“I see. And how are you doing, honey? Are you really ‘just fine’?”
“Yes. Really. I love my job. The house is coming along. I’m painting.”
Her mom’s tone perked up. “What are you painting?”
“It’s a commission piece for Christmas. Which means I’m working here through the holiday. I’m staying in Miracle Creek, in my own house, with my own stupid wreath on my door, if I get one.”
Her mom sighed again. “Jeremy will be disappointed.”
“Who’s Jeremy?”
“The orthodontist.”
“He doesn’t even know me. Mom, you and Dad need to stop trying to set me up.”
“But, sweetheart, we have connections with so many beautiful people.”
“You, of all people, know beauty isn’t everything, Mom.” Riley waited, knowing she’d struck a chord. “You and Grandma were the ones who taught me to see beauty in the broken things, the worn-out things. The gritty and real things. I’m done with Dad’s shiny, airbrushed world. You can have it.”
“I’ve had both, Riley,” her mom said quietly. “And I’ve tried to do my best with it. Your dad wishes he could go back and do things differently. We both do. He’s only trying to make up for how things went with Gavin.”
“That’s not his responsibility. I’m sorry, Mom, but I’m staying here.”
After a moment of silence, her mom spoke again. “I’m glad you’re painting again. Do you remember my friend, Cheri Mathison?”
“The artist in New Orleans?”
“Yes. She’s establishing an artist’s residency program there this summer, and she wondered if you’d be interested in joining the faculty. Sort of a junior teacher-in-residence. Imagine, New Orleans.”
Riley paused. She could imagine. “Did you tell her I’m teaching here?”
“I told her I would let you know about the opportunity and that you would contact her. I’ll send her information along.”
Her earlier conviction wavered. “Thanks.”
“I can’t imagine your little Creek town could hold a candle to one of the most art-fueled cities in the country.”
Riley’s gaze swept over her well-worn classroom. No. No, it couldn’t.
At home, Riley worked on the nativity while Mark cut and fit drywall onto the new, wider arched entryway between the front room and the kitchen. She glanced at her phone to find it long past dinnertime.
She came out of her art room, rolling her shoulders. “I’m ordering pizza. What do you like?”
“Everything.”
“You’re easy.”
“Hardly.”
She gave him a smirk and turned to her phone, grateful that the nearest pizza place delivered to Miracle Creek. She looked up the number and sat down at the rolltop desk, rubbing the spot between her shoulder blade and neck. After the pizza was ordered, she dropped her phone on the desk and sighed. She couldn’t get the conversation with her mom out of her head.
“My neck is killing me.”
“Can I help?”
She looked behind her, and Mark gestured to her hand on her neck.
It had been too long a day, and she scarcely hesitated. “Yes, please.” She lowered her forehead to the desk.
But nothing happened.
“Did you change your mind?” she asked, hoping he hadn’t.
She felt her hair being gently swept aside, and he began working the spot she’d been rubbing. He began almost too gently, but as his pressure increased, she exhaled and let him work the tight muscles in her neck and shoulders loose.
“Something’s bothering you,” he said.
“Yes.” She kept herself from groaning under his firm touch.
“Hard day at school?”
“Yes.” Oh. He did this well. Her breath hitched.
“Am I hurting you?”
“No.” It did hurt, but in a good way.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
He kept working, kneading rock-hard ropes of muscle until they were smooth before moving to the next spot.
“You’re good at this,” she said with a tiny grunt. “How are you so good at this?”
He laughed quietly. “I’ve been on the receiving end of a lot of these during my recovery. I guess you get a feel for it after a while.”
He placed one hand on her shoulder while he worked the area between her shoulder blades. “So . . . my dad and I wanted to know if you’d have Thanksgiving with us.”
She paused.
“My sister and her family will be at Brian’s folks’ this year, so it’ll be . . .”
“Quiet?” she asked.
“Boring.”
She smiled. “I’d like that. Thank Cal for me.”
His hands rested on her shoulders. “You can thank him yourself.” He slowly spun the chair to face him and crouched down. “Are you okay?”
She blinked at him, staring at his walnut-brown eyes ringed with black. She brushed her hair back off her face. “Better now.”
He nodded, then stood and went back to work.
“Mark?”
He turned, waiting.
“Thank you.”
He smiled and picked up the power drill.
“Mark?”
He lifted his gaze again.
“The wall is going to look amazing.”
His smile widened. “So is the nativity.” He nodded his head toward the back of the house.
“Man,” she said, groaning. “You are such a boss.”
He pointed at both of his eyes, then at her.
She pulled herself out of the chair and made her way back to the art room. Grinning.
On Friday morning, Mark was back on Riley’s porch. He heard a horn beep beep behind him and turned. Alli Kent and her sister, Liv, waved enthusiastically from their blue Bug. He lifted a hand as they sped down the street.
Yet more spectators of the Mark Rivers Show. When the pizza was delivered last night, Dave Capshaw could barely keep from gawking between Mark and Riley, and then had outright nudged Mark. “I see the rumors are true,” he’d said with a wink. “Way to get after it.” Mark told him they were just friends. Riley had grown very quiet after that.
He was spending time nearly every day here, though, granted, most of that time Riley was away at work. He frowned. He hoped he’d done the right thing inviting her to Thanksgiving. It was already costing him. The grin on his dad’s face when he’d told him . . . The old man was going to be unbearable.
Mark knocked on Riley’s front door and waited. After a minute, he rang the bell. Footsteps padded on the wood floor, and the door swung open.
Riley held her hair
