In Firefly Valley (9 page)

Though Blake didn't know how Dad would feel if he knew how Blake earned most of his money, he'd seen his father's reaction to his education and his work as a financial planner. When Grandfather had warned him about the dangers of pride the day he'd announced that he had been accepted at Stanford, Dad had patted him on the back. Once he'd graduated, Dad had insisted that he wanted Blake to be the one to invest his savings. “There's no one I trust more,” he had said the day he transferred the funds to Blake.

Smiling at the memory, Blake nodded. “Dad's a man of few words, but I think he's pleased.”

Blake was pleased that he'd managed to steer the conversation
to fathers. “What about your father? Would he have been proud of you?” Blake hoped that Marisa hadn't been as young as Fiona when her father had died. Though Fiona was old enough to retain some memories of her dad, they would fade as new memories took their place. If Marisa had had her father with her through her teenage years, she would have more enduring memories.

There were several seconds of silence before Marisa crumpled her waxed paper and tossed it into the basket, her face flushed with unexpected anger. “That's one subject that's off-limits,” she said tersely. “I don't talk about Eric St. George.”

Marisa bit the inside of her lip, trying to hold back the bitter words that threatened to erupt. She should have said something innocuous like “I hope so.” If she had, Blake would have dropped the subject. Instead, she'd obviously aroused his interest. Her goal had been to lighten Blake's mood, not subject him to her temper, and she definitely did not want him asking more questions about Eric. Though the townspeople appeared to have been silent on the subject, undoubtedly because Blake was an outsider, there was no telling what Mom might say if Blake asked direct questions. The best thing was to attempt to deflect them.

“I'm sorry,” Marisa said as she repacked the basket. “My father is a painful subject for my mother and me.” With some luck, that would keep Blake from interrogating Mom.

He nodded shortly, his expression telling Marisa that while he might not understand, he respected her wishes. “Are you ready to head back?”

She was indeed.

An hour later, Marisa was in the cabin she shared with her mother, wishing it had a bathtub instead of a shower. Her muscles could use a long soak, but since that wasn't possible, she took a quick shower and headed for her office.

“I'm so glad you're here.” Brandi, the teenager who'd been
manning the front desk, wore a harried expression. “We didn't know how to reach you.”

Marisa frowned at the realization that she hadn't taken her cell phone. She'd become so accustomed to Rainbow's End being out of cell range that she often forgot to carry it when she left the valley.

“What's wrong?”

“You'll see.” Brandi led the way to the kitchen. “It's Carmen.”

“I can't believe I did this.” Marisa's mother gestured toward her visibly swollen right ankle. She was seated next to the table, her foot propped on a second chair. “All I did was turn around, and the next thing I knew, I was on the floor.”

Fortunately, Brandi had heard her cries and had helped her into the chair, putting a bag of ice on the ankle, then calling Dupree's sole physician.

“Doc Santos said to bring you right in,” Brandi said. “A couple X-rays, and he'll know the extent of the damage.”

With one arm wrapped around Marisa's waist and the other around Brandi, Mom managed to hobble to the car, all the while complaining that she didn't need the doctor, that a few more minutes with the ice pack would cure whatever was wrong. It was vintage Mom.

Marisa ignored the complaints along with the protests that erupted when she insisted that Mom sit in the back where she could keep her ankle elevated. “I know it's only three miles,” Marisa told her, “but you need to take care of that ankle.”

Mom grumbled as she settled into the backseat, and the grumbling continued as Marisa headed up Ranger Hill. “What's that rattling?” her mother demanded when the car began its familiar
clank, clank
.

The last thing Marisa wanted to worry about was the rattle in the car's suspension. She was far more concerned with whether Mom's ankle was broken. “It's nothing serious,” she assured her mother. “It's been like that since I bought it.”

“You shouldn't ignore a rattle. You know that.” Mom winced
as they hit a bump. “If your father were here, he'd know what's wrong just from listening to it.”

Why did everyone want to talk about Eric St. George today? “But he's not here. He's been gone for more than eight years.”

“He'll come back.”

Marisa took a deep breath, trying not to frown as she looked at her mother in the rearview mirror. “You're deluding yourself, Mom.” Part of her wanted to shout the words, but she kept her voice low and even. Though this wasn't the time or place she would have chosen, the discussion was long overdue.

“I know you don't want to hear this, but you need to accept the fact that you've been deserted. Divorce him or declare him dead, but don't go on in this limbo. It's not fair.”

The quick intake of breath told Marisa her salvo had hit its target. “Fair for whom?” her mother demanded.

“You, of course. You need to be free to start the next phase of your life.” Mom had been delighted when Kate's grandmother had discovered a second chance for love at Rainbow's End. It was time Mom looked for one for herself. If she didn't, she'd be facing decades of loneliness.

“What if I don't want to be free? Did that ever occur to you?” Mom thumped the back of Marisa's seat to get her attention. “I love your father. I'll never forget the man I married.”

That was the reason Marisa had hired so many investigators. Until she knew what had happened to Eric, Mom would continue to cling to the fantasy that he'd return. She needed—and, truth be told, Marisa needed—to know whether the man was still alive. But none of the investigators—not even the legitimate ones—had been able to locate Eric. And Trent . . . Dozens of women including Marisa had fallen for his line, only to discover that once the money was deposited in his account, Trent and his promises disappeared.

“The man you married no longer exists. He may even be dead.”

In the rearview mirror, Marisa saw Mom shake her head. “Eric's alive. Deep in my heart, I know that.” To add emphasis to her
words, she laid her hand over her heart. “I love you, Marisa, and I want you to be happy, but it doesn't matter what you say. I won't divorce him. I won't throw away the love we shared.”

Mom took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “When I said my wedding vows, I meant them. ‘For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health.' Eric is sick. I hate what he's done to you, but I can't abandon him any more than you would abandon me just because I hurt my ankle.”

Marisa blinked, astonished by the direction the conversation had taken. “That's different. Totally different. He chose to drink. He chose to leave us. He doesn't deserve our love.”

Mom shook her head again. “I don't believe that, and neither do you.”

P
oor Carmen.” Lauren looked up as she finished a seam. When Marisa had realized that she would get no work done tonight, she'd headed for Dupree and Lauren. Fiona had already gone to bed, so Marisa's friend offered her a cup of coffee and ushered her into the spare bedroom that had been turned into a sewing workshop.

Marisa stirred a teaspoon of honey into the herb tea she'd chosen. Unlike Lauren, she didn't want to be awake all night, especially after the day she'd had. “Lucky Carmen. It's only a strain. Doc wrapped her ankle and said all she needs to do is rest it for a couple weeks.”

“And she agreed?” Lauren had no trouble making her skepticism heard over the sewing machine's whirring.

“Of course not. I think Doc was testing her. When she refused, he pulled out the ugliest boot I've ever seen and told Mom she'd have to wear that. You could have knocked me over when she said it was a brilliant idea and put it on. And, as if that wasn't enough, she let me cook supper.”

After snipping the threads, Lauren laid the quilt strip aside and picked up the first two pieces for the next row. “Are you sure your mom didn't hit her head? I thought she claimed you need adult supervision in a kitchen.”

“That hasn't changed.” Marisa sipped the tea, enjoying the delicate flavor of chamomile and honey. “I told her I was the queen of freezer cuisine, but she wouldn't listen. She sat on a stool and watched as I thawed some of her vegetarian chili. Then we made cornbread. Yes, we. Of course she didn't have any boxed mixes, so she directed every single step. Do you have any idea how annoying it can be to have someone tell you that the quarter teaspoon is smaller than the half teaspoon? Even I know that.”

Lauren chuckled. “No wonder you wanted a break.”

“I love my mom. You know I do, but she's not the easiest person to live with.” She'd been crankier than normal today, undoubtedly the result of pain and frustration. It hadn't helped when Blake had declared the cornbread the best he'd ever eaten. Mom had taken that as a personal affront, even though it was her recipe with her secret ingredients.

“You're always welcome to stay here.” Lauren looked around. “It wouldn't take more than an hour to shovel out enough fabric so that you could find your way to the bed.” Right now the bed was covered with bolts of fabric, with more draped over the dresser. The only clear surface in the room was the bedside chest that Lauren had cleared to serve as a table for Marisa's tea.

“Fiona and I would love the company,” Lauren continued as she fed another piece of fabric under the presser foot. “I get lonely sometimes.”

As she set her cup back on the table, Marisa gazed at her friend. “How do you do it?” she asked. “How do you get through each day knowing . . .” She broke off, angry with herself for introducing such a sensitive topic. She had hated it when Blake and Mom wanted to talk about Eric, and now she was subjecting her best friend to even worse pain.

Lauren looked up from her sewing, her eyes solemn as they met Marisa's gaze. “How do I deal with knowing that Patrick won't be walking through the door? Is that what you were going to ask?”

Marisa nodded. “I'm sorry. The last thing you need is someone
reminding you of that. With friends like me, you sure don't need any enemies.”

“Don't apologize.” Lauren looked at the pieces of cotton she'd stacked on the floor next to her sewing machine. “It's a valid question,” she said as she selected two. “Some days I ask myself the same thing. But don't worry. It's not like it was when your father left.”

Marisa tried not to cringe at the memory of the days and weeks following Eric's disappearance. At first she'd woken each day, certain it would be the day he'd return. But he hadn't. And as days turned to weeks, certainty had turned to worry that he had been killed.

Though Lauren had been a newlywed, caught up in the magic of her love for Patrick and the thrill of their first home, she had helped Marisa through that horrible summer. She had dried Marisa's tears, held her hand, and tried to convince her that Eric St. George's absence was only temporary. Eight years later, though she'd endured almost unspeakable loss, Lauren was once again trying to help her friend.

“There's grief but no uncertainty,” Lauren told Marisa. “It's true that I won't see Patrick again on this earth, but I know we'll be reunited in heaven. That's what keeps me going. That and the belief that God has a plan for me. I know something good will come from this.”

Marisa took another sip of tea as she tried to formulate her response. She had always known that Lauren's faith was stronger than hers. As teenagers, Marisa had believed it was because her friend had never been tested, but she could say that no longer. Lauren had survived far more serious problems than Marisa had.

“I wish I could be as certain as you,” Marisa told her friend. “This year feels like pretty much a fiasco. The mess with Trent was all my fault, but I don't understand why I had to lose my job too.”

Lauren looked up from her sewing, her brown eyes filled with sympathy. “Maybe it was to get you back here. I'm glad you're home, and so is your mom.”

Biting back the retort that Dupree wasn't her home, Marisa said only, “Yes, but—”

Lauren wouldn't let her finish her sentence. “And then there's Blake. A person would have to be blind to miss the sparks between you. Admit it, Marisa. You're attracted to him.”

Though she wanted to deny it, Marisa didn't. “I am,” she admitted, “but I'm scared too. You've got to admit that my record with men is pretty bad. Sometimes I feel as if I must be the most gullible person on the planet the way I trust all the wrong men. First my dad, then Hal, then Trent. What if Blake's like them?”

Lauren shook her head as she pulled the fabric from the sewing machine and held it up, admiring the combination of colors. “Hal was a jerk, and somehow I don't think his years in the army changed that. As for Trent, you said you were just the latest in a string of cons. He was obviously a pro at duping women.”

“That's what the cops said. They told me he had a history of joining support groups like the one I was in for the sole purpose of finding vulnerable women.” Marisa took another sip of tea in a vain attempt to soothe her nerves. “I should have been a better judge of character. I should have known that if a story sounded too good to be true, it was. Instead, I fell for his line.”

Shrugging as if the deception had been of little importance, Lauren kept her gaze fixed on Marisa. “Has Blake been handing you a line?”

That was the critical question. “I don't want to think so, but how would I know? It isn't as if he'd wear a sign saying, ‘Trust me, even though I'm a con man.'” Marisa smiled at the image. “Blake seems like a nice guy, but he might be . . .”

“A serial killer? I doubt it. You've got to have a little faith in yourself. You're not a poor judge of character.” Lauren rose and stretched. “After all, you picked me for your best friend. I'd say that shows sterling judgment.”

“You would.”

They both laughed.

He couldn't put it off any longer. When he'd left church yesterday, Blake had felt as if his spirit had been renewed, and he'd returned to Rainbow's End believing that a breakthrough was close. When he'd made his weekly call to his father, he'd been encouraged by the obvious happiness in Dad's voice when he mentioned that he was seeing—Dad's term—a woman named Hilary. When he'd helped Marisa serve supper, Blake had taken heart from the fact that she hadn't flinched when Carmen had announced that the chicken and dumplings were her husband's favorite Sunday meal. The day of rest had gone well, leading Blake to believe that he would wake on Monday with his brain teeming with ideas. It hadn't happened.

As he approached the newly installed phone booth, Blake managed a mirthless smile. It was ridiculous to feel as if he were a prisoner going to his execution. He was simply an author delivering some unwelcome news to his agent.

“Blake, where on earth are you?” Jack Darlington asked after Blake identified himself.

“Still in Texas.” Even though the trip hadn't accomplished what he sought, nothing was drawing him back to California. He wouldn't leave before Greg returned, and even then—depending on how his relationship with Marisa progressed—he might stay. If he wasn't able to write, he might as well be here.

“Tell me that's good news and that you're half done with the book.” Jack's innate optimism was one of the things Blake liked about him. Unfortunately, today it was misplaced.

“You know I don't want to lie. The truth is, I don't have an inkling of what Cliff's next adventure should be. I haven't written a single word. That's why I'm calling.”

Blake heard a rapid intake of breath as his agent absorbed the news. It was only seconds later that Jack asked, “Have you considered . . . ?” He started rattling off cities that Cliff Pearson had not visited, crimes he had not solved. The ideas were solid. In another author's hands, they could be turned into good books. But not one
of them piqued Blake's imagination. Sadly, not one made him want to turn on his computer and start writing.

“It's not working, Jack. Nothing's working. I've tried everything I can think of, but the result is the same. Nothing.”

Like the old metal phone booths that Blake remembered from his childhood, the new one at Rainbow's End boasted a window. Someone—probably Kate—had aligned it with an exterior window so that callers could look outside while they were seated in the unusually spacious cabinet. Looking through the two windows, Blake saw workers scurrying toward one of the cabins. They knew what they had to do, and so did he.

“I think we need to buy back the contract.”

“Ouch!” Jack's reaction was immediate. “Your publisher's not going to be any happier than I am about this. You're a major name for them. Their bottom line depends on your books coming out every year.”

Blake refused to take the guilt trip. “I don't like this any more than you do, but I can't write unless I'm excited about the story. Nothing you've suggested and nothing I've come up with is exciting.” And oh, how it hurt to admit that. Blake prided himself on being a reliable author, one who delivered good, clean manuscripts on schedule. He wasn't only disappointing Jack and his publisher. He was disappointing himself.

Jack was silent for a moment, during which Blake pictured the wheels churning in his agent's brain. “I'm sure this is just a temporary glitch,” Jack said, his voice as smooth as if he were convincing an editor to double Blake's advance. “In the meantime, we've got to do something to boost sales of your backlist. I think it's time.”

There was something ominous about the way he said that. “Time for what?”

“To reveal Ken Blake. To put a face to the name. Once the media hears you're going public, there'll be a bidding war to see which talk show gets you first. Blake, this is just what we need. I can see
it now. There'll be new dust jackets with your photo, maybe even new cover designs. This could be huge.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no? We could probably get a year's extension on the deadline if you agree to do the talk shows.”

Another author might have jumped at the opportunity. Blake was not another author. “No means no. I won't do it. You knew that when I signed with you. That's why I've got that ironclad nondisclosure clause in our contract.”

Grandfather was no longer alive to make Dad's life miserable if it became public knowledge that Blake was a bestselling author, but that didn't change Blake's determination to remain anonymous. He'd seen the problems fame could bring, and he wanted no part of them. It felt good to walk through an airport or into a restaurant and not be mobbed by fans wanting his autograph or his photo. It felt good, never having to answer questions about how much of himself he put into Cliff Pearson. Most of all, it felt good that when people talked to him, they saw him, not their idea of a celebrity.