In Firefly Valley (21 page)

“Your car needs work. I wish you'd let me look at it.”

Marisa felt a tingle of annoyance slide down her spine as she approached the car. It wasn't the first time Eric had said that, just as it wasn't the first time he'd appeared to be waiting for her when she left her office. Most days he simply greeted her, then went back to whatever he'd been working on, but some days he patted the car and repeated his statement that it needed to be repaired. He might be right about that, because the rattle seemed to be worsening. The problem was, Marisa didn't want to be beholden to Eric for anything.

It was bad enough that he was now on the Rainbow's End payroll. Marisa had been shocked the day Greg had appeared in her office, leaning casually against the door frame as he said, “Ledger Lady, I've bought a van and hired a new employee. I need you to do the paperwork.”

Predictably, Mom had been thrilled that Eric had a full-time job and that the whole family now worked at Rainbow's End. Marisa was less excited. Having Eric on the payroll meant that he had valid reasons for wandering around the resort, and that meant she saw him frequently. Marisa had started closing her door simply to avoid unplanned encounters, but she couldn't stop him from meeting her in the parking lot.

She gripped her shoulder bag as if it were a lifeline while she looked at the man she'd once adored. Perhaps it was time for answers.

“I don't need you to fix my car,” she said when she was only a foot away from him, “but there is something you can do for me.”

The eagerness in his eyes made Marisa cringe. On a grown man that vulnerability was pathetic. “Anything, Marisa. Just tell me what it is.”

“You can give me some answers,” she said, pleased that her voice was cool and calm. She glanced at the cabin, then shook her head. She didn't want to go there, but they needed to sit down. What she wanted to know would take more than a few seconds. Though the lodge was a logical choice, they faced the possibility of interruptions there. As her eyes lit on the gazebo, Marisa nodded. It might be cold, but at least they'd have privacy.

“Let's sit in the gazebo.”

When they reached the small structure, Eric waited until she'd chosen a seat, then perched on the opposite side of the bench, almost as if he realized she didn't want to be touched. Or perhaps he preferred to be far enough away to see her expression. The reason didn't matter. The effect was what she needed: distance from the man who still had the power to break her heart.

“If you're going to ask why I started drinking, I can't answer that. I wish I knew what happened, but I don't.” The pain in his eyes mingled with resignation, as if he'd struggled but had accepted the outcome.

“That wasn't my question,” Marisa said softly. “I learned enough from Al-Anon to know there is no one reason.”

Eric made no effort to hide his surprise. “You joined Al-Anon?”

“Yes. I was looking for answers when I was in college, and that seemed like a place to start. Later I tried different support groups.” She wouldn't tell him about Trent and how he'd duped her. That was none of Eric's business.

“I wish you hadn't had to go through that.”

Marisa felt the blood drain from her face. How did he know about Trent? Then she realized that Eric was referring to Al-Anon. After taking in a deep breath, she let it out slowly, willing herself to relax.

“Me too. I would have given almost anything to have had a normal childhood, but that wasn't in my power.” She swallowed to dislodge the lump that had taken up residence in her throat. “That's not what I wanted to talk about. The question I've never
been able to answer is why you left on graduation day. Didn't you know how much I needed you that day?” When she'd accepted her diploma, only Mom had been there to cheer, and afterwards when the other graduates had been surrounded by their families, Marisa had insisted on leaving, not wanting to admit that her father hadn't cared enough to celebrate with her.

Though he flinched at the accusation he heard in her voice, Eric nodded slowly. “Leaving you and your mom was the hardest thing I've ever done, but I had to. I couldn't embarrass you again. When I heard what happened at your prom, I knew I was no good for you.”

Marisa gripped the edge of the bench, the rough texture less painful than her thoughts. “How did you find out about that? Mom promised she wouldn't tell you.”

“She didn't. Even though I was three sheets to the wind, I heard you crying. The next day I realized you hadn't left the house. Carmen wouldn't say anything, so I went to the Lundquists to see what had happened.”

Marisa closed her eyes, her all-too-active imagination picturing the scene at the mayor's home. “Hal wouldn't have been there. He and Tiffany went to an all-night party.”

Eric nodded. “Yeah, but Mayor Lundquist was there. He laughed in my face and told me you were a fool if you thought he'd let his son be seen with the daughter of a no-count drunk.” Those eyes so like Marisa's own reflected remembered pain. “That's when I realized the best thing I could do for you was to leave. I didn't want to, but I really believed that I had to do it for your sake.”

Pain speared through Marisa as she thought of that day and all the days that had followed. Eric was wrong. So very, very wrong. “But you didn't think about what it would be like for us, not knowing whether you were dead or alive, did you?”

She had thought he would deny it, but instead Eric fixed his gaze on her, shame and regret etched on his face. “To be honest, Marisa, I didn't do a lot of thinking about anything except where I was going to get my next drink. I spent five years trying to drown
the pain until eventually I hit bottom. That's when I knew there was no way to escape what I'd done. Fortunately, I found AA.” His eyes shone with unshed tears. “Thanks to God and the people I met at AA, I've been sober for three years.”

Marisa looked at the man whose disappearance had shaped so much of her life. He appeared genuinely contrite, and yet she wasn't convinced that would last and that he wouldn't pick up a bottle again.

He extended a hand toward her before letting it drop. “I know I don't deserve your forgiveness any more than I deserve God's mercy, but I'm asking for it. Can you forgive all the things I did and the ones I should have done but didn't? Can you let me be your father again?”

Part of her wanted to say yes. Part of her wanted to close the distance between them, to be held in her father's arms again. But the other part couldn't forget how many times he'd promised to stop drinking and how many times he'd broken that promise.

“I don't know, Eric,” she said slowly. “I want to believe you. I want to trust you, but I'm just not ready.”

H
e seems like a different person.”

Marisa nodded, admiring the way Lauren sliced cucumbers for the steak salad they had agreed would make an adequate supper. Unlike the zucchini Marisa had cut, each slice of cucumber was the same thickness as the others. Mom would be proud that at least one of the girls she'd taught to cook had learned the art of vegetable preparation without the aid of a food processor. Marisa gave her zucchini an appraising look, then began to turn the slices into chunks. The imperfect cuts would be less apparent that way.

“I want to believe that,” she told her friend, thinking of the changes she'd seen in Eric since he'd returned to Texas. At least on the surface, there had been no sign of the man who'd once hidden in a closet with bottles of cheap whiskey half concealed in brown bags. “The problem is, I'm not sure people can change. Not fundamentally.”

Lauren reached for an onion and began peeling the skin. “I know you were worried about it, but there's been no sign of drinking.”

“Mom said the same thing.”

Though she'd been intent on the onion, Lauren paused and looked up at Marisa, her eyes wide with surprise. “How does your mom know anything about Drew?”

“Drew?” It was Marisa's turn to be surprised. “I thought we were talking about my father.” In the three and a half weeks since he'd come to Rainbow's End, not only had he not taken a drink, but he'd accompanied Mom to a party where the beer had flowed freely, and he'd declined every offer of a longneck bottle, saying he was an alcoholic.

When Marisa had heard the story, she'd been astonished by the fact that Eric hadn't tried to hide his past but had spoken of it as matter-of-factly as if he'd been announcing that he had blue eyes and gray hair. “It's not just his past,” Mom had said firmly. “It's his present and future too.”

Resuming her peeling of the onion, Lauren nodded. “I'm glad to hear your dad's staying sober. That's good for him.”

“It's good for Mom too.”

“What about you?”

Marisa stared out the window, trying to concentrate on the antics of a woodpecker attempting to chase a second one from the tree they'd both claimed. It was easier to think about wildlife than her father. Though she knew the response Lauren expected, she couldn't give it.

“I don't think I could bear to be hurt again,” Marisa said, thankful that there was no danger of being overheard. Fiona was eating with Alice, and for once Lauren did not have a date with Drew. It was girls' night at home.

“No one wants you to be hurt, but I'm worried that you're giving up a chance for happiness.” Lauren made no effort to hide her disapproval. “Life has plenty of pain—believe me, I learned that when Patrick was so sick—but there's joy too if we look for it.”

Marisa stared at her friend, wondering whether the moisture in Lauren's eyes was caused by the onion she was peeling or memories of her husband. Though Marisa had seen no sign of tears since she'd moved in with Lauren, that didn't mean the sorrow was gone.

“Even if I'd known Patrick was going to die so young,” Lauren continued, “I wouldn't have done anything different. I may not have
him with me any longer, but I have memories of all the wonderful times we shared.” She pointed her knife at Marisa, her expression stern as she said, “I hate to see you cutting yourself off from happiness. You're too young to give up on life.”

The words sliced deep inside Marisa. They weren't true, no matter what Lauren thought. Marisa was being cautious—any sane person would be—but that didn't mean she'd dismissed her hopes of happiness. “I'm not doing that.”

“Aren't you? You ran away from Blake at the first sign of trouble, and you won't give your father another chance.” Lauren sniffed as she laid the knife on the counter and reached out a hand to cover Marisa's. “You're my best friend, and I love you dearly, but I think you're wrong about both of them. Open your heart, Marisa. You won't regret it.”

Marisa wished she could believe that.

Blake stared at the computer screen, knowing he ought to take a break but unwilling to stop until he'd finished the chapter. The book would be done as soon as he completed this final read-through, and he had only ten chapters left. Then would come the hard part: waiting for his agent's reaction, followed by his editor's opinion. But first he had to convince himself that the story was as perfect as he could make it, that each word was the right one, that his characters rang true.

He could feel the furrows forming between his eyes as he reviewed the text that had flowed so easily one day only to leave him feeling stymied the next. It was always that way. He agonized during writing, but once he sent the manuscript to his agent, he would forget the struggles and remember only the productive days. And then the cycle would repeat itself with the next book.

The knock on the door broke his concentration. Groaning, Blake looked at his watch and saw that it was past seven. He'd been working considerably longer than he'd realized; he had only two
chapters to go. Once he finished them, he'd email the manuscript to his agent, and then he could get some much-needed sleep. He stretched as he walked to open the door, then blinked in surprise at the sight of Eric St. George on the front porch, a tray with covered dishes in his hands.

“Carmen said you missed dinner,” Marisa's father explained as he entered the cabin and laid the tray on the table Blake had been using as a desk. “She was convinced you were going to waste away, so she insisted I bring you some of her vegetarian chili, a couple pieces of cornbread, and some chocolate pound cake.”

Eric gestured toward the thermos. “That's sweet tea, with the emphasis on sweet. Every time I drink some, I'm convinced the American Dental Association is going to outlaw it, but Carmen insists it's a valuable source of energy.”

As Eric's gaze roamed around the cabin, lighting on the laptop and the pile of paper on the opposite side of the table, Blake knew he'd made a mistake letting Eric enter the cabin. Each time he left, Blake was careful to lock all evidence of his writing in his suitcase. So far it had worked, and no one had learned that he was a writer, but the scribbled notes and the research books would be difficult to explain away.

Blake tried to deflect Eric's attention. “I'm sorry to have worried your wife. The food smells delicious, though.”

Marisa's father did not take the bait. “There's been some speculation about what you do here all day. One theory is that you're part of the CIA on some kind of stakeout.” Eric snorted. “I've got to tell you that's the most ridiculous thing I've heard. Imagine a spy ring in Firefly Valley! I kinda liked the idea that you were in the witness protection program, but I figured that was pretty far-fetched too. Now it looks like everyone was wrong.” He nodded at the dog-eared thesaurus Blake preferred to the online version. “You're a writer, aren't you?”

It was futile to deny it. Though he felt a pang of regret that Marisa's father was learning about his writing career before his
own father did, Blake nodded. “That's a well-guarded secret, but yes, I am.”

“If you ask me, that's better than the CIA.” Obviously intrigued, Eric stared at the laptop with its kaleidoscope screen saver. “What kind of books?”

“Ones your daughter disapproves of.” Except for this one. Blake doubted even Marisa could find anything objectionable in it. Unfortunately, she hadn't let him tell her about the new direction his writing had taken, so she had no way of knowing that he wasn't creating another Cliff Pearson adventure.

Eric was silent for a moment. Then he leaned back against the table, crossing his arms. “What did you do—have a character who drank?”

Blake nodded. “Yeah, along with various other vices. He saves the world or at least significant parts of it, but all too often, he has a cigarette or a drink in his hand. He's what reviewers call a flawed hero.”

“I can see why that would bother her.” Eric's expression held more than a hint of sadness. “You can blame me for that.”

“I don't blame you, Eric, although I'm sorry for what you and your family have gone through and the effect it's had on Marisa. The truth is, I admire you for admitting you had a problem and overcoming it.” The change in Eric's demeanor was subtle but unmistakable. Apparently it had been a long time since anyone had told Eric St. George that they admired him.

“The struggle's not over yet. It won't be until the day I die, but God's given me the strength to say no. Now I'm praying that he'll soften Marisa's heart enough that she'll forgive me.”

Eric swallowed, the depth of his emotion evident in the pain that radiated from his eyes. “From the day she was born, I pictured myself walking her down the aisle. I don't imagine that'll happen now.”

Blake nodded, once again feeling a connection with Marisa's father. They both loved her, and they'd both been rejected. Eric knew about Blake's alter ego. He might as well learn more about Blake. “For a time, I pictured myself standing at the altar, waiting
for her to come to me.” But that was before he discovered the other side of Marisa, the harsh, angry side that revived painful memories of Grandfather and Ashley.

Marisa's father gave Blake an appraising look, as if assessing his qualifications for the role of son-in-law. “It was that serious, huh?”

Blake nodded again. “For me, at any rate. I've never met a woman like Marisa, and my gut tells me I never will again. I know she's got her issues, but I don't want to give up. The problem is, I don't know what to do when she won't even talk to me.”

Laying his hand on Blake's shoulder, Eric shook his head slowly. “I've told you this before. There's only one answer for either of us.”

“Prayer.”

Marisa switched off the car radio seconds after pulling out of her parking spot. Though she usually listened to music on the way from Rainbow's End back to Lauren's home, today it seemed more annoying than soothing. If only she could turn off her thoughts as easily.

Open your heart.
That was what Lauren had advised. The problem was, that was exactly what had landed her in this situation. She'd loved her father with every ounce of her being. If she hadn't, perhaps it wouldn't have hurt so horribly when he'd left. As it was, he'd broken her heart and left her believing that if only she'd done something differently, if only she'd been a better daughter, he would have stayed.

And then there was Blake. Though she should have known better, Marisa had let herself fall in love with him. She'd dreamt of weddings and happily-ever-after until she'd learned that once again she'd been a poor judge of character.

Blake wasn't the man she thought he was any more than Eric had been the kind of father she'd longed for. She'd been foolish, and now she was paying the price. The Matchers were wrong if they thought Marisa was marriage material. She wasn't destined for marital bliss any more than she was meant to be a part of a perfect family.