In Firefly Valley (14 page)

Blake looked into the distance for a moment, and the way his lips were pursed told Marisa his thoughts were unhappy. “Grandfather even demanded that the salt and pepper shakers be put in a specific place on the table. He'd become livid if they weren't in the right spot.”

Though Eric had been irrational at times when he was under the influence of alcohol, he had never made demands like that. “Why would anyone care where the salt and pepper were so long as they were on the table?”

Blake shrugged. “I gave up trying to understand him years ago. The problem is, he got worse the older he became—even less reasonable. Then he started to become forgetful and would blame us if he couldn't find something. I'd have put him into assisted living, but Dad wouldn't hear of it. He said the Bible told him to honor his father, and that's what he was going to do.”

“Your father sounds like a saint.”

Wrinkling his nose, Blake shook his head. “Maybe not that, but definitely a better man than I'll ever be. Dad may have turned the other cheek, but I've learned to run the other way from angry people.”

Marisa closed her eyes for a second, not wanting Blake to see the emotions his words had evoked.

“My dad wasn't like that,” she said softly, realizing she envied Blake. Not for his difficult grandfather but for the love he and his father shared. It was obvious that Mr. Kendall was very different from her father. At one point, Eric might have been physically strong, but he'd lacked the strength to resist alcohol.

Years with support groups had helped Marisa accept that it wasn't her fault, but she still couldn't understand the lure alcohol held for him. And, no matter what her mother, her minister, or Colleen, the therapist who'd helped her deal with her anger, had urged, Marisa was unable to forgive Eric for the pain he'd caused Mom and her. The memories were still too vivid, memories of him staggering through the house, collapsing on the couch, and forgetting that he had promised to attend her . . .

Marisa paused, a rueful smile crossing her face. This was a fill-in-the-blanks exercise. School play, vacation Bible school closing day celebration, birthday party. It didn't matter what the occasion was. Eric wasn't there. There was no question about it. Eric St. George was not a strong man.

But Blake was. His inner strength translated into kindness toward others. Marisa had seen people feign kindness and concern, mostly when it would serve their interests, but Blake wasn't like that. He
had been genuinely kind to the lemonade stand boys, and right now he was looking at her as if he would do anything to make her smile.

As if on cue, the corners of Marisa's mouth turned up in a real smile. Blake hadn't erased her painful memories—no one could do that—but he had shown her that not all men were like Eric or even Hal and Trent. Blake was a man she could trust, and that made him special. Very, very special.

“This is wonderful!” Marisa scooped a handful of bubbles onto her hand and lifted them to her nose, inhaling the sweet scent of strawberry foam. She couldn't recall the last time she'd luxuriated in a tub filled with fragrant bubble bath.

“I didn't want to confuse your nose, so I brought strawberry tea,” Lauren said as she entered the bathroom door bearing a tray with two mugs, a large teapot, and a plate of what appeared to be cookies.

“Did I ever tell you that you're my favorite person on Earth?” Marisa asked as she accepted the steaming mug.

“Just because I let you soak in my tub?”

Marisa shook her head. “That's only the tip of the iceberg. I feel like a princess with all these bubbles.” When Lauren had seen Marisa hobbling as she got off the bike, she had insisted she had the perfect cure. Telling Blake she was kidnapping his date, Lauren promised she would call him when Marisa needed a ride back to Rainbow's End.

“You should pamper yourself occasionally,” Lauren said, holding out the plate of thumbprint cookies. “That's one thing you're not very good at.”

“Do I sense a lecture coming?” Marisa asked as she bit into the cookie and savored the strawberry jam in its center.

“It all depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you tell me what's going on in that head of yours.
When you rode in, you were smiling with what looked like pure happiness, but your eyes looked scared. What's happening?”

Marisa finished the cookie, chewing carefully to prolong the time before she had to respond. Though she was tempted to deny that anything was different, she knew better. This was Lauren, the woman who knew her almost as well as she knew herself.

“I didn't realize it was so obvious,” Marisa said when she could find no excuse for further delays. “I'm confused, and—yes—I'm a little scared. I've never felt this way before.”

“If that was meant to hook me, it did. What is it you're feeling?” Lauren dragged a chair into the bathroom and leaned back in it, looking as if she were prepared to remain there for however long it took Marisa to explain.

“I can't stop thinking about him. I dream about him every night, and when I'm awake, all I can think about is what he might be doing.”

Lauren nodded slightly, encouraging Marisa to continue. When she'd taken another swallow of tea, she did. “He's not like anyone I've ever met.”

Marisa closed her eyes for a second, trying to corral her thoughts. If they were so jumbled that they didn't make sense to her, she'd never be able to make Lauren understand. When she opened her eyes, Lauren was staring at her, her expression inscrutable.

“There are times when I think he needs me and other times when I know I need him. Mostly, though, I just want to be with him.” Marisa shook her head as she thought about all she'd experienced. “I'm hot; I'm cold. I'm happy; I'm scared.”

“You're in love.” Lauren completed the sentence.

Marisa was silent for a moment as she considered her friend's announcement. It was what she had thought, what she had feared. “Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be without being in your skin.”

“Oh, Lauren, that's what I was afraid of.”

Lauren blinked. “Afraid of love? It's the most wonderful thing in the world.”

It was amazing that Lauren could say that when her own love was gone. “What if he doesn't love me?” Marisa demanded. “What if I give him my heart and he disappears the way my dad did? What will I do then?”

Though Marisa had told herself that she could trust Blake, part of her feared she was wrong, that no one could be as perfect as Blake appeared. Another part feared that even if Blake was everything he seemed to be, he'd realize that Marisa didn't deserve him. Most men weren't eager to take on a woman with as much baggage as she carried.

Lauren leaned forward and laid her hand on Marisa's head, ruffling her hair. “You've got to learn to trust. You need to trust Blake not to hurt you, and you have to trust yourself.” Settling back in her chair, Lauren said, “I know it's not easy after what happened with your dad, but that's in the past. You can't change it, but you also can't let it control your future. Let it go, Marisa. Let yourself love.”

“I want to. I can't tell you how much I want to. The problem is, I'm not sure I can.”

O
ctober was supposed to bring cooler weather, but today felt more like August than autumn, Lauren reflected as she wiped a bead of perspiration from her forehead. Days like this made her wish she'd brought her car, but in a town as small as Dupree, it made more sense to walk unless she was carrying heavy packages. Or so she thought. Right now an air-conditioned vehicle sounded appealing. So did one of those frilly parasols her great-grandmother had carried whenever she set foot outside the house. Instead, Lauren was walking down Pecan without even a hat to block the sun. She should have known better.

It had been cold and rainy last October, matching her mood as she struggled with the reality of being a widow and a single parent. This year was different. The days were bright and sunny, and her heart was filled with hope. Part of the reason was the simple passage of time—it did lessen the intensity of pain—but part was the fact that Marisa was back in Dupree.

Lauren waved at Russ Walker as she walked by the Sit ‘n' Sip. Business was typically slow at this time of the day, and he was taking advantage of a momentary lull to wash his front window. She should do the same, and she would, but first she needed to finish
the quilts Kate had commissioned. And today she had to get to the school in time to watch her daughter's baton twirling practice.

Fortunately Susan Kozinski had promised to take Fiona back to her apartment with Alice and had reminded Lauren that Fiona had a standing invitation to spend the night with them. It was a generous offer, but Lauren always felt as if she were taking advantage of Susan's generosity. Though Susan did not work outside the home, she had many demands on her energy, including baby Liam, who was not yet sleeping through the night.

And then there were the financial considerations. While Fiona might not eat as much as a teenage boy, she had a healthy appetite, and that appetite could wreak havoc with a tight grocery budget. Lauren knew that, like almost everyone who lived in Hickory View, Susan and Bert were saving to buy a house. The rent might be low, but no one wanted to stay in apartments as poorly maintained as those.

Though she wouldn't let Fiona sleep over at Alice's, Lauren was considering asking Marisa if she'd babysit for a couple hours so Lauren could put the finishing touches on a quilt. Marisa. The very thought made Lauren smile as she crossed Lone Star. Just having her back in town was wonderful, but what made Lauren's heart sing was seeing her dearest friend in love. There was no doubt about it. Marisa glowed with happiness, and when she and Blake were together, that glow turned into a full-fledged fire. The best part was that he was as smitten with Marisa as she was with him.

Lauren's smile widened as she thought of the way they held hands when they walked, stopping occasionally to simply smile at each other, other times to steal a kiss when they thought no one was watching. It was so sweet that it made Lauren's eyes prickle with tears of joy.

She had expected the bubble bath to relax Marisa's muscles, but it appeared to have done more than that. Ever since that night, Marisa seemed to be breaking through the barriers she had erected around her heart, leaving her free to love. Perhaps now she could put the past and all the anger it provoked behind her.

As she approached the school yard where the second graders were practicing twirling, Lauren spotted her daughter trying to toss the baton into the air and catch it before it landed.

Oh, Patrick, you would have loved this! She looks like you stretching to shoot a
basket.
Lauren narrowed her eyes, studying her daughter. Why hadn't she realized that Fiona was a miniature feminine version of Patrick? She liked the same things Patrick did: being outdoors, playing sports, swinging as high as she could in an attempt to touch the sky. She had his smile and his zest for life. She even had his carefree attitude toward fashion. Lauren smiled. Patrick was gone, but she saw part of him in Fiona every day. As memories flooded through her, Lauren's smile broadened, and today for the first time sorrow took second place to joy.

“Mommy, you came!” Fiona shrieked, completely forgetting that she was supposed to be watching the baton, seemingly oblivious when it tumbled to the ground next to her. Patrick had been like that and had missed an easy shot when Lauren had unexpectedly arrived at the court. Afterward, they'd agreed that she would not surprise him and cause distractions during a game.

Lauren gave the teacher an apologetic glance as she crossed the yard to hug her daughter. “Of course I came. I promised, didn't I?”

“Yeah.” Fiona looked up at Lauren, her expression serious. “But you promised me a new daddy too.”

They were back to that.

Marisa twirled in front of the mirror. The fringe on her vest swayed; the pearl buttons on her shirt gleamed; the jeans were neither too new nor too old; the hand-tooled boots provided an authentic western touch. Everything was just right. Marisa looked like a woman going to a rodeo, which was exactly what she was.

She plucked the white Stetson from the bed and tried it on. Not bad. Though she hadn't worn a western hat in years, Lauren had insisted on lending her hers, declaring that she couldn't attend a
rodeo without proper headgear. Now she was ready, and not just for the rodeo. Marisa was ready for life.

“You look beautiful,
mi hija
,” Mom said as she stepped into the living area.

“I feel beautiful.” Marisa knew she wasn't, but Blake made her feel as if anything, even beauty, was possible. When he smiled at her, she felt as if she were Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White—all those beautiful Disney heroines wrapped into one package. It was wonderful, simply wonderful, being with Blake.

Marisa smiled at her mother, knowing she'd smiled more in the last few weeks than she had in the rest of her life. She'd learned so much about Blake. They'd talked and talked, sharing stories of their past and their dreams for the future. She'd told Blake how she'd wanted to be a ballerina, only to be informed that she had no sense of rhythm. He admitted that he'd told his friends tall tales, delighting in scaring them with gory stories each Halloween. She'd confessed that her most fervent wish was to learn what had happened to her father. He admitted that, while he was glad that his father seemed romantically interested in a woman named Hilary, he couldn't help wondering how that would change his relationship with his dad.

Though Marisa knew there were aspects of Blake's life that he hadn't revealed, it no longer seemed to matter. How could she demand that he tell her everything when she was harboring her own secrets? She hadn't told Blake how both Hal and Trent had duped her. She hadn't told him the truth about Eric's drinking. Instead, Marisa had taken Lauren's advice and was trying to put the past behind her. It was working. For the first time, she was starting to believe in a bright and happy future.

“He's here!” Mom announced when she heard the clomp of boots on the front steps. She flung the door open and ushered Blake inside.

“Wow!” Blake let out a low whistle. “Annie Oakley never looked that good.” His gaze moved from the top of Marisa's Stetson-clad
head to her intricately tooled boots, as if he were inspecting each inch. “I'm not sure we ought to go. I don't want to spend the whole day fighting off cowboys.”

It was a flattering thought, even if totally unrealistic. “Trust me. There's no need to worry.”

Blake simply shook his head. “I have eyes in my head. I know what those cowboys will see.”

Mom grinned as if the compliment had been directed at her, then wagged her finger at Blake. “You take good care of my daughter. Don't let her eat too much cotton candy.”

“That's one thing you can count on, Carmen,” Blake said with patently false solemnity. “I'll cut her off after four.”

Marisa joined in the banter. “One's my limit.”

“See, I told you you didn't have to worry.”

Marisa couldn't let him get away with the last word. “All bets are off if they have funnel cakes.”

They were still laughing as they approached Blake's car now parked next to the main entrance. As if they'd been waiting for them, Kate and Greg emerged from the Tyrolean-style building.

“You look like a real cowgirl,” Kate said with an approving smile.

“I'm a native Texan. What did you expect?”

Greg laid a hand on Blake's shoulder. “You, my friend, are a sorry excuse for a cowboy. Where's your hat?”

“I've got a ball cap in the car.”

“You want to be laughed out of the arena?” Greg opened the back of his SUV, pulled out a Stetson, and plopped it on Blake's head. “This is what you need. Now you've got to learn to swagger. Try it.”

Marisa started to laugh at Blake's exaggerated swagger as he strode away from her, but the laughter died a second later. Shock mingled with disbelief. It couldn't be true. She wouldn't let it be true. But it was. As she stared at the back of a man wearing a large hat, Marisa knew why Blake had seemed so familiar the first time she met him. That day he'd had his back to her, and that had
triggered memories she hadn't been able to place. Today she had no doubts. The angle of the shoulders was the same; so was the tilt of the head. The hat was the final confirmation.

As if that weren't enough, there was the similarity in names. Marisa had once read that when writers chose pseudonyms, they frequently kept their initials. Blake had done more than that. He'd kept his name.

“You're Ken Blake!” The words came out as more of an accusation than an exclamation.

Kate took one look at Marisa's face and grabbed her husband's hand. “That's our exit line,” she said, dragging him back into the office.

Blake turned and stared at Marisa. It was the face she knew so well, the one that had starred in her dreams. And yet it wasn't the same, because now she knew his secret. She'd been wrong when she'd thought that secrets didn't matter. They did.

“Tell me I'm mistaken,” Marisa begged. “Tell me it isn't true.”

Blake came closer. Though his steps were steady, the swagger was gone. “I can't do that. This isn't the way I had planned to tell you, but—yes—I am Ken Blake, or at least I write books under that name.”

He'd planned to tell her. That was something, but the fact was, he
hadn't
told her. This wasn't part of his past, the way Hal and Trent were part of hers. This was Blake's present and his future. This was who he was.

“When were you planning to tell me?”

Blake's silence told Marisa everything she needed to know, leaving her trying to tamp back the horrible sensation that the world would never be the same. She took a deep breath as she attempted to reconcile the knowledge that the man who'd captured her heart, the man who'd brought love and laughter into her life, was the one who'd also created that loathsome character, Cliff Pearson.

“How can you do it?” she demanded.

Blake's lips tightened, and she knew she'd hit a sensitive nerve.
“It's my job, just as filing tax returns and auditing clients' books is yours.”

He was trying to justify it, but it wasn't working. Not for her. “It's not the same. You created Cliff Pearson, and you chose to make him a man who smokes, drinks, curses, and lusts after other men's wives.” Blake's hero could have been an upstanding citizen, but he wasn't. He was a man who drank more than Eric, yet he never seemed drunk. How many readers thought they could do the same? How many families had been torn apart like hers, all because someone tried to emulate Cliff Pearson?

“He also saves lives. Sometimes he stops whole cities or small countries from being destroyed.” The steel in Blake's voice left no doubt that he felt strongly about his character and that he saw nothing wrong with Cliff's flaws.

“And you think that justifies his other behavior?” Of course he did. Marisa's heart sank at the realization that this was the man who, even though they'd discussed Ken Blake's books, hadn't told her he was the author. He'd had the perfect opportunity, but he'd let it slip by. Marisa dismissed the memory of her critical comments about his books. Blake was the one who was in the wrong. Not her. In all likelihood, he never intended to tell her he was Ken Blake.