In Firefly Valley (11 page)

Another man might have surrendered, but Blake wouldn't give up in defeat, not when Marisa was so upset. “Please, Marisa.” He grabbed her hand, hoping to somehow calm her, but she tugged it away.

“Just leave me alone!” The pain he'd heard before had intensified, mingling with anger and annoyance.

Marisa stormed into her office and closed the door behind her. At least she hadn't slammed it. Though she might think she wanted to be alone, Blake knew anger like hers could fester. Dad had claimed it was suppressed anger that had made Grandfather so cantankerous. Blake wouldn't let that happen to Marisa. He opened the door and walked inside.

Marisa glared at him, her eyes colder than he'd ever seen them. “I asked for one simple thing: to be left alone. Can't you do that?”

Blake shook his head. “Not when you're so upset.”

“I don't want to talk, and I definitely do not want to listen. All I get are platitudes.”

Though she looked nothing like Blake's grandfather, at the moment the firm line of Marisa's lips reminded him of times when Grandfather was getting ready to launch a tirade.

“I wasn't planning to be the one talking. You look like you need to vent.” Maybe venting would defuse the situation.

“What I need is for everyone to leave me alone.”

Recognizing that he was getting nowhere, Blake nodded. “All right, but the offer is open. You know where to find me if you need me.”

Marisa simply glared.

As he passed the kitchen, Blake saw Carmen, her head bent as if she were praying. Though he hated to interrupt her, his instincts told him not to miss this opportunity. She was the only other person who could explain why Marisa was so angry and in such pain.

Blake cleared his throat and walked in.

“Marisa seems pretty upset,” he said, not bothering with polite preliminaries. “Can you tell me what that's all about?”

Carmen's reluctance was evident in the way she twisted a towel between her hands, and for a moment Blake thought she might refuse to answer. Instead, she moved from the stool to settle on a chair.

When he was seated across the table from her, she said, “My daughter has a hard time asking for help. She's always the first one there to help me or one of her friends, but she thinks it's a sign of weakness to admit she needs help.”

That sounded like Marisa. Blake had seen how she shouldered everyone else's problems as if they were hers, and she'd certainly refused his bungling attempt at comfort. “We all need help at times.”

“Of course we do.” Carmen nodded. “The problem is, Marisa's afraid to trust anyone, even God. She wasn't always that way, but ever since Eric's been gone, she's had a hard time.”

Perhaps something good had come from Marisa and Carmen's
argument, for it had given Blake a chance to learn more about Marisa's father. “When did your husband die?”

Carmen shook her head, sadness radiating from her dark eyes, and for a moment Blake thought she might not answer. When she did, her words surprised him. “Eric didn't die. He left Dupree the day of Marisa's graduation. Neither of us has heard from him since.”

Blake blinked as he absorbed the significance of Carmen's revelation. Marisa's father wasn't dead. For some reason, he'd abandoned his family. No wonder Marisa had so much pain bottled up inside her; no wonder she didn't want to see blonde hair and blue eyes when she looked in the mirror. “That's horrible.”

“Yes, it is,” Carmen agreed. “It's bad enough not knowing where Eric is and whether he's well, but what it's done to Marisa is worse.” Carmen lowered her eyes and clutched the towel as if it were a lifeline. “She's bitter and angry at both her earthly and her heavenly father.”

Carmen looked up, her eyes swimming with tears. “I want my daughter to be happy, but I don't know what to do. I've tried everything I could think of, and nothing has helped. It's in God's hands now.”

Poor Marisa, Blake thought half an hour later as he pounded the pavement, hoping a second run up Ranger Hill would clear his thoughts. It was no wonder she was so afraid of losing someone. As a writer, Blake had a vivid imagination, but he couldn't imagine what her life must have been like. It would have been difficult to have a father disappear at any time, but having it happen on graduation day was even worse.

Graduation was a day to be surrounded by family. Blake panted as he forced himself to increase his pace. His school hadn't had a formal grade-school graduation, but he had happy memories of his high school and college commencement ceremonies. Both Grandfather and Dad had attended them, and though Grandfather had been his normal disapproving self, Blake had caught a hint of
pride in his expression. His father's reaction had been far different. Dad had been openly thrilled by his son's diplomas, telling everyone Blake was going to have a better life than he had.

Blake took a swig of water when he reached the top of the hill. His life might not be better than his father's—after all, Dad got a lot of satisfaction out of his work, and right now Blake was having a terrible time with his chosen career—but it was definitely easier.

He had been fortunate, and once this dry spell ended, he would be fortunate again. Marisa was not so lucky. Blake would say that she bore scars from her father's disappearance, but that was not accurate. Scars implied healing, and from what he'd heard, there had been none of that. Marisa was still enduring open wounds.

There had to be a way to comfort her. If only he could find it.

K
ate looks better.” Though it wasn't Kate he'd come to see, Blake was glad that Greg's wife no longer wore the stricken expression he'd seen when she'd left the kitchen this morning. He only wished Marisa had recovered as well, but when he'd seen Carmen soon after lunch, she'd reported that Marisa had not emerged from her office. That was why Blake was here: in hopes Greg would have at least one suggestion of how he could break through Marisa's anger.

“I think she is better.” Greg led Blake back out of the dining room that Kate had turned into her makeshift office. “I reminded her that Gillian doesn't want her with her now and that she'll be heavily sedated. In my not-so-humble opinion, the best thing Kate can do is make our opening a success. When she called Gillian back, all her friend would talk about was how sorry she was that she had to cancel so close to our opening. The woman's sustained what could be a life-changing injury, and she's worried that we won't be able to find a replacement.”

“Maybe worrying about that keeps her from thinking about the fact that her hand was crushed,” Blake suggested.

Greg nodded. “You're probably right. At times like this, people aren't completely rational.”

“You can say that again. Irrational behavior is what I wanted to talk to you about. I just learned that Marisa's father disappeared on her graduation day. All I was trying to do was help, but she brushed me off.” She'd done more than that. She'd practically ordered him out of her office. “Now that you've been a married man for over two weeks, I thought you might have some insights.”

Jogging up Ranger Hill hadn't helped. Neither had the hot shower or the large cup of coffee he'd consumed. Though Blake's brain was whirling, the thoughts were chaotic rather than coherent.

“Women!” Greg opened the door and stepped outside, taking a deep breath of the cool fall air. “I doubt I'll ever understand how their minds work. What did you do?”

While Blake explained, Greg stared into the distance, his eyes focused on the island at the other side of Bluebonnet Lake. When Blake finished, Greg turned to face him. “I make no guarantees, but you might want to try a different approach.”

At this point, Blake was willing to try almost anything. “What do you suggest?” He listened, intrigued by Greg's story of the day he had proposed to Kate. “That just might work.” With a few changes, that is.

“Put me down!” Marisa couldn't believe it. She'd been standing at one of the tall file cabinets, looking for an invoice, when the next thing she knew, she was swept up into Blake's arms. What on earth was going on? She'd told the man the only thing she wanted was to be left alone, and now he appeared determined to play Rhett Butler in the famous staircase scene from
Gone with the Wind
.

Marisa wasn't certain what was more embarrassing, the fact that Blake was carrying her or that she had wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned closer. This wasn't supposed to be happening. When she'd realized that she was unlikely to accomplish anything productive and that in her current state her mind was not creative enough to devise entertainment for the opening weekend now that
Gillian Hodge would be unable to perform, Marisa had assigned herself the most tedious task on her to-do list in an effort to vanquish the anger that had overtaken her this morning.

Neither Mom nor Blake deserved her fit of temper. Marisa knew that, just as she knew she owed them both an apology. The problem was, she was still struggling with her anger, or she had been until Blake barged into her office and began his alpha male routine. Now she felt herself relaxing, her senses tantalized by the clean scent of his aftershave and the faint prickle of his hair against her cheek.

“Put me down.” Marisa repeated the demand, keeping her voice as low as she could. If Mom saw them like this, Marisa would never hear the end of it, and if the Matchers caught wind of it, the Dupree gossip line would be buzzing within seconds.

“Not until we get where we're going.” Blake strode out of her office and across the hallway to the exterior door that someone had propped open. As he stepped outside, Marisa realized two things: this had been carefully planned, and it felt surprisingly good to be held in his arms.

“What's going on?” she asked, trying to maintain the fiction that she was annoyed. The truth was, her anger had vanished, dissolving as quickly as sugar in hot coffee.

Blake chuckled, and his breath tickled her face. “I thought it was obvious. You're being kidnapped.”

This was as outrageous as being cradled in his arms. Though she was tempted to laugh at the sheer audacity of his statement, Marisa feigned indignation. “Isn't kidnapping a federal offense?”

Blake turned, his face so close to hers that Marisa could count the pores on his cheeks. “Only if someone reports it.”

“And you don't think I will?” It was becoming increasingly difficult to pretend she was annoyed, when all she wanted to do was grin. Never before had Marisa been the victim of a faux kidnapping; never before had she been held in a man's arms as if she were a cherished prize; never before had she enjoyed sparring with
someone this way. The day that had begun so poorly had been transformed, leaving Marisa feeling as if the sun had emerged after weeks of hiding behind thick clouds.

“Nope.” Blake's lips curved into the sweetest of smiles as he continued walking. “I'm predicting that by nightfall you'll wish you could do this every day.”

She already did, but rather than admit that he was right, Marisa forced a mocking tone to her voice. “You're pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?”

Blake shrugged, the action drawing her closer to him. “It has been suggested that I have an inflated ego. But now let's get you into this boat.”

To Marisa's surprise, they'd reached the dock, and one of the newly painted rowboats was tied to it.

“I don't want to drop you into the boat, but I'm afraid that if we both get in at once, it might tip over.” Though Blake's grin said he wasn't convinced that would be a tragedy, Marisa had no desire to test the water's temperature. “I'm going to put you down,” Blake continued, “and ask you to climb in on your own. Will you do that, or are you going to try to escape?”

Escape from the most fun she could remember having? Not likely. “I think Stockholm syndrome is settling in, because I don't want to leave,” she admitted as she climbed into the boat. The truth was, Blake's silly antics had swept her blues away. Anger had turned to anticipation and depression to delight at the sheer pleasure of being held in his arms. “What I don't understand is why you'd want to kidnap me after the way I acted this morning. I'm sorry I was in such a snit.”

Blake shrugged. “We all have bad days. That's where friends come into play. I'm hoping this day will end better than it began.”

“You can count on that.” Marisa gave him the warmest smile she could produce. “Thanks, Blake.”

She settled onto the rear seat and watched as he climbed in as gracefully as if he did this daily. He'd said that he jogged each
day, but there had been no mention of rowing. Perhaps he rowed in California.

“Where are we going?” Marisa asked when Blake had pushed the boat away from the dock. Oddly, she'd felt bereft when he'd placed her back on the ground. It had felt amazingly good to be carried, to be so close to Blake that she could see the pulse beating in his throat and hear each breath he took. Now that they were separated, Marisa missed the temporary intimacy they'd shared.

“Our options are somewhat limited,” he said. “There are no exotic destinations, but Greg told me the island is a good place for a picnic.” Blake looked down at the picnic basket in the front of the boat. “Judging from its weight, your mother gave us enough food for a week.”

Marisa's first impression had been accurate. Blake had done a lot of planning for the pretend kidnapping. “That's Mom for you.” She had always provided Marisa with comfort food, including a bedtime snack of milk and cookies. Marisa couldn't recall when that had started, but if she'd had to guess, she would have said that it was when Eric had started drinking so heavily that he'd spent most evenings passed out in the master bedroom. Marisa brushed those thoughts aside.

“Everyone in Dupree knows that if you want good home cooking, you call Carmen St. George. Most times folks didn't even need to call. Whenever Mom heard that someone was going through a rough time, she'd take them a basket of food.”

At the time, Marisa hadn't considered the effect that extra food must have had on the family's budget, but her perspective had changed. The reality of unemployment and dwindling savings made her wonder how Mom had managed to do all she had when Eric drank half his pay.

“I doubt Mom ever dreamt she'd wind up being paid to cook, but being a chef is the perfect job for her.”

Blake nodded. “I've never met anyone who loves cooking the way she does.” He nodded again, this time toward the pile of beach
towels next to the picnic basket. “She sent more than food. There's a bottle of sunblock there. You'd better slather some on. She gave me your sunbonnet too.”

“Sunbonnet?” Marisa raised an eyebrow at the sight of a floppy-brimmed straw hat that had to be ten years old. Marisa had never worn it, but she could recall her mother plunking it on her head when she worked in the garden. “Sunbonnet makes me sound like a pioneer woman.”

Blake continued the rhythmic rowing that was propelling them across the lake. “What would you call it?”

“A hat. A broad-brimmed hat.” Marisa adjusted the brim. Mom was right. Though the sun was not at its zenith, the reflection from the water was enough to burn skin quickly. Fortunately, she had worn a long-sleeved shirt and slacks today. White slacks might not be practical for a picnic, but Marisa didn't care. She knew the fit flattered her, and right now that was more important than grass stains.

She narrowed her eyes as she looked at Blake. “You'd better use some of that sunblock yourself.” While the gray T-shirt highlighted his muscles and was more attractive than such an ordinary piece of clothing ought to be, the short sleeves left his arms exposed to the sun. “You ought to get a different hat too. That ratty ball cap you're wearing doesn't protect your neck.” Though it might have been blue once, it was now faded to a dingy gray.

“I'll have you know that I like this hat. My dad gave it to me.”

Marisa sighed as a memory assailed her. She had been perhaps five or six years old the summer her parents had taken her to the county fair. When she'd seen a pink sunbonnet for sale at one of the countless vendor stalls lining the perimeter, she'd known that she had to have it. Eric had bought it, even though Mom insisted Marisa didn't need another hat.

That sunbonnet had become her most prized possession. She'd worn it every day that summer, and when she'd outgrown it, she'd hung it on a hook in her bedroom as a reminder of what had seemed
like a perfect day. But then, two days after graduation, she'd tossed it into the trash along with everything else her father had given her.

“You're looking sad,” Blake said. “That's not allowed on this cruise ship.”

“Sorry. I was thinking about a hat I once had. I wish I'd kept it and given it to Fiona.”

“The girl with the mismatched socks?”

“The one and only.”

Marisa and Blake spoke about inconsequential things as he rowed them across the lake. When they reached Paintbrush Island, although there was a good spot to dock the boat on the edge closest to Rainbow's End, Blake continued to the opposite side, telling Marisa that Greg claimed the best spot was out of sight of the resort.

“This looks like it,” Blake said, slowing as they approached a part of the island where the trees came closer to the shore but still left enough room for beaching the boat. “He said we might appreciate the shade.”