In Firefly Valley (15 page)

What a fool she'd been! Silly Marisa, gullible Marisa had trusted Blake the way she had trusted Hal and Trent. It seemed she'd never learn.

Blake shook his head, then removed the hat and held it in one hand. Though he looked more like himself and not the writer whose back was shown on so many book jackets, Marisa couldn't forget that they were the same man.

“It's not a case of justification,” Blake said. “Cliff Pearson is a fictional character, but there are many men in the real world with the same habits you dislike so much. His behavior is true to life.”

That didn't make it right. “I'm not denying that his flaws are common. What I don't understand is why you had to make them seem acceptable. You practically glorified them.”

Blake took a step toward her, stopping when she glared at him. Marisa couldn't let him come too close. She knew she'd shatter if he touched her.

“I'm not glorifying them,” Blake insisted. “I'm simply depicting a character with human frailties.”

Either he didn't understand or he chose not to admit it. It was up to Marisa to make Blake see how wrong he was.

“It's more than that. You've made Cliff heroic. He does things ordinary people can only dream about. Sure, most readers know they'll never be able to foil a terrorist plot, but what about the impressionable teenager who reads your books or watches the movies? What if he tries to emulate everything Cliff Pearson does and winds up so drunk that he kills someone when he drives home? Do you want that on your conscience?”

Though Blake blanched at the image she'd presented, he refused to back down. “I think you're overreacting. People buy my books or go to the movies because they want to be entertained, not because they're looking for a guide to life.”

That might be true, but . . . “People see a movie star eating a specific brand of cereal and they buy a box. Manufacturers pay to have that box of cereal sitting on the table. You're doing the same thing in your books. Fans know what kind of cigarettes Cliff Pearson smokes and the name of his favorite Scotch. Don't you think at least someone will want to see if those are as good as Cliff thinks?”

Blake shook his head. “I doubt it.”

“You're naïve.”

He shook his head again, more vehemently this time. “I'm not naïve. What I am is angry that you're attacking me because of the way I earn a living. I'm not an axe murderer.”

“I never said you were.” The truth was, he had the ability to affect far more people than a lone axe murderer.

“But you're acting as if I'm single-handedly destroying the moral fiber of this country. I write books, Marisa. Bestselling books. I'm not ashamed of that.”

“Aren't you?” She didn't believe him. “If you're not ashamed, why do you use a pseudonym and why do you refuse to have your face on the dust jacket? Those are the actions of a man who knows what he's doing is wrong. Why are you hiding?”

Anger suffused Blake's face, and his voice seethed as he said, “I have my reasons, but since you're so sure you're right, since you're so sure you know everything that's in my mind, there's no need for me to tell you.”

He took a step toward her, his expression menacing. “You act as if you're perfect, as if you're not hiding anything. If that's true, tell me why you dyed your hair and why you're wearing colored contacts?”

Before Marisa could answer, Blake spun on his heel and left.

I
can't believe I was such a fool!” If it wouldn't have made her appear childish, Marisa might have pounded her fist on the counter. “I trusted him. What kind of an idiot does that make me? I should have known better.”

When Blake had turned away, Marisa had known that she also needed a time-out. Mom wouldn't help. She thought the moon rose and set in Blake, all because the man complimented her cooking. There was only one place where Marisa could be assured of comfort, which was why she was now standing inside HCP, staring at her best friend.

Furrows appeared between Lauren's eyes as she rose from her perch behind the counter. “You're not making sense. Sit down,” she said, gesturing toward the pair of chintz-covered chairs that flanked the front window, “and start from the beginning.” After she locked the door and turned the sign to “closed,” Lauren took the other chair. “Now, what did Blake do?”

Marisa explained, the words tumbling over each other as she related what she'd discovered. “He wouldn't even admit how wrong he was,” she concluded.

Though she'd expected Lauren to murmur comforting words,
her friend simply gazed at her for a long moment before she said, “I know you're upset, but have you considered that you might be overreacting?”

“Not you too.” Marisa felt as if she'd been betrayed twice in the space of less than an hour. “That's what he said. I might have expected it from him, but I thought you were my friend.”

“I am your friend,” Lauren insisted, “but that doesn't mean I agree with everything you do or say. It seems to me Blake made a valid point when he said writing was his job. And quite frankly, I think it's pretty cool that we have a celebrity in Dupree. Folks are going to be lining up to get his autograph.”

Marisa blanched at the realization that she had opened Pandora's box. She was angry with Blake and deeply hurt, but that was no excuse for ignoring his desire for anonymity. He'd spent the better part of a decade keeping his two identities separate, and she had no right to change that.

“You can't tell anyone.” Marisa leaned forward, hoping Lauren would realize how important this was. “Blake doesn't want anyone to know he's Ken Blake.”

Lauren nodded slowly, and if she found it odd that the woman who'd been condemning Blake's choice of a profession was now defending him, she said nothing. “You know, Marisa,” she said at last, “just because Blake writes about a man who does things you don't like doesn't mean he's that man.”

“But Cliff Pearson drinks scotch the way you and I do iced tea.” And that was only one of his many flaws.

“Have you ever seen Blake drink?”

“No, but . . .”

“But what?”

Marisa should have remembered that Lauren was nothing if not persistent. “He could be a closet drinker.” That was how Eric had started. Literally. He'd hidden inside the master bedroom closet, sitting on the floor with his bottle in a brown bag. The first time Marisa had found him there, he claimed he was looking for a pair
of shoes. She'd still been young enough to believe that daddies didn't tell lies, but as the years passed and the drinking became more open, she'd realized what was happening.

Lauren shook her head, making Marisa wonder if she had read her mind. “You don't believe that. You'd have heard if the cleaning staff found bottles in Blake's cabin, and I doubt the trunk of his car is stuffed with empties.”

“Alcoholics are sneaky, Lauren. They know how to hide their tracks.”

“And you know what to look for. The reason you haven't seen any signs of drinking is because Blake is not a drinker. He's just a writer.”

That could be true, and Marisa hoped it was, but it didn't negate the fact that she felt betrayed. “Whether he drinks or not, he lied to me. He told me he was a financial planner.”

Lauren rose and poured them each a cup of coffee before she responded. “Maybe he is.”

“Sure.” Lacing her words with sarcasm, Marisa shook her head at her friend. “All
New York Times
bestselling authors moonlight as financial planners.” Though the coffee was delicious, one of the flavored blends that Lauren's customers preferred, it did nothing to diminish Marisa's anger.

“Blake wasn't always a bestselling author. Maybe he worked as a planner before his books sold.”

That was possible, even likely, but it didn't exonerate him. “If that's the case, he should have used the past tense. He told me that's what he does now.” And she'd been so naïve that she hadn't questioned how he could take so much time off from work.

“How do you know it's a lie?” When Marisa did not answer, Lauren walked behind the counter and pulled out her laptop. “Let's see what we can find. Where did he say his office was?”

“San Francisco with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge.”

A few clicks and mere seconds later, Lauren gave Marisa a satisfied smile. “There it is. Blake Kendall, CFP and a bunch of other
initials. I can't tell you how many clients he has, but he's a Certified Financial Planner and he's still open for business.” She closed the laptop and returned to her seat across from Marisa. “I think you owe him an apology.”

“Never.” When Lauren raised an eyebrow, Marisa tried to soften her reaction with an explanation. “He's like Hal and Trent. He's good looking and charming, and I was foolish enough to believe he was honest and that he genuinely liked me.”

Marisa pursed her lips, feeling as if she'd eaten a sour persimmon. “Silly me. I even thought he loved me. Now I know better. Three strikes. I've watched enough baseball to know what that means. I'm out of the game. No more men. No more trusting.”

Lauren's eyes flashed with anger and something else, something that might have been sorrow. “What about second chances and turning the other cheek?”

Shaking her head, Marisa rose. “Save your sermon for someone else. I'm having a bad day.” As she left Lauren's shop, Marisa told herself it couldn't get any worse.

She drove aimlessly for several hours, the radio blaring as she tried to drown out the car's rattle and the voices that echoed in her head. Lauren didn't understand. Though she'd been with Marisa for the prom night debacle, she hadn't met Trent. She hadn't watched him woo Marisa, talking about how they were two of a kind. She hadn't heard him claim that the reason he wanted to help Marisa find her father was that he understood how she felt. She hadn't been there the day the check had cleared and Trent had disappeared. She didn't know that Marisa had lost more than her savings that day; she'd lost a good measure of her self-esteem.

Marisa had thought Blake was different. In fact, during those magical days when she'd believed she was falling in love, she had told Blake they must be a case of opposites attracting because they were two very different people. She'd been convinced that that was good, that Blake had nothing in common with either Hal or Trent. She'd been wrong.

Marisa blinked at the sign advertising rodeo parking. No thank you. Somehow without her realizing it, she'd arrived at the place where she and Blake had been headed. There was no way she was going to enter the arena and watch the cowboys compete. That would be like pouring salt into her wounds. She made a quick U-turn and half an hour later found herself in Blytheville.

After parking on the main street, Marisa made her way to the small dress shop that Lauren had raved about. Retail therapy might be just what she needed. It didn't help. Though she looked at the artfully arranged clothing and even pulled a few blouses from the rack to see the details, nothing registered. Instead of neat pintucks and western embroidery, her mind pictured Blake, the man she had thought she loved, the one who'd conveniently neglected to tell her who he was.

Oh, he could say that writing was his job, but Marisa knew better. She'd read enough interviews with authors, each of whom made it clear that writing wasn't what they did; it was who they were. Though he might claim otherwise, Blake didn't love her. If he did, he wouldn't have hidden such an important part of his life.

And how dare he act as if coloring her hair was wrong? She had reasons—good reasons—for that. He had no idea what it had been like living with Eric.

Marisa clenched her fists and took a deep breath, trying to relinquish the anger that gripped her like a vise. Colleen had warned her that there would be times when anger would ambush her and that she'd need every technique in her arsenal to manage it, but never once during the sessions they'd had together had Marisa thought it would be like this. Colleen might be one of the best counselors in Atlanta, but she'd never been in this situation. She didn't know what it felt like to be betrayed. And that's what it felt like: betrayal.

With a sigh of disgust that she was accomplishing nothing here, Marisa returned to her car and headed back to Rainbow's End.

The sun was setting by the time she reached the resort, and her stomach was announcing its need for food.
Soon
, she told herself.
Soon she'd be inside the cabin, and even if Mom wouldn't provide comfort, there would be comfort food. That was one thing you could depend on from Carmen St. George.

Marisa pulled her car into the small parking area next to the cabin, noting that an unfamiliar vehicle had taken the remaining spot. How odd. She glanced at the car as she climbed out. The nondescript white sedan, probably five or six years old, was the kind of car the non-truck-driving residents of Dupree favored, but the Alabama plates made it unlikely that it belonged to one of the workers. Marisa frowned. Although guests came from all over the country, each of the other cabins had its own parking, giving them no reason to be here.

Brushing aside the question of who had left the car near her new home, Marisa registered the fact that the cabin lights were on. That meant Mom was inside. With her bag slung over her shoulder, Marisa climbed the three steps and pushed the door open.

“Something smells . . .” The words died as she entered the cabin. She felt blood drain from her head and grabbed the doorknob to keep from falling. A second later, heat suffused her face as she stared into the living area. There, seated on the couch as if he belonged there, was the man she had thought she would never see again.

“What are you doing here?” The words burst out before Marisa could stop them.

Eric St. George rose from the couch and started to open his arms. He looked like her father, and yet he didn't. The dad she remembered was far younger than this, with silver blond hair and vibrant blue eyes. This man's hair had faded and was streaked with gray, and his face bore more lines than many men twenty years his senior.

The years had not been kind to Marisa's father. He was thinner than she recalled, his shoulders slumped as if he'd carried a heavy burden for too long. The only part of him that hadn't changed was his eyes. They were still the same blue Marisa saw when she changed her contacts. Right now, those eyes were filled with hope and uncertainty as he took a step toward her, his arms ready to
embrace her. Her expression must have warned him, because he let his arms fall to his sides.

“Manners, Marisa. No matter what he's done, he's still your father.” Though Mom's voice was as filled with anger as Marisa's had been, there was no ignoring the change in her demeanor. She stood taller than she had this morning, and the lines that bracketed her mouth seemed to have lessened.

“What made you come now?” Marisa hadn't thought the day could get worse, but it had. There had been times during the years she'd searched for Eric that she had believed their reunion would be joyful. She'd pictured herself running into his arms and being whirled in the air as she had as a child. But as the years had passed, hope had been replaced by anger and bitterness. Today the sight of her father brought back memories of the nights she'd cried, the years she'd worried, and the money she'd spent trying to find him.

“It was time. I was ready.” Eric spoke the words calmly, as if he hadn't realized how his sudden reappearance would affect them.

“What if we're not ready to have you here?” Marisa clenched her fists. Though she wanted nothing more than to pound something, she wouldn't give Eric the satisfaction of knowing how much he'd hurt her. Again. Instead, she glared at him.

“You left us without so much as a good-bye. I don't know what you've been doing, but in case you've lost track of time, you've been gone for more than eight years. That's eight years when Mom and I had no idea where you were or whether you were still alive. And now because
you're
ready, you've come back. It doesn't work that way, Eric.”

He flinched at the name.

Mom grabbed Marisa's arm. “Sit down. Let's discuss this like civilized adults.”

Mom and Eric took the same seats they'd had when Marisa had entered the cabin, Eric on the couch, Mom in one of the chairs. Marisa perched on the edge of the remaining chair. From there, she could watch Eric's expression and study his body language. If
there was one thing she'd learned from her sessions with Colleen, it was to look for non-verbal cues. She wouldn't let Eric deceive her the way Hal and Trent and Blake had.