by Amanda Cabot
Marisa raised a brow. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’ll try one of each. I wouldn’t want to disappoint your mother.” And she would be disappointed if they didn’t eat the majority of what she’d sent.
Marisa reached for a tuna sandwich, then smiled as a bird flew out of the trees and squawked as if expecting her to offer it some food.
“Sorry, bird, but this is for the humans.”
“Ouch!”
That was not the response she’d expected. Marisa looked at Blake, who was unwrapping the first of his sandwiches. “What happened?”
He shook his head. “Nothing serious. Just a paper cut.” But the paper Mom had used to wrap the sandwiches was thicker than normal waxed paper.
“Let me see it.” Marisa reached over and took Blake’s hand, inspecting the wound. Grabbing a clean napkin, she wiped away the tiny drops of blood, then raised his hand to her lips and pressed a kiss on the injured finger. “Mom always says a kiss will make it better,” she explained as she laid Blake’s hand back on his thigh.
He grinned. “Funny. My dad never said anything like that.”
“It’s probably a mom thing.”
“That and the fact that my grandfather would have considered it a case of spoiling the child.”
Though she would never meet him, Marisa already disliked Blake’s grandfather. “A little comfort and a bit of whimsy isn’t spoiling.”
“I know, but Grandfather was set in his ways. Dad and I learned not to make waves.” Blake took a bite of sandwich. “I heard your mother is going to write a cookbook,” he said, his change of subject telling Marisa more clearly than words that he did not want to discuss his grandfather any more than she wanted to talk about Eric.
“That’s the plan. It seemed like a good idea when I suggested it to Kate, but I wonder if I’ve bitten off more than I should have. Mom’ll write the recipes, but I’m the one who needs to learn about the publishing business.”
Blake nodded slowly as he reached for a deviled egg. “I might be able to help you with that. Not today, though. Let’s just relax now.”
They did. Blake apparently had no trouble eating three sandwiches, and Marisa surprised herself by consuming one and a half while he regaled her with stories of the sea lions that had become a major tourist attraction on San Francisco’s wharves. By the time they’d finished their meal, she felt happier and more relaxed than she had in months, all because of Blake.
When she’d repacked the basket, Blake rose and tugged Marisa to her feet. “Let’s see what this island has to offer before the sun sets. A moonlight row might be romantic, but tripping over a tree root would not.” A mischievous grin tilted the corners of his mouth upward. “Or maybe it would.”
“I can’t imagine how.”
The grin widened. “You might feel compelled to kiss me again.” Blake’s eyes dipped, and he stared at her lips.
Marisa felt herself blushing. Had he guessed that she’d thought of little else since she’d touched her lips to his finger? It had been an impulsive gesture, something she would have done for Fiona. But Blake was not Fiona. He was the most attractive man she’d ever met, and the brief kiss combined with the memory of how good it had felt to be in his arms had sent Marisa’s senses into overdrive.
“I draw the line at smelly feet,” she said, hoping he hadn’t noticed the way blood had flooded her face.
To Marisa’s surprise, Blake shook his head. “That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
“What was?”
“This.”
Slowly, deliberately, he took one step, then another, until only inches separated them. Slowly, deliberately, he wrapped his arms around her. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his lips to hers.
It was not the first time Marisa had been kissed. It was not the first time she’d stood enfolded in a man’s arms. But it was the first time a kiss had set every nerve ending in her body on edge. Blake’s kiss was sweeter than any she’d ever experienced, his lips firm and strong at the same time that they were tender. Marisa could feel her blood coursing faster while his lips caressed hers, and as his hands moved slowly across her back, the circular motion sent waves of delight up and down her spine.
She closed her eyes, wanting nothing to distract her from the sheer delight of Blake’s first kiss. It was bliss, pure bliss, the perfect ending to the day.
12
Lauren kept her eyes focused on the pieces of fabric she was feeding through her sewing machine. Perhaps if she tried very, very hard, she would be able to lose herself in the joy of creating a new design. So far it wasn’t working.
She had known today would be a bad day. Fortunately, Fiona was too young to remember dates, and so she hadn’t realized that today was the anniversary of Patrick’s death. Lauren wasn’t so fortunate, and sorrow weighed more heavily than it had in months. One year. Twelve months since Patrick had taken his last breath. Three hundred and sixty-five days without his love and laughter.
“Oh, Patrick, I miss you so much.” Lauren brushed the tears from her cheeks and forced a smile onto her face. Crying accomplished nothing other than giving her red-rimmed eyes and blotchy cheeks. She couldn’t afford either while the store was open. Customers didn’t want to see their normally cheerful shopkeeper in the doldrums.
As if on cue, the front doorbell tinkled.
“I come bearing gifts.”
Lauren’s smile became genuine when she saw that the visitor was her best friend. Clad in the quilted vest that Lauren had given her last Christmas, Marisa was just what Lauren needed to chase away her sorrow. Perhaps she had more Blake stories to recount. Marisa had been beaming, her expression happier than Lauren had ever seen it, the day after she and Blake had picnicked on Paintbrush Island. Marisa might deny it, but she was giving a very good impression of being head-over-heels in love.
Today, though she smiled, Marisa’s eyes reflected concern. Concern over Lauren. Placing a basket of what smelled like cinnamon rolls on the counter, Marisa stretched out her arms. “I thought you might need a hug.”
It was all the invitation Lauren needed. She walked into Marisa’s embrace and wrapped her arms around her friend.
“How are you?” Marisa asked softly.
“Holding up as well as can be expected.” Though she had thought she was over tears, Lauren was wrong. To her dismay, they came out in a torrent, accompanied by deep, wracking sobs. She hadn’t cried like this even at Patrick’s funeral. For a few days afterward, she’d been numb. When feeling had returned, though she’d wept, it hadn’t been this intense.
“I’m sorry, Marisa,” Lauren said when the last tear was shed. She moved away and sank onto a chair. “I guess I’m not doing as well as I thought.” Her legs felt as weak as a newborn lamb’s.
Marisa handed her a box of tissues. “It’s all right to cry.” She reached for the basket and pulled out a cinnamon roll, placing it on one of the plates her mother had sent along with the fragrant pastry. “It’s also all right to eat this. You know Mom thinks food’s the remedy for everything that ails us.”
Lauren wiped her eyes, blew her nose, then looked at the cinnamon roll. As she broke off a piece, she kept her eyes on the plate lest the sight of Marisa’s sympathy provoke another spate of tears. “It seems I ought to be past crying now.”
Marisa laid a hand on her shoulder. “Anniversaries are difficult. I remember counting—one day, one week, one month. The end of the first year was worse than I’d expected. I think that’s when I gave up hope that he’d come back.”
Though Marisa’s voice was matter-of-fact, Lauren felt the faint trembling in her hand and knew that, no matter what her friend said, she had not accepted the possibility of never seeing her father again. That was why she’d spent so much money trying to find him. Though Marisa claimed she was doing it for her mother, Lauren knew that was only part of the reason. The truth was, Marisa’s life was incomplete without her dad, and not knowing where he was or whether he was still alive left her in limbo.
“At least I knew what was happening, and Patrick and I had a chance to say good-bye.” Even at the time, Lauren had realized how fortunate they were to be able to prepare for their separation. “It’s just that some days I’m so lonely. I miss Patrick, and I miss being married.” She took another bite of the roll, trying to savor the gooey sweetness. Carmen was right. Sugar helped.
Without bidding, Marisa refilled Lauren’s coffee cup as she said, “Of course you do. It’s only natural. But I know Patrick would not want you to spend the rest of your life mourning him.”
“That’s true.” Lauren sipped the coffee. “He told me he hoped I’d find another man to love. He said he wanted both Fiona and me to be surrounded by love.” Lauren closed her eyes, trying not to weep as she thought of the day her husband had held her hand and begged her to promise him that she wouldn’t waste her life in regret.
“Patrick was a very special man.”
Lauren nodded. “That’s why it’s so hard. I know Fiona wants a new daddy, and I wish I could give her one, but . . .” Lauren’s lips curved into a smile as she looked at Marisa. “I didn’t tell you before, but Rob asked me to marry him.”
As she’d expected, Marisa’s eyes widened in surprise. “Rob Anderson? The most-married and most-divorced man in our class?”
“That’s the one.”
Marisa shook her head as if trying to clear her thoughts. “I hope you set him straight.”
“I did. I told him I wasn’t willing to take the chance that our marriage would be as short-lived as his first three. What I wanted to say was that I wasn’t so desperate that I’d consider risking my daughter’s happiness with a man like him. If I marry again, it will be someone who loves us both.”
“Rob Anderson loves no one but himself.”
“Those were my thoughts too.”
The bell tinkled again, signaling the entrance of another customer and prompting Marisa to look at her watch. Declaring that she was late for work, she gave Lauren a quick hug and left after extracting Lauren’s promise to call if she needed another shoulder to cry on.
But Lauren did not call. The rest of the day was unexpectedly busy, as if the residents of Dupree knew she needed company, and by the time she returned home, she felt tired, drained, but oddly at peace. Perhaps the healing had begun.
That night after Fiona was asleep, Lauren knelt beside her bed and bowed her head. “Dear God, I know you have a plan for me, and I know it’s a good one. You know I’m not very patient, though, so if it includes a second husband, would you send me a sign?”
As she drifted off to sleep, the image of Drew Carroll’s smiling face drifted across her consciousness.
Blake frowned as he stared out the window at the steady rain. It had been falling since last night, and although it meant that the worries of drought would subside, he hoped it would stop by noon. Today was the official opening of the new Rainbow’s End, with guests starting to arrive this afternoon. Today was the reason he’d seen little of Marisa for the past week, other than the meals they shared. The woman who’d been hired to make sense of the resort’s finances had been totally consumed with plans for its reopening.
Tonight would be low-key, with nothing scheduled after Carmen’s tamale and flan dinner. Marisa claimed that would give the guests a chance to settle in and meet each other. The festivities would take place tomorrow night. Carmen was serving a barbecue, complete with three kinds of chili, including the vegetarian one that Blake, a confirmed carnivore, found particularly tasty.
But the meal was only the prelude to what promised to be the highlight of the weekend: the entertainment Marisa had planned. She’d admitted that she’d been obsessed with the idea of providing a replacement for Gillian. Since it had been too late to hire another musician, Marisa had had to improvise, and from what Blake could tell, she was going to succeed in giving the guests an unforgettable evening. He was looking forward to it. At least for the hour or so that he was watching her production, he’d be able to forget . . .
A knock on the cabin door interrupted Blake’s thoughts.
“Hey, man,” Greg said as he entered, shaking raindrops from his slicker. “What’s with the scowl? You can’t tell me that you find a little bit of liquid sunshine depressing.”
“It’s not that.”
Greg took another step inside, closing the door behind him, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Blake. “Then what is it? Is Cliff Pearson giving you trouble?”
“You could say that.” Greg had known about Ken Blake from the day he’d arrived early for a meeting and had seen page proofs spread over Blake’s desk. “The manuscript’s due November 15, and I don’t have a clue what’s going to be in it.”
“Writer’s block?”
“Yeah.” It was surprising how reluctant he was to admit it. Even with his agent, Blake hadn’t used those words, but Greg would not be judgmental. “It’s never happened before, and I don’t know what to do. That’s the reason I came here. I was hoping a change of scenery would trigger ideas.”
“And it hasn’t?” For some reason, Greg looked almost relieved.
“No. Don’t get me wrong. This is a great place. I didn’t see it before you and Kate took over, but from everything I’ve heard, the changes you made are just short of miraculous. The problem is, it doesn’t seem to matter where I am. I can’t come up with any ideas.” Blake thrust his hands into his jeans pockets to stop himself from clenching them. “I don’t understand it. Ideas used to flow like Niagara Falls, and now there’s not even a trickle.”
“So Cliff isn’t going to deal with murder and mayhem at a Hill Country resort.” This time there was no doubt about it. Greg was relieved. “When you first came, I wondered if you were doing on-site research.”
When they’d brainstormed ideas, that had been one of the things Jack had suggested, but it had been a nonstarter. Not only could Blake not imagine his hero in a place like Rainbow’s End, but he wouldn’t have abused his friend’s hospitality that way.
“And if I was?”
Greg leaned against the door frame. Though he looked relaxed, Blake knew he was crafting his response. “I wouldn’t have stopped you,” Greg admitted, “but I would have asked you to make sure your resort had no resemblance to Rainbow’s End. Kate and I want publicity, but we don’t need guests fearing terrorist attacks or mob hits while they’re here.”
“My thoughts exactly. I wouldn’t do that to you two.” Or to Marisa or Carmen. While Greg had enough money that he never needed to work again, Marisa and Carmen and the rest of the staff depended on Rainbow’s End for their livelihood. Blake shook his head slowly. “I just wish I knew why I can’t come up with a concept.”
It was frustrating, and not for the reasons most people might imagine. Although Blake was not a billionaire like Greg, his books had sold well, and thanks to his background as a financial planner, he’d invested wisely. Even if he never wrote another story, Blake would be comfortable financially. Money wasn’t the reason he wrote.
“Maybe you need more than a change of scenery,” Greg suggested. “Maybe it’s time for a change of direction. Maybe Cliff Pearson is played out.”
Blake shook his head, not liking the direction the conversation had taken. That was one thought he didn’t want to consider. “Cliff Pearson is my brand. He’s what readers expect from Ken Blake.”
Greg was silent for a moment, and Blake knew he was once again framing his response. “That may be true for Ken Blake, but what about Blake Kendall? What does he want to write?”
As rain sheeted down the window, Blake turned away to look at his friend. “That’s easy: another book that hits the Times list.” That would make his agent and his publisher happy. For his part, Blake wouldn’t deny that he enjoyed the validation of knowing that tens of thousands of readers had chosen his story over the literally millions of other titles available to them.
“Is that why you write, to see your name on a bestseller list?” The frown that accompanied Greg
’s question made Blake wonder if he was remembering the day at Stanford when they’d talked about the future and Blake had claimed that everyone was put on Earth to make it better, even if only in the smallest of ways. Blake had helped his clients achieve financial security. His books served a different purpose.
“The lists are the result, not the reason for writing. I write to entertain people, to give them the thrill of vicarious adventure. If they’re afraid to turn off the light after a chapter, I’ve done my job.”
Greg’s relief was obvious. “You definitely succeeded with Kate. She had one of your books on her e-reader for the flight to Europe, and she wasn’t happy when the flight attendants dimmed the cabin lights so everyone else could sleep. She said the story was so scary she wanted bright lights everywhere.”
The way Greg glanced at his watch told Blake he hadn’t come here for casual conversation. “Speaking of my bride, she wondered if you had any seating preference for dinner. Guests are assigned to a table for the length of their stay. Since this weekend is special, some of the staff are joining the guests. Kate thought you might want to be at Marisa’s table.”
“Sounds like a plan to me.”
Greg’s smile made Blake wonder if his friend realized how attracted he was to Marisa. It wasn’t something they’d ever discussed, and Blake had hoped that he wasn’t being obvious, but . . .
When Greg headed back to the lodge, Blake settled into a chair. This was turning into a year for firsts. It was his first experience with writer’s block. It was also the first time he couldn’t get a woman out of his mind. It didn’t matter whether he was jogging or shaving or drifting off to sleep. No matter where he was, thoughts of Marisa were never far away.
Blake closed his eyes, and as he did, her image popped into his mind. The long hair that refused to stay confined in a ponytail, the dimples that accompanied her smiles, the way she cupped her chin when she was thinking. Marisa was beautiful—at least in Blake’s eyes—but that was only part of her appeal. There were unplumbed depths to her, starting with the reason she’d chosen to alter her appearance so dramatically. He considered that it might have been a knee-jerk reaction to her father’s disappearance, but that didn’t explain why she was still doing it eight years later. Surely the pain should have diminished.