by Amanda Cabot
Blake wished—oh, how he wished—he could do something to ease Marisa’s pain, but he felt as clueless about that as he did about Cliff Pearson’s next adventure.
The picnic on the island had been a good idea. Correction: it had been a great idea. Blake couldn’t forget how relaxed and happy Marisa had looked when they’d wandered along the trail, exploring the small island. He couldn’t forget how content she’d seemed when they’d rowed back to Rainbow’s End with the sun setting behind them. He definitely couldn’t forget their kiss. Even now, almost a week later, Blake couldn’t forget how sweet Marisa’s lips had tasted and how wonderful it had been to hold her in his arms.
Marisa St. George was the best thing that had happened to him in a long, long time. Now, if only he could break through his writer’s block.
“You’re brilliant,” Kate told Marisa as she leaned back in her chair. “When Greg and I hired you for your accounting skills, we never dreamt you’d turn into a producer.”
The two women were sitting in the back of the main lodge, watching the dress rehearsal for tomorrow’s program.
“I knew you wanted entertainment,” Marisa told her boss. “I thought this would accomplish that plus be a good way to promote Gillian’s CD.” The idea had popped into her brain while Blake rowed back from Paintbrush Island. Marisa wasn’t certain how it had happened. One minute she’d been relaxing in the boat. The next her mind had been whirling with ideas.
“It’s more than a good idea,” Kate said, her face glowing with enthusiasm. “It’s brilliant. I’m just annoyed that I didn’t think of it myself. After all, I’m supposed to be the marketing expert.”
“You’re still dealing with Gillian’s accident. You’re too close to that to think about ways to use her music.”
Since they weren’t going to have Gillian Hodge in person, Marisa had enlisted the staff, including Kate and Greg, to perform comic skits with Gillian’s recording of country songs as background music. Though Kate had been mildly skeptical when Marisa had proposed the concept, she’d agreed that it might work and had given Marisa the go-ahead. Kate had been in New York, spending a few days with Gillian after the surgery, so this was the first time she had seen anything other than her own part of the show.
“I have to say that it’s turning out better than I expected,” Marisa added. The staff’s enthusiasm over the idea had transformed what could have been ordinary skits into ones that were bound to make the audience laugh. Even Mom, who had been dubious at first, seemed to enjoy her role as a beleaguered short-order cook with a defective stove and an ever-increasing number of orders, while the teenagers loved the idea that their ordinary tasks of cleaning guest rooms and doing laundry had been transformed into a melodrama complete with a sheet-stealing villain.
“It’s what I told you before,” Kate said, laying her hand on Marisa’s. “You’re brilliant. Even Gillian agreed.” Kate blinked as if to keep tears at bay. “I keep praying everything will turn out well for her. She tried to put a good face on it, but I’m really worried about her.”
“And you wish you could take away her pain.” It was Marisa’s time to offer comfort. “I know. I feel that way about Lauren. I wonder if she’ll wind up spending the rest of her life alone.”
Kate nodded. “I want to believe Lauren will have a second chance at love just as Gillian will have a second chance at her career. It could happen.”
Kate’s eyes lost their glassy sheen as she focused on happier thoughts. “Look at my grandmother and Roy. Neither of them thought they’d remarry, but they’re as happy as can be in their new life. And then there’s Greg and me. We didn’t think we’d have a first chance at love, but it came when we least expected it.” Her lips curved upward. “I may have been married for only a couple weeks, but I know that happily-ever-after is real.”
Sadly, it hadn’t been that way for Mom and Lauren.
13
The guests were still raving about your skits at dinner. I expected it at breakfast, but after listening to the pastor’s sermon, I thought that would have been the noontime topic of discussion,” Blake said as he fitted the tire pressure gauge onto the front valve stem. Unlike the bicycle he’d ridden as a boy, the tandem had skinny tires under such high pressure that the only way to determine whether they were properly inflated was to use a gauge.
It had been a busy day: breakfast followed by church and the minister’s provocative message of what “love your neighbor” really means, then Carmen’s delicious Sunday dinner and the guests’ departure. When everyone had left and Marisa had appeared a bit frazzled, Blake had suggested they borrow Lauren’s tandem for another ride. To his relief, she had agreed, acting as if he’d presented the path to world peace.
Blake smiled as he recalled the previous evening’s entertainment. He’d expected it to be good, but it had exceeded his expectations. “It was clever the way you managed to make each person’s job seem funny.”
“I wanted to show that Rainbow’s End is a group effort. Everyone contributes, and we’re all links in a chain.” Marisa was so close that Blake could smell the light floral fragrance of her shampoo.
He stood up, reassured that the tires were fine. “The finale was great.” The staff had worn costumes that looked like large gold links, and when they’d joined hands, they had formed a chain, dancing to Gillian’s recorded rendition of “The Yellow Rose of Texas.” Though the original lyrics had nothing to do with chains or teamwork, someone—probably Marisa—had rewritten them to describe the effort each person had contributed and the camaraderie they’d found, the clever verses interspersed with a chorus that even now echoed through Blake’s head.
It’s the greatest little resort that Texas ever knew;
The meals are mighty tasty, the staff is friendly too.
You can talk about big city lights and sing of foreign shores,
But Rainbow’s End’s the place for me, now and evermore.
Blake doubted he’d ever hear the song without thinking of the Rainbow’s End staff mispronouncing “resort” as “ree-zort” so that it would fit the music, all the while grinning as if a slight mangling of the English language was of no account. And it wasn’t. What mattered was that everyone was having fun.
Though the song was met with exuberant applause, the entertainment wasn’t over. As the music ended, instead of taking curtain calls, Greg invited all the guests to join hands with the staff and sing one more chorus. One had turned into half a dozen, each one a bit louder than the previous.
When the singing had reached a level that Blake suspected could be heard in Dupree, Kate switched off the CD player and presented each of the guests with a key chain with the Rainbow’s End logo, telling them they were now part of the Rainbow’s End family. It had been an evening Blake knew he wouldn’t forget, and the praise that had continued today told him the other guests had had the same reaction.
“I was happy with the way it turned out,” Marisa admitted as she tied the cycling shoes she’d borrowed from Lauren, carefully tucking the ends of the laces in so they would not loosen or get caught in the chain. “It’s nice to be working for a billionaire. When I told Greg I wanted special costumes, he didn’t blink at the cost.”
“Greg always did believe if something was worth doing, it was worth doing well.” As Blake gave the bike a quick safety check, he glanced up at Marisa. “Which skit was the most difficult to write?”
“Mine.” She answered without hesitation. “I had no idea how to make my job seem funny.”
Blake wasn’t surprised that she’d lacked the perspective to view her position the way she did the other staff members’. “But you did. Seeing you throw off the green eyeshades and pin-striped suit to turn into a hippy-looking director made everyone laugh.”
“The credit goes to Kate. She told me she used a similar idea for one of her advertising campaigns. Not accountants, of course. She transformed a humble peanut into something special.”
“I hope her ads worked as well
as your skit did.”
“Me too.” Marisa’s smile faded. “She said she was inspired by Ken Blake’s books.”
Blake tried not to let his surprise show. He couldn’t imagine what connection Cliff Pearson’s adventures had to a peanut. He’d have to ask Kate, but right now he was more concerned by Marisa’s frown. “Is something wrong?”
She shrugged. “Just the thought of those books.” She turned the words into an epithet.
“Ken Blake’s thrillers? Have you read them?” Market research had told Blake that his readership spanned age, gender, and socioeconomic groups, but somehow he had never thought of Marisa being one of those readers.
“Just one.” Her frown turned into a scowl. “I’ve always loved books. In fact, at one point I fantasized about opening a bookstore. That never happened, but I still try to sample everything that makes the bestseller list. I’m always curious about what others find appealing.”
“And you didn’t like what you found.” Blake tried not to let that thought bother him. He had had his share of bad reviews and had learned that they were part of the business, but this was different. This was Marisa, the woman who dominated so many of his thoughts. She might be only one reader, but she was one whose opinion mattered.
“‘Didn’t like’ is an understatement. Oh, I’ll admit that they’re well-written, but I hate the way Cliff Pearson makes heavy drinking seem perfectly acceptable.”
It was the first time anyone had made that comment, and it stung. Blake forced himself to keep his voice noncommittal. After all, Marisa had no way of knowing that he was Ken Blake and that this was his book she was criticizing.
“It’s fiction, Marisa. It’s designed to entertain.”
Her frown deepened. “Maybe so, but writers have such power. I believe they should use it for good.”
Blake nodded. His instincts had been correct. He had been wise not to tell Marisa of his alter ego, although not for the reasons that had kept him silent initially. He’d feared she’d be star struck. Not once had he considered that she might disapprove of what he did.
Taking a deep breath, Blake exhaled slowly. There had to be a way to work around that problem. But right now his first priority was to learn more about Marisa’s relationship with her father and help ease her pain. Somehow he’d find a way to steer their conversation toward fathers.
He grabbed his helmet and buckled the chin strap. “Ready to go?”
“You bet.” Marisa’s momentary unhappiness seemed to have passed. “Tandems are addictive. I can see why Lauren and Patrick enjoyed this one.”
When they reached the highway, they headed north. The terrain was slightly hillier this direction, and Blake had to downshift several times as they climbed a hill. By the time they reached the summit, he could hear Marisa panting.
“Want to stop there?” he asked, pointing to what appeared to be a lemonade stand at the bottom of the hill.
“Sure. I always like to help out kids.”
So did Blake. In what seemed like only seconds, they coasted to a stop in front of the oilcloth-covered table. Two identical twins whom he guessed to be no more than ten years old stood behind the table. Fortunately, their green shirts were embroidered with their names.
“Cool bike,” Jim announced, while Jeff narrowed his eyes and asked, “Two cups, mister?”
Still straddling the bike, Blake shook his head slightly. “I’m pretty thirsty. You’d better make it three.”
The boys’ eyes lit with such enthusiasm that Blake wondered if this was their first sale of the day. “Sure thing,” Jim said as he ladled the slightly orange liquid into three plastic cups.
“This is peach lemonade, you know,” Jeff said. “The finest in the state.” Jeff, Blake had already decided, was the more entrepreneurial twin.
“Did you grow the peaches?” Marisa asked as she accepted a cup and took a sip.
“Yeah.” Jim amended his declaration. “Well, our dad did.”
“But we help pick them,” his brother explained.
“Ma makes the lemonade.”
Blake took a long swallow and grinned. “It’s good.”
“Of course it is,” Jeff said with a matching grin. “Best in the state. Ma’s got the blue ribbon to prove it.”
Jim eyed Blake. “Did your ma make lemonade when you were a kid?”
“Mine did,” Marisa announced before Blake could tell the boys that he had no memories of his mother, “but she didn’t put peaches in hers.” She drained the cup and held it out to the boys.
“Another cup?” Blake asked Marisa.
“Not right now. Maybe on the way back.”
Disappointment etched Jeff’s face. “We might not be here.”
“All right. Can you fill up my water bottle instead?” Marisa pulled the bottle from its cage and handed it to Jim.
“How do we charge for that?” Jim asked his brother. Jeff’s expression told Blake he hadn’t faced that question before.
Rather than pointing out that the boys could simply fill cups and count them as they poured the contents into the water bottle, Blake pretended to study the water bottle. “I’d say it holds six or eight cups.” More like four, but the kids obviously wanted the sale. “I’ll pay you for eight.” High fives greeted his words.
“You made their day,” Marisa said as they rode away. “I have a feeling they’re going to be talking about this when they’re supposed to be sleeping tonight. Eleven cups has to be one of their biggest sales.”
She was acting as if he had done something important like curing world hunger, when all he’d done was give two boys a little extra money. “I remember what it was like at their age. Having spending money meant a lot.”
“Which is why you and I both had after-school jobs.”
“Exactly. Now, how far do you want to go?”
“I think we went too far,” Marisa said half an hour later. Her thigh muscles ached, and once again she wished the cabin had a tub instead of a shower. It would be good to sit and soak the aches away.
“Don’t say that,” Blake cautioned as he steered them around the tree branch blocking part of their lane. “We still need to get back. You can’t start feeling defeated now. Besides, whose idea was it to go up that last hill?”
Marisa pressed as hard as she could on the pedals, trying not to wince as her muscles protested. “I have no one to blame but myself. I know that, but it looked like it would be so much fun to coast down this hill.”
“And it was,” Blake reminded her. “All you need is a little rest and you’ll get your second wind.”
When they reached a level spot in the road, Blake stopped the bike and leaned it against a fence. Handing Marisa an energy bar, he sank to the ground next to her and stretched his legs before him.
“I never believed in second wind,” Marisa said as she opened the foil wrapper.
“It’s real,” Blake insisted. “So is third and fourth wind. My dad claims that’s what got him through days at the steel mill.”
This was not the first time Blake had steered the conversation to his father. Perhaps it was coincidence, but Marisa suspected that he had his father on his mind for some reason.
“That must have been exhausting work.” Occasionally Marisa’s father had complained about his job as a mechanic at the gas station, but it wasn’t the same constantly demanding work as a steel mill.
Blake nodded and took a swig from his water bottle. “It was hot and dirty, but Dad claims it built men. I don’t know if that’s the reason, but he’s the strongest man I’ve ever met. Not just physically, either.”
Strong was not an adjective Marisa would apply to her father. “What do you mean?” It was clear that Blake’s father was far different from hers.
“I told you that Dad’s dad lived with us. The man was incredibly demanding. He had his own way of doing things, and he expected everyone to follow it. Everything had to be done his way.”
Blake looked into the distance for a moment, and the way his
lips were pursed told Marisa his thoughts were unhappy. “Grandfather even demanded that the salt and pepper shakers be put in a specific place on the table. He’d become livid if they weren’t in the right spot.”
Though Eric had been irrational at times when he was under the influence of alcohol, he had never made demands like that. “Why would anyone care where the salt and pepper were so long as they were on the table?”
Blake shrugged. “I gave up trying to understand him years ago. The problem is, he got worse the older he became—even less reasonable. Then he started to become forgetful and would blame us if he couldn’t find something. I’d have put him into assisted living, but Dad wouldn’t hear of it. He said the Bible told him to honor his father, and that’s what he was going to do.”
“Your father sounds like a saint.”
Wrinkling his nose, Blake shook his head. “Maybe not that, but definitely a better man than I’ll ever be. Dad may have turned the other cheek, but I’ve learned to run the other way from angry people.”
Marisa closed her eyes for a second, not wanting Blake to see the emotions his words had evoked.
“My dad wasn’t like that,” she said softly, realizing she envied Blake. Not for his difficult grandfather but for the love he and his father shared. It was obvious that Mr. Kendall was very different from her father. At one point, Eric might have been physically strong, but he’d lacked the strength to resist alcohol.
Years with support groups had helped Marisa accept that it wasn’t her fault, but she still couldn’t understand the lure alcohol held for him. And, no matter what her mother, her minister, or Colleen, the therapist who’d helped her deal with her anger, had urged, Marisa was unable to forgive Eric for the pain he’d caused Mom and her. The memories were still too vivid, memories of him staggering through the house, collapsing on the couch, and forgetting that he had promised to attend her . . .