In Firefly Valley (17 page)

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.

Lauren shrugged as if her hospitality were insignificant. “The guest room was empty, and—”

“Empty? Is that how you describe a hundred pounds of fabric and thread?” It had taken the better part of an hour to clear enough space for Marisa and the few belongings she'd brought that first night.

“You know what I mean.” Lauren accepted a cup of orange juice from Marisa and nodded when she poured another one for Fiona. Though the little girl was later than normal today, since it was Saturday and a no-school day, Lauren didn't seem to mind.

“I'm thankful for the adult companionship,” Lauren continued, “and Fiona's so excited about having Aunt Marisa living here that she's forgotten to nag me about finding her a new daddy.”

As the bubbles burst on the top of the pancakes, Marisa began to flip them. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but you don't seem to be actively looking for one.” Not that Lauren had much time, even if she'd been inclined to go husband hunting. Completing the quilts for Rainbow's End was a more than full-time job.

“You should talk. The Matchers are going to be so disappointed when they realize that you and Blake are no longer an item.”

Marisa didn't want to talk about Blake any more than she wanted to think about her father's return.

“Don't change the subject, Lauren. We were talking about you.”

Her friend took another sip of juice before she responded. “I'm not going to put an ad in the paper or join one of those online dating services, if that's what you mean. I've heard too many horror stories.”

“So you're just going to wait until Mr. Right appears on your doorstep.” Lauren had been fortunate, because Patrick had done almost that. He'd been assigned a locker across from Lauren's, and
they'd struck up a conversation his first day of school. If it hadn't been love at first sight, it was pretty close.

“That's one way to describe it.”

Marisa blinked, then realized that Lauren hadn't read her thoughts. She was referring to her comment about waiting for Mr. Right. “What I'm doing is waiting until God sends the right man.” To Marisa's surprise, Lauren's lips curved in an almost secretive smile. “There are days when I think he already has.”

Surprise turned to shock. “You've been holding out on me. Who is this man?”

Rather than reply, Lauren rose and headed to her room. When she returned, she held out a sheet of paper with a pencil sketch. Marisa stared at it, not wanting to believe what she saw.

“Drew Carroll? You must be kidding. He's absolutely the last man you should consider marrying.”

Lauren nodded. “I know. I'm not in his class. I barely finished high school, and he's a Stanford grad, but . . .”

Marisa held up a hand in the universal gesture for halt. “Stop right there. You're not the problem. He is. I heard all about him from my mom. He's arrogant, he uses people, and he thinks rules are for others.” The accusations were harsh, but Marisa couldn't let her friend continue to harbor delusional thoughts about Drew Carroll.

Lauren snatched the paper back from Marisa and laid it on the table next to her plate. “I've heard that before, but I can't stop thinking about him.”

“Try harder.”

B
lake wasn't sure how long he'd been pacing. All he knew was that it wasn't helping. He'd counted the number of steps it took to get from one end of the living area of his cabin to the door—six—and the number of steps to cross the same room from side to side—seven. What he hadn't tallied was the number of times he'd counted and how long he'd simply paced. He probably should have gone jogging, but it was raining, and even though Greg claimed that only wimps let a little liquid sunshine keep them from exercising, Blake had always been a gym person. It was one thing to run five miles on a treadmill inside a nicely climate-controlled environment, quite another to battle with raindrops and puddles all in the name of exercise.

Even if he'd gone outside, there was no guarantee that he'd have been able to banish the images that had driven him to pace. The two events were separate, and yet in his mind, they blended together, each disturbing him in its own way.

First came Marisa. “I don't want your apology or your candy,” she had said when he'd tried to hand her the box of fudge he'd brought as a peace offering. There had been no warmth in her ex
pression, nothing but the stark anguish he'd seen earlier that day, as she added, “The only thing I want is to be left alone.”

Blake might have argued. Perhaps he should have, but the truth was, he had little to say. Though he could list his reasons for using a pseudonym, he knew that would not alleviate her pain. He could claim he understood about her father, but that would be a lie. Blake's father had been a stable, loving force in his life. Marisa's had not.

Blake had no words of comfort to offer, and so he'd done as she had asked. He had returned to his cabin and resolved not to seek her out. Now that Rainbow's End was officially reopened and he was taking his meals in the dining room with the other guests, Blake had no reason to see Marisa. But, try though he might, he could not forget her.

He could tell himself that she was being juvenile in her refusal to talk to him, that he was better off without her, but his heart wasn't listening. It kept remembering the good times they'd shared—everything from watching movies together to riding Lauren's tandem to simply strolling along the lake.

What he hadn't counted on was how much he would miss Marisa, how empty his days would feel without her. It wasn't only his days that were empty. He was too. Blake felt as if a part of himself had been lost, as if there were a cavern deep inside him that had once been filled with warmth and happiness. That was gone, and he couldn't change it. Not yet. Marisa needed time to recover from the shocks she had sustained.

The memory of Marisa's haunted eyes blended with the image of seeing Blondie and his companion in the supermarket and hearing what they planned. Though Blake's shock was certainly not of the magnitude Marisa had experienced, it had been an unpleasant surprise to discover that she'd been right.

He hadn't wanted to believe it possible, but the evidence was clear. Cliff Pearson had had a negative influence on at least two teenagers. The fact that the influence was unintentional didn't
matter. The result was the same. Blondie and his friend wanted to be like Cliff. They saw him as a role model.

Blake stared at the window, watching drops of rain cascade down the glass, obscuring the normally peaceful view of the lake. He couldn't change what he had written. He couldn't stop Blondie and all the other impressionable people from emulating Cliff's lifestyle. But that didn't mean he had to continue making the same mistake. For it was a mistake; Blake admitted that.

What if Cliff were a different role model, one that even Marisa could admire? What would that kind of man do? Blake shook his head and resumed his pacing. Changing Cliff's behavior might have some benefits, but if he did that, Cliff wouldn't be Cliff. The whole premise of the series would have to change, and that might—in fact, it probably would—alienate his readers. There had to be another way.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Blake continued to measure the distance from one end of the cabin to the other, but the pacing had no more effect than it had when he'd been trying to overcome writer's block back in San Francisco. The view was different, but the result was the same. Nothing, nada, zilch.

Disgusted when he recognized the beginnings of a headache and knew it was caused by sheer frustration, Blake leaned against the window, pressing his head against the cool pane. There had to be an answer. He felt as if he were close, as if there were ideas just waiting to tumble over the dam, and yet those ideas remained firmly behind the barrier. It was no use. He was accomplishing nothing.

With a sigh, he opened his eyes and started to turn away from the window. As he did, he caught sight of a staff member dashing between cabins. Blake stared as his brain began to whirl. What if . . . ? Grabbing a pad of paper and a pencil, he began to scribble.

It was like old times, Marisa reflected as she reached for another handful of popcorn. She and Lauren were together again, laughing
more than they had in years as they listened to the squeals coming from Fiona's room on the second floor.

“It sounds like the pajama parties you and I used to have,” Marisa told her friend.

“Only now we're the older generation. I wonder if my mother used to stay awake during ours.”

“Probably.”

Fiona had invited three of her friends for a sleepover. At least that was how she'd described it. Neither Marisa nor Lauren expected there'd be much sleeping involved, certainly not for either of them. Since they both had vivid memories of forbidden candles and close encounters with curtains, they'd decided not to even pretend to sleep. Instead, they were seated in Lauren's kitchen, eating popcorn and drinking enough caffeine to keep all of Dupree awake for a week.

“I almost didn't agree to let Fiona have this party,” Lauren admitted.

Marisa took another sip of coffee. “I can understand that. It's tough not sleeping when you have to open the store in another”—she glanced at the clock—“five and a half hours.”

“That's not the reason. It's just that for the next week I'm going to have to answer questions about why Fiona doesn't have any sisters. It's bad enough when she visits Alice and sees baby Liam, but this will be worse. The other two girls have sisters old enough to be playmates. Fiona wants a sibling almost as much as a father.”

“Not to pry, but why doesn't she have one?” It had been a question Marisa had wanted to ask for several years, but something, perhaps the hint of sorrow she saw in Lauren's eyes whenever someone spoke of babies, had kept her silent. Tonight, though, Lauren seemed almost eager to discuss children.

“I don't know,” her friend said. “Patrick and I certainly wanted another child, but it just didn't happen, and by the time we started talking seriously about adoption, he was diagnosed with cancer.”

Lauren ran her finger around the rim of her mug as she said,
“That's one of the reasons I think about remarrying. I'd like to have another child. He or she wouldn't be much of a playmate for Fiona now, but I think siblings are important. I always wanted one.” She looked up, her lips curving into a smile as she said, “I don't know whether I ever told you, but I used to pretend you were my sister. The problem was, you had to go home. I hated that.”

“Me too.” Just as it had years ago when they'd been children, the late hour had freed Marisa from many of her inhibitions. “Sometimes I wonder what my life might have been like if I'd had sisters or brothers. I can't help asking whether my father would have been different.” Would the responsibility of a larger family have kept him from drinking, or would it only have increased his need to escape reality? It was a question no one could answer.

Lauren rose and stretched, then poured herself another cup of coffee. “Another thing I don't think I told you is that I used to wish your dad was my father.”

For a second, Marisa was too shocked to respond. When she did, the words came out in a sputter. “Why on earth would you want that?”

“Because he was so much fun.” A smile lit Lauren's face as she leaned forward to lay her hand on Marisa's. “My dad was always pretty serious. Don't get me wrong. He was a good provider, and I never doubted his love, but he didn't laugh much. You never would have caught him pushing us on the swings or teaching us how to catch fireflies.” Lauren threaded her fingers through Marisa's and gave them a little squeeze. “Your dad seemed like a grown-up kid to me, while mine was just grown up.”

With her mind still reeling from the thought that Lauren, who knew Eric's flaws better than almost anyone in Dupree, envied Marisa her father, Marisa closed her eyes. When she did, she pictured the three of them at the school's swing sets, her father pushing first one girl, then the other. And then there were the nights when they'd carried jars into the backyard, hoping to snag at least a couple fireflies, and one special night when he'd declared them
old enough for what he called a trip. That night he'd driven them into Firefly Valley to hunt for fireflies.

Marisa's smile lasted only seconds. Superimposed on those memories were ones of Eric St. George staggering into the house, occasionally collapsing on the floor before he made it to the couch or the bed. The slurred words and bloodshot eyes were bad enough, but what had hurt the most were the absences. Even when his body was seated at the kitchen table, Marisa had known he wasn't really there. And all too often, he hadn't made the effort to be present, even bodily. The most painful memories were of empty chairs.

Marisa forced her eyes open. Though Lauren was smiling, Marisa could no longer muster a smile. “At least your dad was sober.”

Lauren nodded. “That's true, but from what I've heard, so is yours now.”

“For how long?” That was the question. Eric had tried to stop drinking more times than Marisa could count, but each time had ended with defeat.

“One day at a time. That's all it takes.” Lauren tightened her grip on Marisa's hand. “You're probably going to tell me to mind my own business, but I believe you ought to think about mending your relationship with your dad. I know it won't be easy. Believe me, Marisa, I know how much he hurt you. But I also know you've got a second chance. Not everyone gets that.”

“You sound like Mom.”

Lauren shook her head. “No, I sound like the voice of reason. I never thought my dad would die so young.” Lauren's father had died of a brain aneurysm before she turned twenty. Though he'd lived long enough to see his granddaughter, Fiona had no memories of her maternal grandfather, only pictures of him holding her as an infant.

“I wish he were still here to watch Fiona grow up,” Lauren said, her voice cracking with emotion. “One day you're going to get married. Don't you want your dad to walk you down the aisle? Don't you want your children to know their grandfather?”

Marisa blinked at the sudden change of direction. “Marriage? Children? Aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself?”

Lauren disengaged her hand from Marisa's and took another sip of coffee. “That's another thing I wanted to talk to you about. I think you're wrong about Blake. Whenever I saw you together, you two looked so happy, like you were meant for each other.”

For a few days Marisa had entertained that dream. For a few days she'd thought that Mom might have been right and that Marisa had found love at first sight. Then reality had shattered those illusions.

“It's a nice thought, but Blake's not the right man for me.” Marisa wasn't certain she'd ever find that man, but she knew one thing: the man she married wouldn't keep his real life secret from her.

Lauren shook her head again. “Your problem is, you're searching for perfection. You'll never find it, Marisa. Believe me. I know that. I loved Patrick dearly, but I wasn't blind to his faults. If you weren't so stubborn, you'd admit that you love Blake.”