“I’m not looking at the truck,” she said without blinking, her breath puffing in the cold. “Why are you following me?”
He felt heat creep up his face. “I—I didn’t mean to follow you. I’m not—I mean I don’t usually—” He took a deep breath and let it out. “Look, I know it seems like I was following you, but I was just . . . getting up the nerve to ask you about something and it’s been a while since I’ve spoken . . . to people. At all.”
She shifted her weight but kept the bat ready to swing. “Who are you?”
“Mark Rivers.”
She narrowed her eyes and shifted her stance again.
“My family owns Rivers Orchards. I was at the play—at the school—the school play—and I wanted to ask you . . .” He hesitated again.
She waited, seeming to mull that over. “Yes?”
He straightened his shoulders and gathered himself. “Principal Grant told me you painted the backdrops, and I wanted to ask if you’d be interested in painting something for me. For Christmas.”
Her grip relaxed on the bat, but she didn’t lower it. “So you followed me to my house and waited in the dark? Have you heard of doorbells? Or phones?”
He closed his eyes, his hands still in the air. “I was just reminding myself of phones when you knocked on my window.” He eyed her bat. “Look, I’m not a bad guy. Just . . . forget it. I’ve clearly made a mess of this.”
He lowered his hands to put the truck in gear, and she tightened her grip, pulling the bat back as if to swing.
He lifted his hands again. “Whoa, wait a minute. I’m leaving.”
“How do I know you don’t have a gun down there?”
He frowned. “Really? You think I might have a gun, and you come at me with a baseball bat?”
He could see the foolishness of the situation hit her. But he’d been just as stupid. Even more so.
“Listen,” he said. “I don’t have a gun. I’m a firefighter. If anything, I’m going to have an ax. Isn’t that what firefighters have? An ax and a dalmatian?” His weak attempt at humor didn’t seem to make a difference. He kept his hands where she could see them and huffed out a laugh at the idiocy of the situation. “Look, you want to know if I have a weapon down here? You’re going to have to come and check for yourself.”
She blinked, and he thought he saw her biting back a smile—or maybe it was rage—when the blip of a siren sounded and red-and-blue flashing lights bounced off his rearview and side mirrors. They both shaded their eyes, and she finally lowered her weapon.
“You called the cops?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “Though that probably would’ve been the smarter thing to do.”
He groaned, pulled his hood off, and leaned back against the headrest as the crunch of boots approached the truck. A flashlight shined first at her, then at him.
“Hey, Mark.”
“Hey, Lester,” Mark answered.
“Ma’am.”
The art teacher nodded.
“Could you drop the bat please?”
She did. “What about him?” she asked, tipping her head at Mark. “He said he had an ax.”
“I did not,” Mark countered. “I said if I had something it would be an ax.”
Lester looked between them. “Is there a problem here?”
They both started talking at the same time, and Les put his hand up, quieting them both. “We got a call from a neighbor about a possible assault with a baseball bat—”
“I thought he was—” she began.
Les held up his hand again. “And a call from another neighbor worried about a possible stalker or burglar, and I quote, ‘casing the joint.’ Although he said he thought it was your truck, Mark, and wondered if you’d reported it stolen.”
Mark sighed. He looked sideways at Les, who motioned toward the houses. Several neighbors had gathered on their front porches, huddled in small groups, trying to be inconspicuous in the glare of their porch lights.
“Great,” Mark said.
“You want to tell me what’s going on? Ma’am, your name?”
“Riley Madigan.” She flicked her gaze toward Mark.
“Ms. Madigan, if you’ll go first, please?”
Riley rubbed her forehead. “I saw him in the stage wings at the high school, watching me after the play, and then again in the parking lot. But he took off both times. So I was careful driving home, and when I saw him park here after I went into the house, I got my bat and . . . I thought he might be planning to attack me . . . or something.”
Mark ran his hand over his face and deflated into the seat. “You will never know how sorry I am that I gave you that impression, but anyone who knows me—anyone—Les, tell her I would never—”
Les held up his hand again. He turned to her. “You thought he might be an attacker, so you came out to his truck with a bat?”
She stared at him. “Have you ever been a single woman living alone in a big city?”
“No,” Les said with sympathy. “I can’t say that I have.”
She shrugged. “Some of us sleep with guns under our beds, some of us have bats.”
Les nodded. “Fair enough.”
What had Mark been thinking? He hadn’t. Just like with his dad. He’d been living the last couple of years in a self-centered bubble.
“What do you have to say, Mark?”
Mark rubbed his hand over his mouth. Then he leaned toward Les, speaking quietly. “You remember Mom’s nativity?”
Les nodded. “Of course.”
“It was lost in the fire.”
He frowned. “I know. I was sorry to hear that.”
Mark nodded and glanced at the teacher, who frowned too, but in an angrier sort of way. He focused on Les.
“I was getting up the nerve to ask the art teacher here if she would consider painting a new set. I was thinking of surprising Dad with it.”
Les smiled. “Oh, hey, that’s a great idea.” He looked hopefully at Ms. Madigan, but when she didn’t smile back, he sobered again. “So why didn’t you just call her?”
“That’s what I
