It hadn’t even crossed his mind until now.
He closed the ledger. Dad had been there for him almost every minute. Even when he was pushing Mark out of the house and into social situations, no matter how agitating, he did it for Mark. And Mark wanted to repay him in some way.
He glanced at the time. They’d be leaving for the school in a few minutes. Anxiety raised its head, and Mark told himself that he’d done this before. He could do it again. He’d enjoyed the play. He pictured Ivy grinning in her Lost Boys costume. Breathing a little easier, he remembered the painted backdrops for the school play, and it occurred to him why he was drawn to them.
They were familiar.
The final performance had gone well, minus the last-minute hang-up, literally, with Wendy’s harness. Backstage was bustling with the stage crew and their families, and a few actors who hadn’t left for the after-party. The janitors were cleaning the back of the auditorium, working their way down to the stage.
Riley studied the backdrop she’d painted of the Darling nursery. Though she’d loved how the London night skyline, Neverland forest, and the pirate ship backdrops had turned out, this was her favorite. She’d researched toys and furnishings from the Edwardian era and reproduced them for the Darling children as though they’d been well-played with, wanting to make this a place where magic happened.
Movement in the shadows caught her eye. To her left in the darkness of the wings, a hooded figure leaned against the far wall. He seemed to be watching her, but she could be mistaken. She glanced at him, and he straightened, looked in both directions, and took a few steps toward her.
Riley’s pulse quickened with concern while telling herself she was overreacting. This wasn’t Santa Monica.
“You coming to the after-party?”
Riley jumped and turned as Yvette padded toward her, shoes in one hand and a large satchel on her shoulder.
“My treat. Well, the school’s treat.” Yvette paused and gazed over Riley’s shoulder. “Well, what do you know?” she said quietly. “He ventured out.”
“Who?” Riley looked behind her, hoping that whatever unease she’d felt at the stranger’s attention could be explained.
But the stranger was leaving, slipping out the exit door into the night.
“Who was that?” Riley asked.
“A local hero. Mark Rivers. Good for him.”
Riley busied herself checking her bag, making sure she had everything. “Why good for him?”
“Oh, he’s a bit of a recluse.” Yvette pressed her lips in a smile. “I’m glad he came. Hope it made him happy.”
Riley paused, wondering what a recluse would want with her.
“Earth to Riley.” Yvette snapped her fingers and adjusted the strap of her bursting bag. Tonight, Riley knew, it held a makeup kit, a first aid kit, a sewing kit, a hairdo kit, duct tape, a screwdriver, and a stapler. “Come on. Get your things. We’ll get this cleaned up tomorrow.”
Yvette dropped her shoes on the floor and wriggled her feet inside each one as Riley collected her coat and bag. She couldn’t help but glance at the exit door where the “hero” had lurked and—if she wasn’t mistaken—had almost approached her.
Yvette motioned to the backdrop. “Best we’ve ever had. I had a teacher tell me once that the best sets draw the audience to the stage and then fade into the environment of their new reality. Tonight, you gave us that.”
Riley smiled. “You’re just saying that so I’ll share my onion rings with you.”
“Whatever works.” Yvette winked.
They left the building, and Riley strode across the nearly empty parking lot to her car, arms full of her own backstage emergency tote and a bouquet of roses the kids had given her during bows. She called out to Yvette. “I’m going to drop my stuff at my house first. See you at the restaurant.”
Yvette gave her a thumbs-up and climbed into her own car.
After Riley stowed her stash in the trunk, she came around to the front of the car. She’d parked along the edge of the lot, and across the street from her, a truck idled with its lights on. By the streetlamps, she spied the hooded figure watching her from inside the vehicle. After a moment, he pulled away.
A shiver ran through her. She got in her car, glancing around. She’d never felt like she was in danger in this small mountain town, but her adrenaline kept her alert all the way back to her house. Hero or not, if this person had become a recluse, who knew what could be going through his head.
Mark shook his head, furious with himself. Here he sat, three homes up from the art teacher’s house, away from the nearest streetlamp and the Taggarts’ annual Christmas lights spectacular, watching like a . . . like a stalker. He’d heard her say she was going home before heading to the restaurant, and he’d been stupid enough to think that he’d be able to work up the nerve to ask what he wanted to ask by the time she came out of her house. But he hadn’t left his truck yet or even parked in front of her house, which would be the normal thing to do if someone simply wanted to catch a person and ask them a question.
He huffed out a breath and looked away. Why was this so hard?
He rubbed his jaw where the skin often felt tight, then ran his hand against the rest of the right side of his face, feeling the map of scars.
That was why.
“Phones,” he mumbled. “This is why we have phones.”
He shook his head at himself again, determined to find her number and call her tomorrow.
A knock on his window nearly sent him through the roof. “What the—?”
And there she was, the art teacher, holding a baseball bat like she knew how to swing it. Hard.
“No!” He rolled down his window. The cold night air rushed in. “No, no, no, no, please.” He held his
