Page 123 of Merging Wright

Stella hikes Willow up to her hip. “Child, you need to stop running.”

Willow only nods before wrapping her arms around Stella, holding onto her like the lifeline she has been. It takes a village.

Mach and I both stand. I, too, worry about Willow’s safety. A five-year-old should not wander the streets. The fire still has me unsettled. We don’t have hard facts, but it’s difficult to dismiss the randomness of three fires in six months. Especially when I’d learned the town has no history prior to June.

Stella tells Willow to say goodbye, which she does, and a longing fills my chest as they leave. It’s a ridiculous sensation. Stella takes good care of Willow.

“We can make the dollhouse happen.” Standing beside me, Mach runs a hand up my spine and cups my nape again.

I nod, offering a half smile. “I knew you would, Mr. Wright.” Pausing a second, I turn back toward the door where Stella exited with Willow. “I worry so much about her.”

“You have a big heart.”

“It’s more than that. I just . . . I want her to be happy. I want her to feel loved.” The idea returns the threat of tears once again. My heart shatters whenever I see her face sadden or hear her mention the loss of her parents.

“She will,” Mach says, and I turn back to him. My mouth falls open, preparing to ask what he means but he shifts topics.

“Speaking of dollhouses, I found a house you might like. A realtor in town can show it to us.”

“Oh.” Oh. This is generous. Then again, is he trying to get rid of me? I hadn’t intended to stay as long as I have at Camilla’s, but she has been insistent. Why go to a hotel when she wants to turn her place into a bed and breakfast? Thankfully, she hasn’t pushed for me to return to the room I shared with Mach. Maybe she’s finally accepting we aren’t a couple. We aren’t going to stay married.

A lump the size of coal lodges in my throat. I’m not on the naughty list other than some of the sexual positions I’ve experienced with this man, but I feel slighted, almost kicked out of Camilla’s home. Shaking my head, I dismiss the pain the thought brings. “I’d love to see it.”

“Perfect. We can make it another date.” Mach leans in and quickly kisses my temple before leaving me with my list of wishes, where I need to scratch off the most ludicrous wish of hope.

The hope that Mach wants our marriage to be real and he’ll stay with me in Wrightwood.

Dear man in red, please bring me a house and a miniature one for that innocent child.

Then I add a mental postscript.

And if the house includes that child and this man, I promise to be extra good.

57

Playlist: “River” – Joni Mitchell

[Mach]

Kringle Fest is here. Jane and I take the long, gravel drive down to town as the grass on the hill has a dusting of snow on it. The waning time feels ominous, like the ending of something special when I’d been holding out hope for a new beginning.

The center of Bridge Alley is set up with booths as Jane had wanted. Tents and canvas canopies distinguish one vendor from another. The strong aroma of nuts roasting in cinnamon and sugar fills the street. The town is packed with children, teens, and adults. Some are shopping. Some are lingering in the closed-off road. Some are even painting on the plywood covering the windows at what was once Trixie’s Trims and the vacant store beside it. The artwork being created adds to the festival theme, like Jane’s mural inspirations have added to the overall atmosphere of Wrightwood.

I stare in wonder. Jane stands beside me, a smile so large we don’t need the lighting ceremony.

“This is Wrightwood, Mach,” Ma says softly, coming up to my other side. “We come together here.”

She draws in a deep breath of the cold air and nutty-cinnamon scent. “You know, Machlan, Dr. Seuss had a saying in his story about the Grinch. ‘Maybe, Christmas,’ he thought, ‘doesn’t come from a store.’” Ma pauses. “‘Maybe Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more!’ This is the little bit more, lovey.”

Pulling my gaze from Ma, I stare back at the bustling street. We aren’t fucking Whoville, but Wrightwood is showing its community. The place that ostracized Ma, Myles, and me forty-eight years ago slowly grew to acceptance and compassion, especially where Ma and Myles were concerned. Or maybe that was one more thing I had wrong about this place. Maybe I’d always been a part of here as well, I was just too busy trying to escape it.

“We need to turn on the lights,” Jane’s voice croons with emotion. Her face is so full of peace, contentment, and pride. This is the new Jane. And I want to be a new Mach for her.

“Whenever you’re ready, dove. The lights are waiting for you,” Ma says, glancing at Jane.

“Me?” Jane blinks back at Ma. “I thought the mayor might want to do it.”

“It’s your town, too, Jane. You can pick whoever you want to flip that switch. Or you do it yourself.” Ma watches Jane, but Jane looks up at me, bewildered by Ma’s suggestion.