In Firefly Valley (24 page)

“Oh, Drew, I'm so sorry.”

His response surprised her. “I'm not. Being fired was the best thing that could have happened to me. Losing my job forced me to take a long look at myself. When I realized that I didn't like what I saw, I knew I had to change.” He lowered his gaze for a moment, then met Lauren's, the corners of his lips turning up into a faint smile. “I'm still working on it, but with God's help, I'm becoming a person I can like.”

She nodded slowly. Her instincts had told her something was different, and now she knew what had changed. The Drew who'd rented Marisa's old home was not the same man Lauren had met last spring.

“For what it's worth, I like the new you,” she said softly. “I like him a lot.”

Drew's smile lit his face. “Then you'll let me stay with your daughter while you're at work?”

“I will.”

A
mbushed. That's the way Marisa felt. She had just entered her office when Blake arrived. This was not what she needed, especially not first thing in the morning. She needed another cup of coffee, at least one cinnamon bun, and another month or so before she dealt with him.

Ever since the day she'd told Ruby it was time to become a blonde again, Marisa had found herself remembering her reaction when she'd learned of Blake's dual identity. The white hot anger she'd felt that day had cooled, leaving her to wonder if she'd overreacted. It was true that she'd been shocked by the revelation, but it was also true, as Lauren had reminded her several times, that she'd fallen in love with Blake, the man. That he was a writer was secondary.

As the days had passed, Marisa had admitted to herself that while she might believe that writing was who Blake was rather than what he did, it was possible that she was wrong. Writing might be nothing more than a career, like his work as a financial planner. And if that was the case, she owed him an apology.

Colleen would say that Marisa owed him an apology in any case, simply because she'd let her temper get the better of her. But Marisa
wasn't ready to apologize. She had more than enough turmoil in her life right now between Eric's return and Fiona's accident.

Though Drew tried his best not to disrupt their schedule, everything had changed. Not only was Fiona hooked up to pulleys and cables, but the family dynamics had altered. Fiona now looked to Drew for comfort, whereas in the past she'd sought only her mother. And then there was Lauren's relationship with Drew. Marisa would have had to be blind to miss the tender looks they exchanged or the way Drew's hand lingered whenever he touched Lauren. Everything was changing, leaving Marisa feeling more than a little overwhelmed.

She needed time to adjust, and she definitely needed time to prepare herself for an encounter with Blake. But the determination she saw on his face and the way he leaned against the door frame told Marisa he had no intention of letting her escape. Whatever he wanted to say, she would have to listen, unless she did something childish like plugging her ears.

The corners of Blake's lips twitched, almost as if he'd read her mind. Perhaps he was reacting to her hair color. Though his eyes had widened when he opened the door, he'd said nothing about the change.

“I know you said you didn't want to see me again, but I brought something I hope will change your mind.” To Marisa's surprise, Blake held out an object she had no difficulty identifying.

“An e-reader?” She already owned one.

As he shook his head, a shock of light brown hair tumbled across his forehead. “The reader's not the gift. It's the book that's on it that's important.”

Flowers, candy, and books. Mom claimed those were traditional courting gifts. Blake had already offered Marisa flowers and candy. This must be the twenty-first-century substitute for a book of poetry.

Though she wanted to refuse, Marisa found herself intrigued. Without turning on the machine, she wouldn't know which book Blake had chosen for her.

“I'm not a big fan of poetry,” she told him.

“This isn't poetry.”

“Romance?”

“No.”

“Science fiction?”

“No.”

When she'd exhausted every category she could recall, each time eliciting a shake of the head and the hint of a smile from Blake, Marisa nodded. “Then it must be some sort of self-help book.” She'd read more than her share of them when she'd been trying to understand her father's behavior.

“Not exactly,” he said. “Although writing it did help me.”

For a second, Marisa was silent, absorbing the unexpected response. Perhaps if she'd had a second cup of coffee, she might not have been so dense. “It's your new book.”

“Yeah.” Blake's expression turned solemn. “I won't say anything about it other than that I hope you'll read it. And if you want to talk when you're done, you know where to find me.” His eyes narrowed, and this time there was no doubt about it: Blake wanted to smile. “For the record, you look great as a blonde.”

Without waiting for a response, he left, closing the door behind him and leaving Marisa alone with his gift and a Texas-sized supply of curiosity. Blake knew how she felt about his books, so why did he want her to read this one? And why now? Marisa didn't know a lot about writers, but she had heard that few shared their stories with anyone other than their agents and editors, not wanting the plot to be leaked to the public.

What had he written? It had to be another Cliff Pearson story. That was his brand. But if it was, it made no sense that Blake wanted her to read it. Marisa started to put the e-reader aside, then switched it on. She would read the first page. That was all. An hour later, when the phone rang, she realized she was supposed to be working, not reading Blake's book.

Reluctantly, she answered the call. Though she forced herself to
follow her to-do list, for the rest of the day Marisa found herself thinking about Blake's characters. She had read engaging books before, but this was different. Blake had hooked her on the first page, and no matter what she did, she couldn't stop wondering what was going to happen next.

The next morning, bleary-eyed from too little sleep, she knocked on Blake's cabin door.

“Let's talk,” she said when he opened the door.

The smile that lit Blake's face left no doubt of his pleasure. “I was hoping you'd say that. Do you want to walk while we talk?”

Marisa shook her head. Fatigue had made her legs weak. “Why don't we just sit on your porch?” She'd worn a hooded sweatshirt to ward off the early morning chill.

“Great.” Seconds later, Blake zipped his jacket closed as he took the second Adirondack chair.

“I read it,” she said as she handed him the e-reader. “I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't that.”

Blake simply raised an eyebrow, encouraging her to continue.

“It's good,” she said, then shook her head. “No, that's not true. It's wonderful. Once I started reading, I didn't want to stop, and when I finished, I was tempted to start all over again.”

Marisa smiled, wanting him to understand how much she'd enjoyed his story. Unlike Blake, she wasn't a master with words. “I can't remember when a book affected me like this. I loved the characters.” Marisa wrinkled her nose and amended her statement. “Well, not the villain. I was afraid of him, and that was good too, because I know that's what you intended.”

Though Blake said nothing, as if he knew she wasn't finished, Marisa watched the tension drain from him. His hands were no longer gripping the chair arms, and his shoulders had relaxed.

As the morning chill settled over her, Marisa slid her hands into the kangaroo pockets of her sweatshirt. She'd go back to Lauren's once she told Blake everything she felt about his book. “The story kept me totally engrossed, but what I liked best was the way you
delivered a message without being heavy-handed.” Marisa paused for a moment to emphasize her next words. “This is a fabulous book, Blake.”

His eyes shone with pleasure. “Better than
Anne of Green Gables
?”

She stared at him, startled by the question. “Who told you about that?” Marisa knew she'd never mentioned her love of the classic, and it was hardly a subject that would come up in casual conversation with anyone else.

“Your dad. He said it was your favorite book.” Blake's lips turned up in a mischievous smile. “I learned a few things from it, like not to comment on a woman's hair color unless you're very sure she's happy with it.”

So that was why he hadn't said much about her new look. “I'm happy being a blonde again,” she told him. “What surprised me is that you actually read
Anne
.”

“I did. It's not my normal fare, but I can see why you enjoyed it.” Blake clasped his hands around his knees as he said, “So, tell me. How does mine compare?”

“Nothing can top
Anne
,” Marisa said, staunchly defending her childhood reading, “but your story is a close second. I really enjoyed it.”

For the second time in only a few minutes, Blake said, “I was hoping you'd say that. My agent and editor like it, but it's your opinion that matters most.”

The rush of warmth that flooded Marisa's face had nothing to do with the rising sun. “That's very flattering, but why?”

“Because you're the reason I wrote this story and not another Cliff Pearson.”

“I don't understand.” The day she'd learned that he was Ken Blake, Marisa had believed Blake saw nothing wrong with his fictional hero. Now it appeared that he had listened—really listened—to what she'd said.

“Your reaction to Cliff made me look at my books differently.”
Blake stared at the lake for a moment before turning back to Marisa. “I didn't agree with everything you said, and I still don't, but when I heard two teenage boys trying to buy Cliff's whiskey and cigarettes, I thought about what you'd said. That was when I knew he wasn't the best role model.” Blake leaned forward to close the distance between them. “Thank you, Marisa. You opened my eyes.”

Marisa's heart soared, then plummeted. While it was flattering to know that she had been able to influence Blake, the new book only reinforced how wrong she'd been.

“I'm glad you're writing about Logan Marsh instead of Cliff Pearson.” That was half of the story. Taking a deep breath, Marisa tried to slow the racing of her pulse. What she was about to say was sorely overdue. “I owe you an apology, Blake, a huge apology. I had no right to say the things I did about your writing. All I can say in my defense is that I'm not totally rational when drinking is involved.”

He nodded slowly, his eyes solemn. “That's understandable.”

“But not excusable. I should have realized that you're not Cliff Pearson and that I had no right to judge the way you make your living.” When he said nothing, she continued. “Can you forgive me?”

“Of course.” His lips curving into a smile, Blake tipped his head to one side. “I hope this means that we can be friends again. Even though I've been writing night and day, I've missed you.”

And she had missed him. Though she had tried to deny it, Marisa had felt as if a part of her heart had been torn away.

“I thought the time we had together before Ken Blake got in the way was special,” Blake continued, “and I want to recapture that.”

If Marisa had learned one thing, it was that you could not recapture the past. Fortunately, there was always the future, and right now that future looked bright.

“I'm not sure we can recapture anything,” she said, not wanting to mislead Blake. “We're not the same people we were a month ago. Instead of looking backward, I'd suggest we move forward.”

“That sounds like a plan to me.” Blake's smile turned into a
mischievous grin. “Can we start by going to dinner tonight? I've heard there's a good French restaurant in Blytheville.”

As she thought about Strawberry Chantilly with its reputation for superb food and a romantic atmosphere, Marisa smiled. “You sure know how to impress a girl.”

Blake smiled. “So you'll go with me?”

“Of course.”

“Hey, Fiona, did you see any pigs fly by?” Though Lauren pretended to be serious as she entered her daughter's room, Marisa knew she was trying to make her laugh. Even though Fiona was reacting better than anyone had thought possible to her enforced inactivity and the discomfort of having a leg in traction, she needed frequent distractions.

“Don't be silly, Mom,” Fiona said with a giggle. “Pigs don't fly.”

“I'm not so sure about that. Your Aunt Marisa is doing something I didn't think would happen until pigs flew.”

Fiona's eyes grew wide and she stared at Marisa. “What are you doing?”

“It's only dinner.”