by Amanda Cabot
“I play games of what-if.” Though his attention remained focused on the road, Blake’s grip on the steering wheel was relaxed. “When Greg told me about the number of deer accidents in this part of the Hill Country, I started asking myself what would happen if my hero were the first to arrive at the scene of an accident. What would he do? And would his decision be different if there were a reason why he shouldn’t have been there?”
“He did the right thing.” Though he knew there would be serious repercussions when his family learned he’d violated his curfew, Logan hadn’t left the injured motorist. Instead, he’d called 911 and given CPR, keeping the man alive until the emergency responders arrived.
“But it wasn’t an easy decision.”
“That’s what made the scene so powerful. Logan had to weigh right and wrong.” Marisa settled back in the comfortable seat, her attention once more on the man at her left. As had been the case for a day and a half, ever since he’d given her the e-reader with his manuscript, her thoughts revolved around the story and the man who’d written it.
The Logan Marsh story had the action and excitement of Blake’s Cliff Pearson books. It also had a hero who overcame seemingly insurmountable odds, the way Cliff did. The difference was that Logan made mistakes, and he learned from them. In Marisa’s eyes, that made him far more heroic than Cliff.
She turned to Blake and asked him one of the questions that had been floating through her mind ever since she finished reading the manuscript.
“Are you going to use your real name for this book?”
Blake shook his head. “No. It will be another Ken Blake story.”
“Why? There’s nothing to be ashamed of in this one.”
Blake’s lips tightened momentarily. “You may not believe this, but shame wasn’t the reason I chose a pseudonym.” He stared out the windshield, then shifted his glance toward Marisa. “Do you remember my telling you that my grandfather lived with us?”
“Yes. I also remember that he sounded like a difficult man.”
“That he was, in many ways.” Blake swallowed before continuing. “Grandfather was very opinionated, and one of his opinions was that fiction is the work of the devil. I don’t agree, and my dad doesn’t, either, but if Grandfather had known that I wrote novels, he would have been furious. He would have called me and ranted until he was hoarse. Then, because I wasn’t there, he would have made my father’s life miserable. There would have been tirades, little digs, even full-fledged sermons about how wrong I was.”
Blake took a shallow breath. “Trust me, Marisa. It wouldn’t have been a one-time occurrence. Grandfather would have found a way to tell my dad every single day that he’d obviously failed as a parent. I couldn’t subject my father to that, so I chose a pseudonym and insisted on anonymity. I haven’t even told Dad, because I didn’t want him to have to keep a secret from his father.”
Though Blake had alluded to his grandfather’s abrasive personality, Marisa hadn’t realized it had been so extreme.
“Why did your father put up with that kind of behavior?”
As he clenched the steering wheel, Blake frowned. “I think it was a sense of duty. My grandmother died only a couple months after my mother, and Grandfather was lost. Dad’s never really said so, but I believe he was worried about his father, so he invited him to live with us. Once he was there, it seemed there was no going back.”
“I’m sorry. Life with Eric wasn’t always easy, but at least he wasn’t abusive.”
Blake’s smile was warm and reassuring. “It’s over. And now can we talk about something more pleasant than me? Tell me what’s going on at Rainbow’s End. Even though Greg and I jog almost every morning, we don’t talk much.”
And so Marisa told Blake about the plans for Thanksgiving weekend. “It’s amazing to me, but even with the expense of renovations, if we continue at our current pace, Rainbow’s End will break even by the end of next year.”
“I’m not surprised. Both Greg and Kate are shrewd at business, and they’re doing God’s work at Rainbow’s End. I would expect it to thrive.” Blake turned to glance at Marisa again. “What about you? Are you enjoying what you’re doing?”
“Surprisingly, yes. The accounting isn’t especially challenging, but I have the chance to do so much more.”
Though he kept his eyes on the road, Blake’s lips curved in a smile. “Like arranging entertainment for the guests.”
“And helping with the hiring. I even do procurement.” Marisa smiled, thinking of the calls she’d made and the impromptu visits to some of Dupree’s merchants. “It’s been fun, trying to find local suppliers.” While she’d known there would be challenges, she had fully supported Kate and Greg’s desire to locally source as many things as possible. Their goal, they’d explained, was to benefit Dupree as well as their guests.
“So you’re glad to be back home?”
Marisa was silent for a moment, considering the question. “Most of the time, yes.” But as the image of her father skittered across her mind, she started to shake her head. The truth was, she wasn’t sure how she felt about being back in Dupree with him here. Though it was wonderful to see Mom happier and more relaxed than she’d been in eight years, Marisa wasn’t yet ready to admit that the changes she’d seen in Eric were permanent. She still feared that he’d take a drink, then another, and that the nightmarish pattern of her teenage years would repeat itself.
Unwilling to spoil the evening, Marisa changed the subject, telling Blake how glad she was that she was living with Lauren and could help her care for Fiona. By the time she’d exhausted the topic, they were pulling into the parking lot of what was considered to be one of the most elegant restaurants in the Hill Country.
Strawberry Chantilly lived up to the hype. With formally clad waiters, fine linens and china, and tables set far enough apart to ensure privacy, it was the perfect spot for a romantic evening. Plush carpet and heavy draperies muffled the other guests’ conversations, while the soft music added to the atmosphere.
Marisa might have been ambivalent about living in Dupree, but there was no question that dinner with Blake was the most enjoyable evening she’d spent in a long time. The food was delicious, the service attentive, the company wonderful.
She and Blake talked about everything from politics to pasta, and though they didn’t always agree, that didn’t matter. What mattered was that they were sharing parts of themselves. They picked up where they had left off before she had let Ken Blake get in the way, but tonight’s discussion was at a deeper level.
The fact that there had been a rift between them gave everything they said a heightened importance, as if they were seeking to ensure that there would be no further misunderstandings. And though there were a few moments of awkwardness when Marisa recalled how she’d misjudged Blake, they were soon outweighed by the sheer pleasure of candlelight, crystal, and fine cuisine.
When they’d savored the last bite of dessert and drained their coffee cups, Blake rose and pulled out Marisa’s chair, leading her outside. Perhaps it was because the evening was cool; perhaps there was another reason Blake wrapped his arm around her shoulders and drew her close to him. The reason didn’t matter. What mattered was that Marisa felt cherished as they walked slowly toward his car. Blake’s gentle embrace deepened that feeling, warming her more than she had believed possible.
Stars sparkled in the moonless sky, a light breeze rustled the trees, nocturnal animals scurried across the ground. It was an ordinary autumn evening, and yet it was anything but ordinary for Marisa. For the first time ever, she felt as if she were where she was meant to be. For the first time ever, she felt as if she were with a man who would not betray her, a man who just might be the one man in the world meant for her. For the first time ever, she felt beautiful, and it was all due to the man at her side.
When they reached the car, Blake paused. Turning to face Marisa, he placed his hand beneath her chin, cupping it, sending shivers of delight through her veins as he
caressed her skin.
“I want to kiss you,” he said softly, “but I won’t if you don’t want me to.”
Her heart beating so wildly it threatened to burst through her ribs, she smiled at him. “Kiss me, Blake,” Marisa said, amazed that she could form a coherent sentence when all she could think about was being kissed by Blake Kendall. “Kiss me,” she said softly, and he did.
His lips were tender, tasting of the praline pastry he’d had for dessert. His hands were firm, their warmth comforting her as he drew her closer to him. His embrace was everything she’d dreamed of and more.
As their lips met, Marisa wrapped her arms around Blake’s neck, savoring the faint prickle of his hair beneath her fingertips. And for a moment, nothing mattered but the fact that she was with Blake, feeling his heart beat, smelling the spicy scent of his aftershave, hearing the soft rustle of his suit coat as he raised his hand to caress her hair. This was the perfect way to end the day.
26
Marisa was still smiling the next morning. When she thought about the kiss, all she could do was smile. It had felt so good, so right, to be in Blake’s arms with his lips pressed to hers. The drive back to Dupree had been almost as wonderful. They’d talked and talked. They’d talked about little things, about big things, about how sometimes silence was as powerful as words. And while they’d both agreed they couldn’t start over, they were equally determined to give their relationship a second chance.
Marisa liked the sound of that, she reflected as she slid behind the wheel of her car. Though she wasn’t sure what the future would bring, whether it would lead to marriage as Lauren predicted, right now, it felt good to live one day at a time. Marisa’s smile turned to a frown. She was starting to sound like Eric. That was what he claimed he and all recovering alcoholics did: live one day at a time.
Marisa didn’t want to spoil her day by thinking about Eric, but she couldn’t stop. Every time she drove, the absence of the familiar rattle reminded her that, even though she hadn’t asked him to, he had repaired her car. She appreciated that. That was why she’d given Eric a bottle of Old Spice.
It had been common courtesy, nothing more, no reason for his eyes to mist. Marisa had said thank you—she’d even smiled a bit more than normal—but that didn’t mean she was ready to let Eric into her heart again. That was the road to heartache, and that was a road Marisa had no intention of taking.
A few minutes later, her smile once more restored as she thought of Blake and the fact that he’d suggested they schedule another movie and sundae evening, Marisa parked the car in its usual spot and headed into the lodge. To her surprise, her mother appeared to be waiting for her, her normally placid face twisted into a frown.
“I can’t believe it!” Mom cried, her distress evident by the heavier than normal accent. “They promised me!” She followed that statement with a volley of such rapid Spanish that Marisa struggled to understand it.
“Slow down, Mom. Start from the beginning and tell me what happened.” She drew her mother into her office and urged her to sit down. Though Mom sat, she continued to twist her apron in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture.
“The company in Dallas called. They said their shipment of linen was delayed and they won’t have the tablecloths to us in time.”
No wonder Mom was so upset. She’d been the one to select this supplier. Though Marisa had offered to help, Mom had insisted that she could handle it, pointing out that Marisa had enough to do without trying to find tablecloths.
Unlocking her desk, Marisa pulled out the file. “Let me call them and see what I can do. Maybe I can threaten them with breach of contract.” Not that doing so would make the tablecloths suddenly appear, but it might encourage the supplier to propose alternatives.
Half an hour later, Marisa was as frustrated as her mother. The ship carrying the linen destined to be turned into tablecloths for Rainbow’s End had been delayed by a hurricane. That made it an act of God, one of the specific exclusions in the contract. Even worse, the supplier had no suggestions for other sources of table linens.
“I hate having to tell Kate,” Mom wailed when Marisa explained what she’d learned. “She’ll be so disappointed.”
Though it might seem like a small thing to others, Marisa knew how much Kate had been counting on the tablecloths. She wanted everything to be extra special for Thanksgiving, to make it a celebration for the guests who might otherwise not have had much of a holiday.
“There’s got to be a way to fix this,” Marisa said, although her brain refused to provide a solution. The fact that her mother was so upset bothered her more than Kate’s possible disappointment. “Don’t say anything to Kate yet. I want to think about it, and you’ve got some meals to prepare.” Perhaps if Mom returned to the kitchen and started cooking, she’d be able to relax and Marisa would be able to find an answer.
Armed with a pad of paper, a pencil, and a pair of scissors, Marisa walked down the short hallway to the dining room. The tables had started their lives as ordinary round pine tables. What made them unique was the addition of a lazy Susan in the center. It was a wonderful way of serving food family style, eliminating the constant stream of “please pass the butter” requests and the question of where to store the various bowls and platters. But, while the Susans worked admirably for serving, they also made fitting tablecloths a challenge. Somehow, the cloth had to fit underneath the Susan and around the pole that attached it to the table. And that, Marisa suspected, was not easy. That was probably the reason none of Rainbow’s End’s previous owners had used tablecloths.
Marisa sat at one of the tables and stared at the Susan. She wasn’t certain what the supplier in Dallas had planned to do, but she could think of only one way to make this work. She would have to cut a hole in the center of a round tablecloth to provide space for the rod, then slit the fabric to maneuver it underneath the Susan. She ripped a piece of paper from the pad and started to cut it into a circle.
“I didn’t know I was missing arts and crafts time.”
Marisa looked up and smiled. Blake might not be able to solve her problems, but just having him in the same room boosted her spirits. “I wish it were that simple. I’m trying to figure out how to make cloths for these tables.”
“I can see where that would be a challenge. They’re like outdoor umbrella tables.”
“You’re right.” Marisa shook her head, wondering why she hadn’t recognized the similarity. It wasn’t as if she’d never seen an umbrella table. For the first time since Mom had told her about the problem, Marisa felt a glimmer of hope. The tables themselves were a standard size. Perhaps there were ready-made tablecloths she could have shipped to Rainbow’s End in time for Thanksgiving. They might not be as nice as the ones Mom had ordered, but at least they’d cover the tables and make the day a bit more special.
“I need to do some online shopping.” Marisa headed back to her office and its computer, smiling when Blake followed her and pulled a chair next to hers. Though he admitted that he’d never shopped for table linens, he claimed everyone needed moral support. He provided that, making Marisa laugh even when she realized that none of the commercially available umbrella cloths would meet Kate’s expectations. The fabrics were too casual, and the exposed zipper was definitely not a look Kate would approve.
“What about place mats?” Blake asked. “That’s what my dad uses for special occasions. I don’t think he ever owned a tablecloth.”
Marisa wrinkled her nose. “Spoken like a man. You didn’t see place mats at Strawberry Chantilly, did you?”
“Do I get points for saying that I didn’t notice anything other than the beautiful woman who was my companion?”
“You get points,” Marisa agreed, flattered by his sweet words, “but Kate still wants tablecloths, and the last time I checked, she was still my boss. I need to find a way to make her happy.”
Marisa clicked on the site that offered the least offensive tablecloths and studied it, trying to convince hersel
f that oilcloth would be acceptable for one weekend. She failed. As much as she hated to, she was going to disappoint both Mom and Kate.
She was about to close the browser window when a small ad on the right caught her eye. Marisa grinned.
“If you were a writer, I’d say inspiration just struck,” Blake said when she clicked on the ad.
“It did.” Marisa pointed to the monitor. “I realized that I can buy regular round tablecloths and modify them. I’m not a master seamstress like Lauren, but I know how to use a sewing machine. All I need are the right materials.”
“What do you think?” Marisa asked a few minutes later when she found a supplier in San Antonio who promised overnight delivery anywhere in the US. They had a variety of round tablecloths in the correct size, including one in the ivory linen Kate preferred.
“It looks good,” Blake agreed, “but you won’t be able to judge the quality until they arrive. Why don’t we pay them a visit? You can see if you like the fabrics, and if you don’t, they may have other merchandise that’s not listed on the website.”
“You’re right.” Marisa switched off her computer and reached for her purse. “I’m on my way.”
Blake feigned a pout. “Did you miss the part where I said ‘we’? I’ll drive.”
The restaurant supply house in San Antonio proved to be even better than Marisa had expected. Blake had been correct. They did have items not shown online, and since Marisa needed only eight of each design, she had more choices than she’d anticipated.
“What exactly are you going to do with them?” the clerk asked. “You said the tables were special.”
“They have lazy Susans in the center, so I need to cut a hole and make a slit to get them onto the table. I thought I’d use invisible zippers to close them.”
The clerk shook her head. “That won’t work. The fabric won’t lay flat once you’ve inserted the zipper. That’s why umbrella cloths have exposed zippers. They make up for the fabric that’s turned under in the seam allowance.”
