Page 49 of Merging Wright

Shrugging again, she answers. “I walked.”

Oh dear. This has abduction risk written all over it.

“Do you come here often?” Glancing upward, I hear the river rippling below. This location could offer a pleasant view if only a massive, dead tree trunk wasn’t splicing the picture-perfect image in half.

“I like to watch the water.” Willow stares at the burbling rapids. Is she thinking of her parents?

“It’s pretty here.” Or it could be. The worn deck boards need to be replaced and the broken bench repaired. The area around the structure could use a cleanup and new shrubbery, flowers even. Mach comes into my periphery, and I shift on the bench where I’m seated.

“I was looking for you.” His gruff voice should startle me but it’s the tenderness that throws me off balance.

I offer him a nod and turn back to Willow. “Willow, this is my . . . this is Mr. Wright. He’s Camilla’s son. Do you know Camilla Wright?”

“She gives me candy when I visit Trixie’s.” Willow’s sweet smile grows. “You look like Mr. Myles.”

“Mr. Myles is his brother,” I explain, peeking over at Mach before turning back to the child. “You can call him Mr. Mach if you’d like.”

“Like a Big Mac?” She giggles.

I laugh at the twinkling sound she makes while sneaking another glance at my husband, who lowers his head but slowly grins.

“Just like a Big Mac.” The name is fitting.

A breeze blows. The river flows like an irritated lullaby below the raised bluff, but it’s peaceful here. A few yards from the deck is a building, scorched and blackened on one side, as if charred by a fire. In the distance behind the scarred structure is the roofline of Trophy’s, and then the bridge that crosses the rushing water and gives the shopping district its name.

“There used to be a gazebo here,” Mach explains, and Willow and I both look over at him. He walks to the middle of the octagon, slips his hands in his pockets, and stares out at the river. “The big house owned all this land, and the gazebo was part of the private property. Eventually, the area was given over for public use.” Mach looks at me. “But as we know, it’s still privately owned.”

This area is part of the riverfront property to be improved in our rejuvenation plan.

“The building over there”—Mach nods at the burned structure—“was a bait and tackle shop. Ma told me, in recent years, you could smoke fish there, which is how the building burned. Poor exhaust system, probably. That place was nothing more than a shack and needs to be torn down.”

“Did you fish in the river when you were young?” There is so much I don’t know about Mach’s childhood, so much that might explain why he is the man he is.

“All the time.” He squints at the water, keeping his gaze forward as the river flows toward the bridge. His silence tells me he’s done talking about the subject.

Turning to Willow, I have an idea. “Willow, what would you like to see done here? What could we do to make this deck better? This area better?”

“Fix the wood. I got a sliver here once.”

Mach softly chuckles. “Me too.”

I glance up to find him watching Willow and me.

“A swing would be nice. A slide, too.” Willow’s enthusiasm grows.

“A playground?” Suddenly, I see it as I gaze around the deck. One of the best features of this area is the river, and people need to be encouraged to come down here and use the public space. There should be a park with an area for children—something water-themed, replicating the bridge and Wrightwood’s nature. “That’s a great idea, Willow.”

I envision tables and outdoor games—giant checkers and chess pieces, oversized building blocks, and cornholes, or as we call them in the Midwest, bags. Maybe even a bocce court.

“Willow, how would you like to be on the park planning committee? You can be an unofficial supervisor.” Because that’s what we need. We need to start somewhere, and we need someone to start designing and building. Time is ticking.

Willow excitedly kicks her legs as she sits beside me, and I risk another glance at Mach. His lips are curled in a crooked grin, and my heart aches. I miss him. Despite everything happening, I miss the hate-to-love him sensation I had whenever I worked beside him. I miss the flow of us working collectively on a project and the demands of his work ethic to get things done—fast, efficient, effective. We’re missing that balance we’ve developed over eight years. Not a work-life balance, but the scale of us as a business team.

His mother hasn’t failed to notice our sleeping-together-but-existing-separately relationship, although I’ve been avoiding sleeping with him as well. It would be embarrassing if she didn’t know the truth of our marriage of convenience. However, the only people this marriage has been convenient for is the Wright family and the town of Wrightwood. I might bear the name, but I’m neither a Wright nor a member of this community.

Turning back to Willow, I wonder if she feels the same. Or maybe quite the opposite. All she has is this town. It takes a village, Stella said, mentioning the old proverb.

“Willow, honey. Can I walk you to On The Curve? Let’s get some hot chocolate, and then maybe Stella can give you a ride home.” The suggestion comes because I don’t know where Willow lives, nor do I think she should get in the truck with me, a stranger to her. I also don’t think she should sit here staring at the river that took her parents when at least a village is willing to love her.