In Firefly Valley

by Amanda Cabot

  “I’m no longer the little girl who used to cry when her dad missed seeing her win the spelling bee,” Marisa said, keeping her gaze fixed on him. When Eric’s eyes darkened, she knew her words had met their mark. “I learned not to expect anything from you. That way I wasn’t disappointed.”

  He closed his eyes for a second, making Marisa wonder whether he was praying. When he opened them, he said, “I’ve got a lot to make up to both of you.”

  Mom nodded slowly. “You do, but we’ll give you a chance.”

  “Speak for yourself, Mom. I’m not sure he deserves another chance. I don’t understand how he could abandon us that way. A man who loved us wouldn’t have done that.”

  Marisa had read countless books; she’d heard numerous lectures; she’d spent hours discussing it with Colleen. All that had told her that alcoholism was a disease that became the most important part of a person’s life, damaging families at the same time that it destroyed the drinker. Most of all, she’d been told that it wasn’t her fault and that nothing she could have done or said would have changed Eric.

  Until today, she had thought she believed that. Now, faced with the reality of Eric’s return, Marisa knew the truth. Her brain understood, but her heart did not. No matter what she had claimed, the hurt, confused little girl who didn’t understand why her daddy wasn’t like the others was still inside her.

  “I was wrong. I know that.” Eric sounded sincere, and nothing in his posture gave lie to his words. “I can’t undo the past, but I will do everything I can to make the future better.”

  Marisa closed her eyes, not wanting him to see the sheen of tears. Though she wanted to believe him—oh, how she wanted to—she couldn’t dismiss the fear that he might hurt her mother and her again. It had taken years for her trust to be eroded; it would take more than a few minutes and a few promises to rebuild it. Right now Marisa wanted nothing more than to throw herself on her bed and try to put this day behind her.

  She gave Eric a steely gaze. “Where are you planning to live? Lauren mentioned that our old house is up for rent.”

  “Why would he go there?” Mom looked surprised by Marisa’s suggestion. “If we’re going to rebuild our family, we need to be closer. Your father is staying in one of the other cabins.”

  No! Marisa wanted to shriek the denial. She wasn’t ready, wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready to share her life with a man who was practically a stranger. He’d been gone for eight years, almost a third of her life. He couldn’t expect to walk back into it as if nothing had happened.

  Mom might have accepted Eric’s protestations of love and reform, but Marisa wasn’t so gullible. He would have to prove that he’d changed, and that wouldn’t occur overnight. In the meantime, he needed to keep his distance, and that meant more than a few hundred yards.

  Marisa shook her head. “I’m not staying at Rainbow’s End if he’s here.” He’d try to worm his way back into Mom’s heart, and that was something Marisa couldn’t bear to watch, not when she feared he’d leave the next time the desire for a bottle of whiskey grew too strong.

  Before her mother could protest, Marisa rushed into the kitchen and picked up the phone. “Lauren,” she said the instant her friend answered, “is the offer of your spare room still open?”

  16

  Ashamed? Blake shook his head as he placed another slice of bacon next to the scrambled eggs on his plate. The internal conversation that had started the previous afternoon continued. He wasn’t ashamed of his books, he told himself as he ladled maple syrup over the pancakes. No, siree, or whatever it was Texans would say. He wasn’t ashamed. He was a writer, and if the critics were to be believed, a good one. They’d described his writing as solid, his plots innovative, his characters compelling. Judging from his sales and the fan mail he’d received, readers agreed. That was cause for pride, not shame.

  This must be the morning lull that Carmen had mentioned at supper one day, because the dining room was practically empty. That suited Blake just fine. In his current mood, he wouldn’t be a congenial companion for anyone. He wasn’t ashamed of what he wrote, but he did regret the way he’d left Marisa. He should have explained why he used a pseudonym. He’d told her about his grandfather, so she already knew that the older man had been deeply opinionated. When she learned how vehemently Grandfather felt about fiction, she would have understood.

  She would also understand that when he had first started writing, Blake had depended on the income from his financial planning practice. He wasn’t certain how his more conservative clients would have reacted to the knowledge that he had a second job, especially such a different one, and so anonymity had seemed the best course for multiple reasons.

  Blake should have explained that to Marisa. But he hadn’t. At the time he’d been so incensed by her accusations and alarmed by the anger that had reminded him all too forcefully of Grandfather on one of this tirades that the only thing he could do was walk away. Then, when he’d recovered from his initial anger enough to talk to Marisa, to try to understand her over-the-top reaction, she was gone, the absence of her car clearly indicating that she’d left Rainbow’s End. Blake had looked for her again after supper, but her car was still missing, its spot taken by an unfamiliar vehicle with Alabama plates.

  He hadn’t wanted to appear like a lovelorn swain, constantly searching for the object of his affections, and so he’d waited a few hours before strolling by the stone cabin. The result had been the same: no Marisa. He’d checked again this morning, but there was still no sign of Marisa’s car. Even stranger, one of the teenagers was replenishing the breakfast buffet, a job that Carmen usually reserved for herself. Something was going on.

  Blake forced himself to chew slowly. He didn’t need indigestion, even though the pancakes weren’t as light as they’d been yesterday. The only reason he could imagine for that was that Carmen hadn’t made them. She had a special touch with pancakes, as she did with almost everything she cooked, and these flapjacks lacked that touch. Perhaps she was ill, but that didn’t explain the presence of the strange car and the absence of Marisa’s.

  There was only one way to learn what had happened. Blake swallowed the last bite of pancake, washed it down with a final slug of coffee, and rose. A quick glance at his watch told him it was after nine. Ever a creature of habit, Marisa ought to be in her office. She was. Though the door was closed, he saw light seeping under it.

  “Come in,” she called when he knocked. That was a good sign. At least she wasn’t ignoring everyone, although her reaction to him remained to be seen.

  Blake tried not to reveal his shock. She looked awful. Even carefully applied makeup couldn’t disguise the dark circles under her eyes and the pallor of her complexion. That alone would have worried him, but the way her shoulders slumped was even more concerning. Surely her discovery that he was Ken Blake hadn’t been enough to cause such a change.

  “Oh, it’s you.” Her greeting left no doubt that he was not welcome. Blake wouldn’t let that discourage him. If he had learned one lesson from his father, it was to take responsibility for his actions and apologize when they hurt others. And, though her reaction had been extreme, Blake couldn’t ignore the fact that it had been triggered by something he had done.

  “I came to explain about yesterday.”

  Marisa shook her head, dismissing him. “There’s no need. You said everything there was to be said. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate being left alone. I have a lot of work to do.”

  What had happened to the warm, caring woman, the woman he’d held in his arms and kissed, the woman who’d captured his heart? This woman was a stranger. More than that, she was a stranger he didn’t particularly like, one who reminded him of Ashley in her worst moments. Still, he couldn’t walk away without understanding what had caused the change.

  “Marisa, I want to—”

  “But I don’t.” She wouldn’t even let him finish his sentence. “Please leave.”

  This time he did. Though he w
as tempted to slam it, Blake knew that anger solved nothing and so he closed the door softly behind him. Marisa needed time to recover from whatever was bothering her this morning, and he needed time to reassess their relationship.

  It was clear that Marisa had more baggage than he’d realized. Perhaps it was time to walk away, both literally and figuratively. The last thing Blake needed was another woman like Ashley in his life, and yet Marisa hadn’t seemed the least bit like Ashley until yesterday afternoon. There had to be an explanation, a logical reason, for the change.

  As he walked toward the front of the building, Blake heard the sound of singing in the kitchen and recognized Carmen’s voice. Excellent. If anyone could give him a clue to Marisa, it was her mother. And judging from the joyful song, Carmen was having a better day than her daughter.

  Blake poked his head through the open doorway. “Come on in,” Carmen called when she spotted him. Though he’d never seen her in a foul mood, her smile was unusually bright this morning. As he entered the room, Blake revised his opinion. The smile looked almost artificial, making him wonder if it and the song were part of an attempt to project happiness.

  “Maybe I should come back later.” Blake had no desire to get himself involved in another difficult situation.

  Carmen shook her head. “’There’s no reason to do that. You’re always welcome here.” She gestured toward the plate of cinnamon rolls that sat on one corner of the counter. “Help yourself. I made extras for Eric.” Her smile faltered as she added, “He came home yesterday.”

  Eric. Marisa’s father. Blake inhaled deeply as the significance of Carmen’s statement registered. It explained not just the unfamiliar car but also Marisa’s mood. Though he wasn’t trying to exonerate himself for the anger his revelation had provoked, Blake’s supposition that he was not the primary cause of the pain he’d seen in Marisa’s eyes was confirmed. A reunion ought to be joyous, and yet it was clear that this one had not been. At least not for Marisa.

  Blake knew that her feelings for her father were complex and that the wounds inflicted by his disappearance had yet to heal. He also knew that Marisa was not a woman who liked surprises, at least not surprises of this magnitude. While he had no idea what she had said when she’d seen her dad, judging from the circles under Marisa’s eyes, she had had a sleepless night, and morning had brought no resolution.

  “That’s good news, isn’t it?”

  “It is for me. Eric’s return is the answer to eight years’ worth of prayer. Now I’m praying that having him here will be a blessing for Marisa.” Though a shadow crossed Carmen’s face, she said nothing more, and Blake knew better than to pry. Carmen would tell him what she wanted him to know, but only in her time frame.

  When she started to discuss the supper menu, he realized he’d learn nothing more from her today, but at least the detour had been worthwhile. He’d learned two things: Marisa hadn’t told her mother that he was Ken Blake, and that discovery wasn’t the only—probably not even the primary—reason Marisa was upset this morning.

  He couldn’t do anything about her father’s return, but Blake could try to make amends for the way he’d left her yesterday. Marisa might not accept a verbal apology, but surely she wouldn’t refuse a peace offering. And if she did, that would open the door to a discussion of exactly what had happened yesterday. If they were going to have any kind of a future together, he needed to know why she’d reacted the way she had.

  Blake frowned as he recalled his visits to Dupree. With no florist or candy shop, he’d have a hard time finding the traditional apology gifts. It was possible, though, that the supermarket might have something. He’d try there, and if that didn’t pan out, he’d go to Blytheville.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was wandering through the supermarket aisles, searching for something that would say “I’m sorry” more eloquently than the words Marisa refused to hear. As he’d expected, the store’s selection of flowers was limited, but the candy aisle held more promise. He was debating the merits of locally made goat milk fudge versus an assortment of chocolates when two teenagers entered the same aisle.

  “Have you figured out how to get it yet?” the first one asked.

  Blake gave the boys a quick glance. The one who’d spoken was tall, skinny, and dark-haired, while his companion was half a foot shorter with blond hair.

  “I’m working on it,” Blondie said. “I told my mom I’d heard that was the best brand of scotch and that’s what she should buy for the party. She took the bait—hook, line, and sinker.” He scuffed one shoe on the floor. “I won’t be able to sneak out a whole bottle, but once she opens one, I can fill some jars for us.” He slouched against a cookie display and fixed his gaze on his companion. “How about you? Did you get the cigarettes?”

  Blake tried not to frown at these obviously underage boys scheming to smoke and drink. Though he was tempted to remind them that what they were planning was not only illegal but also dangerous to their health, he suspected they’d be even less inclined to listen to him than Marisa had been.

  The dark-haired boy shook his head and stared at the floor as if the pockmarked linoleum would magically produce cigarettes. “Just my luck that my dad decided he was going to quit smoking this week. He threw a whole carton away before I knew what was going on.”

  “So, what now? We need them.” Blondie’s voice cracked as he spoke.

  “Not to worry,” his companion assured him. “I got a cousin in Blytheville who’s coming to dinner this weekend. His dad smokes the right brand, so he’s gonna bring me a pack or two.”

  Blondie grinned. “Cool. By this time next week, we’ll be just like Cliff Pearson.”

  The time of reckoning had come. Marisa had known it was a matter of when—not whether—her mother would appear, and here she was, looking determined to have her say. Mom closed the door behind her and took a seat in front of Marisa’s desk.

  “I’m not going to leave until you listen to me.”

  “You said everything there was to say yesterday.” It had been only half an hour since Marisa had told Blake the same thing. It appeared that that was the refrain of the day. She looked at her mother. Though Mom’s expression was serious, the lines around her mouth seemed to have lessened. “You’ve gotten what you wanted. Eric is back.” She would not, she absolutely would not, refer to him as Dad.

  Mom inclined her head in agreement. “You’re right. I wanted him to come back. He’s my husband, and no matter what happened in the past, I never stopped loving him.” She stared at Marisa, her expression slightly defiant. “Of course I’m happy that he’s here, but I don’t want to lose you.” The defiance turned to pleading.

  Marisa reached across the desk and grabbed her mother’s hands. “You’re not losing me. I’ll always be your daughter.”

  “Then come back. Let us work on becoming a family again.”

  No matter what Mom thought, it wasn’t that simple. “I can’t. I see Eric, and all I can remember are the bad times. I think about how he was never there when I needed him and how much money I wasted trying to find him.”

  Mom tightened the grip on Marisa’s hands. “Money? What are you saying?”

  Though Marisa hadn’t planned to tell her mother about the searches, the words had escaped before she could censor them. Now she had no choice but to admit what she’d done. “I knew how much you wanted him to come back. I thought I could find him, so I hired a few investigators over the years.” Marisa frowned as she thought of the men who’d tried to help her. Other than Trent, they’d been honest but unsuccessful.

  “It seems we were looking in the wrong place. I never thought Eric would leave the country. One of the few good memories I have is of Fourth of July celebrations and how proud he was to be an American.” Though he’d marched in both the Christmas and the Independence Day parades, Eric had once told Marisa he believed Jesus’s birthday was better celebrated in church. Parades and marching bands should be reserved for July Fourth.

  “That’
s true. Eric loves this country.” Mom gave Marisa one of those ‘you’d better tell the truth, because I’ll know if you’re lying’ stares as she asked, “Why didn’t you tell me what you were doing?”

  “I didn’t want to get your hopes up when there were no guarantees.” The first time Marisa had hired a PI had been her first year out of college when she was finally earning enough to pay the fees. After that, she’d waited two years and had tried a more expensive firm reported to have a high success rate. And then there had been Trent.

  Tears filled Mom’s eyes, and she squeezed Marisa’s hands so tightly they hurt. “Oh, mi hija, thank you.”

  “I didn’t accomplish anything other than wasting money.” And she deserved neither thanks nor praise for that.

  “You’re wrong.” A vehement shake of the head accompanied Mom’s words. “What you did shows me that you still love him.”

  “I did it for you.” And for herself. Marisa had wanted what Colleen called closure, what she simply referred to as answers. She wanted to see her father again to learn why he’d left and especially why he’d left on graduation day.

  “That’s the first step.” Mom rose and made her way around the desk. “Thank you, Marisa,” she said as she wrapped her arms around her. “I know it won’t be easy, but I hope you will give him a second chance.”

  Second chance? It would be more like a fiftieth chance. Marisa shook her head, unwilling to raise false hopes. “I’m sorry, Mom, but I don’t think I can do that.”

  “I could get used to this.” Lauren pulled out a chair and took her place at the kitchen table, smiling as Marisa poured pancake batter into a pan.

  “It’s the least I can do for someone who won’t let me pay room and board.” This was the second day Marisa had made breakfast. Yesterday’s oatmeal muffins and yogurt parfait had been such a hit that she had decided to expand her repertoire and make banana buckwheat pancakes. While her culinary skills would never match her mother’s, Marisa was a reasonably good cook, and preparing breakfast was something she could do to repay her friend.