She rolled her eyes at her stalwart resolve as she removed her coat and hung it up in the closet. She checked the thermostat. At least she had central heat, though a few more inches of insulation in the attic wouldn’t hurt.
The play had exhausted her, and nothing sounded better than sleep. She turned, and the house across the street caught her attention through her big front window. Innumerable Christmas lights had blinked on, covering not only the house but the detached garage, picket fence, several trees, shrubs, and—Riley narrowed her eyes—the mailbox? She crossed the room. Mr. Taggart waved at her from his driveway and gestured toward his house.
She waved back and gave him two thumbs up. He seemed to appreciate that, even as she closed her curtains.
“It was just Halloween,” she murmured. “I don’t even own Christmas lights.”
Her gaze roamed over her own space. She’d decorated sparsely, but the things she owned she loved: the old maple rolltop desk with someone’s initials carved on the inside, three small canvas paintings she’d left frameless, and a green velvet couch she’d grabbed from an estate sale in Cashmere. She’d found the dinette set in the kitchen at an antique store in the valley. Her rocker, of course. All a little dinged up but solid and, she thought, perfectly aesthetic. Add her equally simple bedroom furniture and kitchen things, and the art stuff she kept in the second bedroom, and she could pack up and move in a day. Maybe two. If she decided to rent out the house, the furnishings she’d leave behind were charming and inexpensive. A great combination. And so different from the sleek, modern style she’d been heading toward in Studio City. Different, but more her. Like a favorite pair of jeans and a comfy sweater after a long day.
To be honest, Riley wasn’t sure how long she’d be here. Thinking of the future made her uneasy. Like standing at the top of a waterslide and trusting there was a pool on the other side of the turns and tunnels.
Nobody in California had heard of Miracle Creek or Wenatchee Valley. Which was perfect. Start at the start.
Maybe after putting enough work, enough of herself, into something like this house, she’d have more of a reason to keep it. Or not. But the option would be there.
She sighed. She liked Miracle Creek. She’d rarely lived in one place for more than a year, and she’d liked a lot of the places her nomadic upbringing and schooling had taken her. And she’d liked Studio City, working with her dad in Hollywood. Her parents had even been getting along, but then, after a string of dead-end relationships, she’d made the mistake of giving her heart away and allowing herself to believe love could be different.
She’d been wrong.
Miracle Creek was where she could nurse her wounds in obscurity, teaching at little Mt. Stuart K-12 where nobody had ever heard of her and nobody cared.
She appreciated the job. Art departments were already obsolete in elementary schools, and more were being cut out of middle and high school curriculums—along with home ec, woodshop, and orchestra. Art had been her favorite class in second grade, and yet now it was possible to find kids who had never been in an industrial, hodgepodge, color-chaos, clay-and-turpentine-smelling art classroom. But it was what Riley loved, and of all the things she’d left behind, she loved returning to this. She’d missed having a classroom and students. Her classes at Mt. Stuart were small, and her art room felt timeless. And she couldn’t deny, between the busyness of the school play, her classwork, and the town’s absolute non-Hollywood atmosphere, she’d done some forgetting and some healing in the last few months.
Maybe she’d stick it out and find a bit of peace in Miracle Creek, Washington.
Apprehension bloomed in her chest as it did whenever she thought about settling down.
A knock at the door broke her from her thoughts.
She opened it to see the entirety of her student art club—all four of them.
“Hey, Ms. Madigan,” Justice said. “We were making cookies, and we thought you’d like some.” She held out a paper plate covered in plastic wrap.
Riley spied chocolate chips as she took the warm plate. It had been hours since she’d eaten. “Thanks for thinking of me.”
“Thanks for bringing back art club,” Holly said.
“My pleasure. You guys have been a great help.”
“We messed up the trees,” Paulo said, nudging Jack.
She smiled. “Oh, I’m sure somebody somewhere has successfully grown a palm tree in London. Besides, we have tomorrow to get it right. Right?”
They nodded and waved goodbye.
Riley watched them walk down the street. Two more houses turned on their Christmas lights, and her mouth dropped open. Seriously?
She peeled back the plastic wrap and bit into a cookie, peering at her own eaves and wondering if a wreath on the door would be sufficient enough decoration.
Mark pounded nails into the framework of the new outbuilding. Trusses were going up Monday, and they needed to be ready. He paused and wiped his forehead. They had a nail gun, but Dad had made Mark do it by hand to build up strength and coordination. It had been painfully slow going at first. A few swear words had been shouted, and the hammer had been dropped—or thrown—more than a few times, but eventually, Mark had been able to pick up his speed and accuracy.
He’d spent most of the day focused on the work in front of him, but just now, sitting up on the frame, listening to the sound of his dad’s electric screwdriver and overlooking the gentle slope to the trees, their various shades of fading orange, yellow, and red, and the mountains climbing in the background under a pink sky . . . He breathed in the fresh orchard air and drank in the last of the colors.
The apple trees to the south had produced like mad this season. Harvest was over,
