In Firefly Valley

by Amanda Cabot

  For a second, Marisa was silent, absorbing the unexpected response. Perhaps if she’d had a second cup of coffee, she might not have been so dense. “It’s your new book.”

  “Yeah.” Blake’s expression turned solemn. “I won’t say anything about it other than that I hope you’ll read it. And if you want to talk when you’re done, you know where to find me.” His eyes narrowed, and this time there was no doubt about it: Blake wanted to smile. “For the record, you look great as a blonde.”

  Without waiting for a response, he left, closing the door behind him and leaving Marisa alone with his gift and a Texas-sized supply of curiosity. Blake knew how she felt about his books, so why did he want her to read this one? And why now? Marisa didn’t know a lot about writers, but she had heard that few shared their stories with anyone other than their agents and editors, not wanting the plot to be leaked to the public.

  What had he written? It had to be another Cliff Pearson story. That was his brand. But if it was, it made no sense that Blake wanted her to read it. Marisa started to put the e-reader aside, then switched it on. She would read the first page. That was all. An hour later, when the phone rang, she realized she was supposed to be working, not reading Blake’s book.

  Reluctantly, she answered the call. Though she forced herself to follow her to-do list, for the rest of the day Marisa found herself thinking about Blake’s characters. She had read engaging books before, but this was different. Blake had hooked her on the first page, and no matter what she did, she couldn’t stop wondering what was going to happen next.

  The next morning, bleary-eyed from too little sleep, she knocked on Blake’s cabin door.

  “Let’s talk,” she said when he opened the door.

  The smile that lit Blake’s face left no doubt of his pleasure. “I was hoping you’d say that. Do you want to walk while we talk?”

  Marisa shook her head. Fatigue had made her legs weak. “Why don’t we just sit on your porch?” She’d worn a hooded sweatshirt to ward off the early morning chill.

  “Great.” Seconds later, Blake zipped his jacket closed as he took the second Adirondack chair.

  “I read it,” she said as she handed him the e-reader. “I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that.”

  Blake simply raised an eyebrow, encouraging her to continue.

  “It’s good,” she said, then shook her head. “No, that’s not true. It’s wonderful. Once I started reading, I didn’t want to stop, and when I finished, I was tempted to start all over again.”

  Marisa smiled, wanting him to understand how much she’d enjoyed his story. Unlike Blake, she wasn’t a master with words. “I can’t remember when a book affected me like this. I loved the characters.” Marisa wrinkled her nose and amended her statement. “Well, not the villain. I was afraid of him, and that was good too, because I know that’s what you intended.”

  Though Blake said nothing, as if he knew she wasn’t finished, Marisa watched the tension drain from him. His hands were no longer gripping the chair arms, and his shoulders had relaxed.

  As the morning chill settled over her, Marisa slid her hands into the kangaroo pockets of her sweatshirt. She’d go back to Lauren’s once she told Blake everything she felt about his book. “The story kept me totally engrossed, but what I liked best was the way you delivered a message without being heavy-handed.” Marisa paused for a moment to emphasize her next words. “This is a fabulous book, Blake.”

  His eyes shone with pleasure. “Better than Anne of Green Gables?”

  She stared at him, startled by the question. “Who told you about that?” Marisa knew she’d never mentioned her love of the classic, and it was hardly a subject that would come up in casual conversation with anyone else.

  “Your dad. He said it was your favorite book.” Blake’s lips turned up in a mischievous smile. “I learned a few things from it, like not to comment on a woman’s hair color unless you’re very sure she’s happy with it.”

  So that was why he hadn’t said much about her new look. “I’m happy being a blonde again,” she told him. “What surprised me is that you actually read Anne.”

  “I did. It’s not my normal fare, but I can see why you enjoyed it.” Blake clasped his hands around his knees as he said, “So, tell me. How does mine compare?”

  “Nothing can top Anne,” Marisa said, staunchly defending her childhood reading, “but your story is a close second. I really enjoyed it.”

  For the second time in only a few minutes, Blake said, “I was hoping you’d say that. My agent and editor like it, but it’s your opinion that matters most.”

  The rush of warmth that flooded Marisa’s face had nothing to do with the rising sun. “That’s very flattering, but why?”

  “Because you’re the reason I wrote this story and not another Cliff Pearson.”

  “I don’t understand.” The day she’d learned that he was Ken Blake, Marisa had believed Blake saw nothing wrong with his fictional hero. Now it appeared that he had listened—really listened—to what she’d said.

  “Your reaction to Cliff made me look at my books differently.” Blake stared at the lake for a moment before turning back to Marisa. “I didn’t agree with everything you said, and I still don’t, but when I heard two teenage boys trying to buy Cliff’s whiskey and cigarettes, I thought about what you’d said. That was when I knew he wasn’t the best role model.” Blake leaned forward to close the distance between them. “Thank you, Marisa. You opened my eyes.”

  Marisa’s heart soared, then plummeted. While it was flattering to know that she had been able to influence Blake, the new book only reinforced how wrong she’d been.

  “I’m glad you’re writing about Logan Marsh instead of Cliff Pearson.” That was half of the story. Taking a deep breath, Marisa tried to slow the racing of her pulse. What she was about to say was sorely overdue. “I owe you an apology, Blake, a huge apology. I had no right to say the things I did about your writing. All I can say in my defense is that I’m not totally rational when drinking is involved.”

  He nodded slowly, his eyes solemn. “That’s understandable.”

  “But not excusable. I should have realized that you’re not Cliff Pearson and that I had no right to judge the way you make your living.” When he said nothing, she continued. “Can you forgive me?”

  “Of course.” His lips curving into a smile, Blake tipped his head to one side. “I hope this means that we can be friends again. Even though I’ve been writing night and day, I’ve missed you.”

  And she had missed him. Though she had tried to deny it, Marisa had felt as if a part of her heart had been torn away.

  “I thought the time we had together before Ken Blake got in the way was special,” Blake continued, “and I want to recapture that.”

  If Marisa had learned one thing, it was that you could not recapture the past. Fortunately, there was always the future, and right now that future looked bright.

  “I’m not sure we can recapture anything,” she said, not wanting to mislead Blake. “We’re not the same people we were a month ago. Instead of looking backward, I’d suggest we move forward.”

  “That sounds like a plan to me.” Blake’s smile turned into a mischievous grin. “Can we start by going to dinner tonight? I’ve heard there’s a good French restaurant in Blytheville.”

  As she thought about Strawberry Chantilly with its reputation for superb food and a romantic atmosphere, Marisa smiled. “You sure know how to impress a girl.”

  Blake smiled. “So you’ll go with me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Hey, Fiona, did you see any pigs fly by?” Though Lauren pretended to be serious as she entered her daughter’s room, Marisa knew she was trying to make her laugh. Even though Fiona was reacting better than anyone had thought possible to her enforced inactivity and the discomfort of having a leg in traction, she needed frequent distractions.

  “Don’t be silly, Mom,” Fiona said with a giggle. “Pigs don’t f
ly.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. Your Aunt Marisa is doing something I didn’t think would happen until pigs flew.”

  Fiona’s eyes grew wide and she stared at Marisa. “What are you doing?”

  “It’s only dinner.”

  “Dinner at the fanciest restaurant this side of San Antonio with a man you haven’t spoken to for the better part of a month,” Lauren countered. “Now, what are you going to wear?”

  Marisa’s choices were fewer than they’d been a year ago, thanks to all the outfits that had gone to the consignment shop. “I have a dark blue velvet skirt and a white silk blouse that I thought might work.”

  “I like velvet,” Fiona told her, “but Mom says it isn’t practical.”

  “Aunt Marisa isn’t trying to be practical tonight. She’s trying to impress a gentleman.”

  “I am not.” Well, not too much. Even though the fabrics were luxurious, the outfit was not as fancy as the apricot dress she had lent to Lauren for her date with Drew.

  Lauren pretended not to hear Marisa. “I’ve got one of those pretty crocheted necklaces that might go with it. I’ll meet you in your room.”

  As Lauren headed for her bedroom, Fiona reached for the book she’d been reading when Marisa had first come in. “Will you come see me before you leave?”

  “Of course I will. You’re my fashion consultant.” Marisa pointed to Fiona’s feet with their mismatched socks. When he’d realized that Fiona’s normal socks wouldn’t fit over the cast, Drew had somehow found a number of oversized socks in the wildest colors Marisa had ever seen. Paired with the socks Fiona already owned, they were a guaranteed topic of conversation.

  “Here you go,” Lauren said a minute later as she entered Marisa’s bedroom, the necklace in her hand. Placing it next to the skirt Marisa had laid out on the bed, she nodded. “A perfect match.”

  “Like you and Drew?” Marisa asked, raising one of her eyebrows. “It hasn’t escaped my notice that you two are acting like lovebirds.”

  Lauren looked as if she didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or pleased. “I didn’t know it was so obvious,” she admitted, smiling as she ran her hand over the soft velvet of Marisa’s skirt. “I can’t quite believe it, but I’m in love, and it’s just as wonderful as the first time.”

  She took a deep breath. “It may even be better, because I’m old enough to know how special love is.” Fixing her gaze on Marisa, Lauren said, “I know you didn’t like Drew at first, but I hope you’ll be happy for us if this works out.”

  Marisa reached for the blouse and slid her arms into it. “It wasn’t a matter of not liking Drew,” she explained. “I was worried that he might hurt you, but even a cynic like me has to admit that he’s been a real Prince Charming taking care of Fiona.” Marisa couldn’t imagine any of the men she’d met—and that included Blake—being so patient, but Drew never complained, not even when Fiona was cranky.

  “He is wonderful,” Lauren agreed. “I don’t know how I got so lucky as to find two wonderful men.” She handed Marisa the necklace and watched while she adjusted the length. “I don’t know what makes me happier: the fact that Drew is part of my life or that you’re back with Blake.”

  “Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself? It’s only dinner.”

  “Right. You can say what you want, but I know what I see. The pigs are definitely flying.”

  25

  It would probably be rude to whistle, so all I’m going to say is ‘wow.’”

  Marisa smiled as she ushered Blake into Lauren’s house. She could say the same thing to him. Dressed in a suit and tie, he looked more handsome than usual, the dark blue of his suit and the white of the shirt highlighting the tan he’d acquired while in Texas.

  “I hope you’re not allergic,” he said as he handed her what was obviously a florist’s box.

  Marisa opened it, sighing with pleasure when she saw an assortment of roses. Other than the single red carnation that Dupree High School’s graduates were expected to pin on their gowns and the yellow roses she’d rejected, these were the only flowers she’d received.

  She had bought Hal a boutonniere carefully dyed to match her prom dress and had expected him to bring her a corsage when he picked her up for the dance. He’d asked her about her dress color enough times that she’d believed he had something special in mind, and he had. It simply wasn’t the surprise Marisa had expected.

  As she looked at the gorgeous roses with their velvety soft petals, Marisa was thankful Hal had not given her flowers. It seemed right that Blake was the first.

  “They’re beautiful, Blake,” she said with another smile. Lauren might be right. Pigs must be flying, because once again Marisa felt as if she were falling head over heels in love with this man. “Thank you, and no, I’m not allergic to flowers.”

  Marisa led the way into the kitchen, pulled a vase from the cupboard, and carefully arranged the flowers in it. “I can’t imagine where you found roses like this in Dupree.”

  “Who said anything about Dupree? There’s a full-service florist in Blytheville. They made it up while I waited.”

  The frisson of pleasure that had slid down her spine when she’d opened the florist’s box intensified at the realization that Blake had invested not only his money but his time to make this a special evening. It seemed he’d been genuine in both his acceptance of her apology and his belief that they could begin again.

  “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s done for me in a long time,” Marisa said softly. “Thank you, Blake.”

  She smiled at him, noticing the tiny nick on the edge of his chin, evidence that he’d tried for a particularly close shave. Somehow that touched her even more than the flowers, and she was tempted to press a kiss on the sore spot. She wouldn’t, of course. That would be too much too soon. Instead, she deliberately changed the subject.

  “Do we have time for a brief detour?” she asked. “I don’t know how much you’ve heard, but Lauren’s daughter broke her leg and is in traction. I know she’d enjoy seeing the flowers and meeting you.”

  “Sure. Lead on, Macduff. Or is it lay on?”

  Marisa raised her hands in mock surrender, thankful that the diversion had worked and her pulse had resumed its normal beat. “I’m not going to have the Macduff discussion again.” She led the way to Fiona’s bedroom, where Lauren was playing a game of Parcheesi with her daughter. Drew had left as soon as Marisa arrived, but she wouldn’t be surprised if he returned for supper. The man was definitely persistent in his courtship.

  “Look at the pretty flowers Mr. Kendall brought me,” Marisa said, holding out the vase as she and Blake entered the room. When Fiona had sniffed the flowers, she looked up at Blake, her brown eyes serious. “Are you gonna marry Aunt Marisa?”

  For a second, there was total silence. Marisa felt the blood drain from her face, then rush back, flooding her cheeks with color. What could she say? What could Blake say?

  Lauren shook her head at Fiona. “That’s not a question you should be asking.”

  Although Marisa had expected him to share her embarrassment, Blake appeared unconcerned by Fiona’s bluntness. “It’s all right, Fiona. I’d answer if I could, but it depends on Marisa.” That wasn’t the response Marisa had expected, but perhaps Blake was trying to deflect attention from himself. One thing was certain: she wouldn’t take the bait, if that’s what it was. Not here, not now.

  Nodding solemnly as if the answer pleased her, Fiona fixed her gaze on Marisa. “You should marry him, Aunt Marisa. You need a husband.”

  As Lauren shrugged and mouthed “Junior Matcher,” Marisa knew it was time to make a quick exit.

  “Good night, Fiona.” She kissed the girl’s forehead, then hurried out of the room, grabbing Blake’s hand and propelling him to the front door.

  He was chuckling as he helped Marisa into his car. “Greg warned me about the matchmakers in Dupree, but I didn’t know they started so young.”

  “Fiona has daddies on her mind.”


  “So I’ve heard. Greg says things are pretty serious between Drew and Lauren. There must be something in the air in Dupree,” Blake said as he started the ignition. “Two confirmed bachelors, one married, the other well on the way.”

  Where are you on that continuum? Marisa wondered, though she had no intention of asking. She and Blake were starting over, and they needed to proceed slowly.

  Once they were headed north on the highway, Blake turned to glance at Marisa. “Greg warned me about deer accidents on this road, especially at this time of the day.” The sun had just set, and though the road wasn’t yet dark, visibility was reduced. “Let me know if you see any animals.”

  Marisa nodded. “Sure.” The thought of deer reminded her of Blake’s new book. That was a safer subject than marriage. “Is Greg’s warning why you wrote the scene with the deer?”

  A small smile was Blake’s first response. Then he spoke. “Short answer: yes. The long answer is that even though I’ve been fortunate enough never to have had a close encounter with one of Bambi’s relatives, knowing how common deer-car collisions are piqued my imagination.”

  Blake’s explanation piqued Marisa’s imagination. “I’ve always wondered how much of their real lives writers included in their books.” That was part of the reason why Cliff Pearson’s vices bothered her so much. Though she’d seen no sign that Blake drank here, she wondered if that had been part of his life in California.

  He sped up to pass a slow-moving farm vehicle. When they were back in the right lane, Blake spoke again. “I can’t speak for anyone other than myself, but for me it’s only bits and pieces. My characters aren’t based on real people, and the things that happen to them never happened to me.”

  “So it’s all your imagination?”

  Blake nodded. “Does that surprise you?”

  “A bit.” Marisa had read somewhere that writers were advised to write what they knew and thought that meant most stories were based on real-life experiences. That was the reason that knowing Blake had created Cliff Pearson had bothered her so much.