Riley stared, transfixed.
Carmen cocked her head, studying her. “Have you been found?”
Flashes of memory lifted before her like birds unsettled from their rest. Mark, swinging Ivy in his arms. Mark, grinning next to his truck when he didn’t know his hoodie had fallen back. Mark, kissing her quick when she said she’d help him. Mark, sitting with her in front of the fire. Mark, holding her where they’d fallen in the snow. Mark, kissing her like he never wanted to stop. Mark, holding her gaze like he would never let her go . . .
Riley blinked away the sting behind her eyes and swallowed. “I was found. For a little while.”
“What happened?”
“I ran.” Worse. She’d thrown Mark out even though she’d known he was a Stickley.
“You’re human, sweetie. But it’s never too late to try again.”
Riley smiled, but it faded. “Sometimes it is.”
Carmen leaned back. “Where would I be,” she said, her eyes glassy, “if I thought that way?”
That night, Riley worked on the figure of baby Jesus. She sketched the paint lines on the black board with graphite and opened several of the sample-size jars of exterior house paint she’d been working with, giving them a stir. And still she hesitated.
The other characters stood in a line against the closet doors, watching her.
No pressure, guys.
She dipped her brush in the paint and began, working lightly and building up layers. The quiet of the house blanketed her thoughts, with only the sound of a tap and swish as she cleaned her brush in a mason jar of water. She’d gone through a lot of paint fast with this project, and Mark had found her a large pane of safety glass to use for mixing colors. It covered a sheet of black poster board on the desk next to the easel. She could mix large puddles of paint to work from and clean up easily when she was done.
He’d just showed up with it. Like when he and his dad had shoveled her driveway. Or when he’d given her the fire extinguisher. Like so many other things.
The framework of the manger and the hay forming the bed took shape first, followed by the soft bundle of white cloth wrapping the bulk of the baby’s body, save for one chubby arm reaching up to his mother.
She rinsed her brushes again and changed out the water. She mixed the baby’s skin colors and again built up layers against the black: the lifted arm and bare shoulder, the infant head and ears, adding dimension and the subtle glow this baby had. She found herself humming and paused. Not so much at the fact that she’d been humming, but more at what song had been rolling through her head.
What Child Is This . . .
She lifted her gaze to the figures against the closet and swallowed hard. She focused on Mary, who looked content. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. Selecting a smaller brush, she mixed the darker colors she would use for the baby’s facial details. She glanced again at the sketch she’d studied a hundred times.
Taking a deep breath and blowing it out, she touched brush to wood. Unbidden, the song came back to her as her brush followed the strokes she saw in her head, the idea once scratched on paper coming to life. She added more color to her brush, and her heart thumped a gentle tempo as she painted bowed lips, added depth to eyes and curls of hair, all the while that melody coursing through her senses.
At last Riley sat back, taking in the work. Taking in the face that said, I just want to be loved. Like everyone else.
To be loved. Even when she didn’t know whether to stay or go. Even when she was so afraid, she hid. Even when she was so sad and confused, she broke things, smashed things on the floor.
Grandma?
Grandma, what do I do?
She wiped a tear, but more fell. She let them fall, unsure what to think but knowing what she felt.
This is real. Dirty and imperfect and real.
Real is what stays.
She inhaled a slow, deep breath, and exhaled as the room stilled around her.
“Real is what stays,” she whispered.
Later, as she cleaned up, exhausted by the early morning hour and the emotional wringer she’d just been put through, she halted in front of the grouping against the closet.
They watched her, waiting.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been trying to do,” she mumbled, the smallest of smiles on her lips. She clicked off her lamp and walked away. “I hope you’re all proud of yourselves.”
Mark opened the door to the bakery mid-Saturday morning, the familiar bell jingling above him. The room was packed with people picking up their orders for pies, rolls, and pastries for the firemen’s ball. His dad had sent him for two pies, but it felt like a bigger job than that.
Mark had promised he would make a showing at the dance to support the fire department. He was a guest of honor. But he wouldn’t stay. And he wouldn’t dance. Surprisingly, his dad had agreed without argument.
A few customers turned his way.
And then they stared.
He ducked his head and stepped inside. “Excuse me,” he said as he reached for a number. The closest woman nodded, looking uncomfortable.
He hadn’t realized how much his self-consciousness had faded until that moment. When he lifted his head again, the entire bakery had stilled, all eyes on him.
But not only him. The way parted to where Lette Mae stood behind the register, bag lifted, staring. He frowned, and she moved her eyes to the spot behind the paying customer.
Riley Madigan stood there, glancing at him, fidgeting under
