I was studying other things, too.” She picked up a charcoal pencil from the easel tray and turned it in her fingers. “It took me a while to figure out what I really wanted to do. Painting rose to the top.”
He watched her put the pencil back. “It shows.”
She smiled at him. “Thanks.” She looked around, then motioned for him to follow her out.
When they returned to the front room, he hesitated to leave. “I think my mom would’ve liked you.”
She smiled, clearly touched by the compliment. “I wish I could have met her. To be able to talk to her about the industry, ask her questions . . .” She shrugged.
He nodded, feeling that ever-present loss more keenly than before. “She would’ve gotten a kick out of someone who actually moved to this little valley because of her interview in American Artist Magazine.”
“They don’t even make that magazine anymore,” she said. “It went out of business a few years ago. Everything’s online now.”
“If you ever want a copy of that particular issue, we have about three dozen of them.”
She laughed. “Really?”
“Yeah, my dad went a little nuts.”
“That’s awesome.”
“Yeah, it is, I guess.” He noticed the trio of paintings above her fireplace. “Those are yours, too?”
“Yep. Those are my favorite.”
He stepped closer. Three different houses. Not as unique as the paintings in the art room, but still vibrant.
“They’re three of the houses I lived in, growing up. Where I have the best memories.”
“The yellow house in the middle looks like it could belong here in Miracle Creek.”
“That’s my favorite. It was my grandma’s house in Bozeman. I didn’t actually live there, though it feels like I lived there more than anywhere else.”
She moved away from the paintings, his cue to change the subject.
“Does your mom still flip houses?” he asked.
“No. When she’s not traveling, she focuses on the home she and my dad have now.”
“How does that feel, after all those years?” He watched her carefully.
“You mean, how does it feel that they settled down to a real home after I grew up and left?”
He heard the hint of bitterness in her voice, but she smiled. Then her eye twitched, and he laughed.
She chuckled. “The irony isn’t lost on me, believe me.” She sighed. “My dad’s a very charismatic person. One of those people who lights up a room and everyone in it but doesn’t hold still for long. I think he’s finally seeing how happy it makes my mom to be settled.” She grew quiet again, studying the paintings. “Maybe.”
“Sometimes it’s hard thinking of our parents as just people.”
“Yeah,” she said. “And sometimes they make it too easy.”
“Oh, so you’ve met my father.”
She grinned, her eyes glassy.
He fought the urge to gather her in his arms. Instead, he touched her elbow. “I better get going.”
She glanced at the clock. “Yeah. Thanks for bringing those. I’ll start on them tonight.”
“Are you going to be wearing that?” he asked, only half kidding.
She laughed and smoothed her skirt, though he couldn’t see a wrinkle. “No. I’m going out to dinner.”
“Oh? The Grill-n-Go again?” He teased, but he didn’t feel like laughing.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Ha ha.”
“So . . . who are you going out with?” he asked, immediately wanting to take back the question.
“Dalton.”
“Who?” he asked, feigning indifference as jealousy shot through his chest, shoulder to shoulder.
“Dalton Gainer.”
He nodded. “Oh, that Dalton.” He stood there like an idiot.
“Do you know many Daltons?”
“Sure. Loads.” But only one Dalton had compared Riley to a record on a scoreboard.
She cocked her head. Then she smiled. Man, he wished she wouldn’t smile like that.
“Well,” he said. “Good night.” He turned to the door.
“Mark?” she asked, and he winced.
He turned again, finding her standing there, wide-eyed and trusting. “What?”
“I know how you feel about him. Dalton, I mean.”
“I don’t want to date him, if that’s what you’re implying.”
She shook her head. “You know that’s not what I mean. I can handle myself, you know?”
He ran a hand over his face. “I’m sure you can. You look great, by the way.”
Her smile reappeared on those rosy lips. “Oh yeah?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.
And that was when the thought of Riley Madigan going out with Dalton Gainer made him want to throw up.
Her smile faltered at his expression. “What?”
“I was just—” He hesitated. “Do you talk to Dalton about the stuff we talk about?”
After a moment, she shook her head. “No.”
He let out a hidden sigh of relief.
“To tell you the truth,” she said, looking back at him, “I can hardly get a word in edgewise.” Humor returned to her eyes. “I’m not friends with him the way I am with you.”
There it was. Again. Friends. He nodded. “Good night, Riley.”
“Good night, Mark.”
He grabbed the door and got out of there. The last thing he needed to see was Dalton’s car pulling up the street. Because if he did, he might do
