In Firefly Valley (31 page)

Eric shook his hand as he scanned Hal's face. “Can't say that I do. You don't look much like your father.”

“I've been told I favor my mother.”

Marisa looked at her father. “Shall we go inside and sit down?” This was not a conversation she wanted to have overheard.

“Of course.” Eric opened the door wider, waiting until both Marisa and Hal were seated before he turned to his guest. “Can I offer you some tea or coffee?”

“No thank you, sir.” There it was again, that polite formality. “I won't take much of your time, but there's something I need to tell you—both of you.” He'd chosen one of the chairs and positioned himself so he was facing both Marisa and Eric, who sat on opposite ends of the couch.

“Marisa, I'm sorry about what happened at the prom.” The words rang with sincerity, and that surprised her. Though the humiliation had colored her life for years, she had always suspected that Hal had dismissed it the way he would have any other insig
nificant event. She wasn't even certain he'd remembered it a month later, but today he seemed genuinely repentant.

“It was a stupid teenage prank,” Hal continued. “At the time, I was too dumb to care how much it must have hurt you.” He paused for a second, never letting his gaze drop. “I know there's nothing I can do to make it up to you, but I hope you'll accept my apology.”

It was more than she'd ever expected. The Hal she'd known was not one for apologies, and yet the new Hal seemed comfortable with them. Marisa nodded. The pain she'd once felt was gone; there was no reason to cling to the memory.

“Apology accepted,” she said softly. It was time to put prom night behind her, and thanks to Hal, she could do that.

Marisa gave Hal a small smile, thankful he could not read her thoughts. He might not appreciate realizing that seeing him again made Marisa wonder why she'd been so infatuated. Although he seemed to have grown into a decent man, when he'd been in high school, all Hal had had to offer were his good looks and his prowess on the football field. That might have been enough then, but it wasn't now. Now Marisa knew that what mattered was a man's character, not his external trappings. Hal seemed to have developed the strength of character he'd lacked in high school, but he no longer touched her heart.

At the other end of the couch, Eric unclenched his fists. “I'm glad to see you finally came to your senses, Hal.” His voice was brusque and filled with an emotion Marisa couldn't identify. “I wanted to beat you to a pulp for the way you treated my little girl.”

Hal inclined his head slightly. “I know that, sir. I also know you went to see my father. That's why I'm here.” To Marisa's relief, she heard no hostility in Hal's voice. If anything, he sounded humble.

“I want to thank you.” Hal's lips curved into a wry smile. “Oh, I didn't feel that way at the time, but the fact that you confronted my father was the best thing anyone's ever done for me.”

Marisa stared, amazed by the words coming from Hal's mouth. “I don't understand.”

“Me either,” Eric said. “You lost me there.”

“I doubt he'd admit it to you, but my father was furious after your visit—worried about what my stupidity would do to his hopes for reelection. By the time I got back from prom weekend, my fate was sealed. He marched me to the army recruiting office the next day and gave me a choice: enlist or try to live without any support from him. I picked the army.”

Hal took a deep breath before leaning forward. “It wasn't always easy, especially at first, but I learned a lot about myself. I'd like to think I'm a better man now.” He directed his gaze at Eric. “If I am, it's thanks to you. Thank you, sir.”

As Marisa watched, her father's demeanor changed, and her heart warmed at the realization that her fears had been unfounded. Hal had brought healing rather than hurt. Eric's shoulders straightened; he held his head higher; his hands were relaxed. But the biggest change was his expression. His eyes reflected pride mixed with humility. For the first time in more years than Marisa wanted to count, he looked like the man she'd once loved. Though his hair was grayer and his face more wrinkled, Marisa saw the man she remembered from her early childhood.

She closed her eyes, not wanting the moment to end, and as she did, memories came rushing back. Holding her father's hand as she walked to school for the very first time. Laughing as he pushed her higher and higher on the swing. The two of them running through the backyard, mason jars clutched in their hands as they chased fireflies.

“Thank you, Hal,” she said softly.

Y
ou look good, son.”

Blake tried to smile as his father grabbed him in a bear hug the instant he set foot inside the kitchen. The truth was, he didn't feel good. He felt empty. He hadn't thought it would be so painful, but nothing had seemed right since he'd left Rainbow's End. He hadn't expected Marisa's anger to resurface, and he certainly hadn't expected her to shut him out the way she had.

He returned his father's hug and clapped him on the back. “I had a pretty easy flight,” he said as he stepped back. He'd flown to Newark and rented a car. Even with the traffic leaving the airport and the typically congested roads in New Jersey, it had been faster than making connections to land at ABE, the smaller airport that served Allentown, Bethlehem, and Easton. “The plane was crowded, of course, but I expected that.”

Blake glanced around the small kitchen where he'd eaten countless meals. It looked just as he'd expected: the slightly worn linoleum floor and Formica countertops spotlessly clean, even though they were decades out of style; the jar of sun tea sitting in the center of the table; the plates and silverware ready for supper. What he hadn't expected was that there were only two plates.

“Looking for Hilary?” his father asked.

Blake nodded. “I didn't realize I was that obvious, but yes. I want to meet the woman who's caught your eye.”

“She's done more than that. She's snared my heart too.” As he pronounced the words, Gus Kendall's face lit with happiness, giving him the appearance of a man at least a decade younger than his actual sixty-four. The hair that had once been a darker brown than Blake's was now iron gray, and his brown eyes had faded a bit over the years, but he looked almost carefree as he clapped his son on the shoulder and leaned against the counter.

“She'll be here tomorrow. I figured you had some things you wanted to tell me and that was best done alone.”

Trying to contain his surprise, Blake raised an eyebrow. “I do, but how'd you know?”

“You're my son.” His father let out a low chuckle. “We may not live together anymore, but I still have a pretty good idea of how your brain works. The way I figure it, you've got two things to tell me. One's about a woman and the other . . . Well, I'll let you talk about that when you're ready. In the meantime, I've got some kielbasa we can cook on the grill, and Hilary left some potato salad that's almost as good as your mom used to make.”

Dad gestured toward the small hallway leading to the staircase. “Why don't you take your bags upstairs, and I'll fire up the grill?”

Blake couldn't believe the difference in his father. Oh, he grumbled as he always did that the grill didn't heat properly, and he claimed the bakery had sold him day-old rolls but charged him for fresh ones. Blake dismissed that, knowing the comments were no more than his father's good-natured grousing. What impressed Blake was that the man who said all the same things also peppered his conversation with “Hilary says” and “Hilary and I.” That, the twinkle in his eyes when he spoke of her, and the way he laughed more than Blake could ever recall told him his father was happy. And, though he didn't say it, Blake had no doubt that his father intended to marry Hilary. He wouldn't be surprised if he planned to give her a ring for Christmas.

“Do you want to review your portfolio?” Blake asked when they were seated at the table, the simple but familiar meal in front of them.

They'd chatted about casual things while the sausages had cooked. Dad wasn't one to push, and Blake knew Dad would wait for him to talk about Marisa and “the other thing.” The problem was, now that the time had come, Blake wasn't ready, and so he'd resorted to a diversion. It wasn't a red herring. He wanted to be certain his father realized just how comfortably situated he was. He could afford to give Hilary a large diamond, if that's what she wanted, and they could move to a more modern home, one that held no memories for either of them.

Dad shook his head. “No need. I do read those monthly statements you send.” He took another bite of potato salad and grinned, leaving Blake to wonder whether it was the flavor of Hilary's salad or the size of his brokerage account that pleased him. “I still can't believe how much that initial investment has grown. You're a genius at managing money, son. I haven't said it enough, but I'm proud of what you've accomplished.”

Blake couldn't ignore the fact that his father had given him the opening he needed. The compliment would provide the perfect segue for what he wanted to tell his dad. Blake took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly, trying to calm the butterflies that had suddenly filled his stomach. “I hope you'll be equally proud when you hear about my other venture.”

His father took another helping of potato salad, nodding as he said, “I'm sure I will. I can't imagine you doing something I wouldn't approve of.”

That remained to be seen. Marisa certainly hadn't approved. “Grandfather wouldn't have liked it.”

Dad shrugged. “But I'm not my father any more than you're me. We're different, and I for one am glad about that. The world would be boring if we were all the same.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “So, what are you going to tell me? I'm pretty sure you're not a serial killer.”

Marisa had thought he was almost that bad. Though Blake wasn't a serial killer, he'd written about them. “I'm a writer. A novelist, actually.”

Dad said nothing, and his expression remained neutral, as if he were waiting for Blake to finish before he reacted. “I do know something about serial killers, though. I write—I wrote”—Blake corrected himself—“thrillers.”

This time Dad nodded. “That must mean you're Ken Blake. I thought so.”

It was not the reaction Blake had expected. He'd expected surprise, perhaps a bit of disbelief, possibly mild disapproval. What he hadn't expected was this calm acceptance.

“You knew and you never said anything?”

“I didn't know for certain, but I couldn't ignore the similarity in names and the fact that Ken Blake's photo looked a lot like my son. That intrigued me enough that I bought the book.” Dad smiled. “When I read the first one, I could practically hear you talking, and that reminded me of how you used to tell stories when you were a kid.”

Dad had read his books. The thought was mind-boggling. Not once had Blake considered that possibility. As far as he knew, his father rarely read anything other than the Bible. But Dad, it seemed, had secrets of his own. “You didn't say anything.”

“No, because for whatever reason, you were keeping it secret. I respected your desire for privacy, but I wondered why you felt the need for it.”

The answer was simple. “Grandfather.”

“That's what I thought, and you're right. He would have disapproved, just as he disapproved of all fiction.” Dad smiled again. “The truth is, I brought your books into the house in brown paper bags and read them in my room so he wouldn't know what was going on. I understand why you didn't want to listen to him telling you how wrong you were and that fiction was the devil's work.”

Dad pointed a finger at Blake. “It's not, you know. Jesus used parables—you could call them fiction—to help people understand
his teachings. Of course, if I'd told your grandfather that, he would have said you weren't Jesus and then gotten onto his soapbox. I don't blame you for not wanting to deal with that.”

Still amazed at how easily this whole conversation was going, Blake shook his head. “I wasn't concerned about myself. I've got a tough hide.” Or he thought he did. “I didn't want Grandfather taking out his anger on you.” It was Dad who had had to deal with the man every day; Blake had been thousands of miles away and saw him only a few times a year.

“I could have dealt with it. Like you, I've developed a tough hide too. I needed to with him as a father.” Dad reached for the jar of tea and refilled his glass. “I've got two questions for you. You said you wrote thrillers, past tense. Does that mean you're no longer writing?”

“Not at all. It's just that the new books are different.” Blake explained the concept of the Logan Marsh stories. When he finished, his dad was grinning.

“I can't wait to read the first one.”

“You won't have to go to the store for it,” Blake promised. “I'll send you one of my author's copies as soon as they arrive.”

“Autographed?”

“If you like.”

“I'd like that.” Dad took a long slug of tea, then leaned back in his chair, apparently content to wait for Blake's next revelation.

“You said you had two questions,” Blake said when the silence became uncomfortable.

“I did. The second is whether you're going to use your real name now.”

Neither Jack nor Heidi had suggested that. They simply wanted Ken Blake to reveal his face and his personality, preferably on national TV.

“I hadn't planned to. Ken Blake has a good following.” That was an understatement, and Blake suspected his father knew that. If his dad had been tracking his career as it seemed he had, he knew that each of the Ken Blake books hit the top ten on the bestseller charts.

“It's true that the new books have a different target audience, but I think a high percentage of my current readers will follow me to the Logan Marsh stories. And, the truth is, I like my anonymity.”

“So I can't tell my buddies that my son is a bestselling author?”

“I'd prefer you didn't.” Blake leaned forward, narrowing the distance between them. Though his father's expression was neutral, Blake thought he heard a note of disapproval in his voice. “Is that a problem?”

“Not really. I've kept my suspicions to myself for years. I won't even tell Hilary unless you say it's okay.”

“Hilary.” Blake smiled. “It seems we're both good at secrets. I had no idea you were seeing anyone until you mentioned her this spring. Where did you meet?”

“On a church retreat. It was one of those weekend deals with a dozen or so churches from the region. Something about her attracted me from the beginning.”

Nodding, Blake said, “It was like that with Marisa.”

“So that's her name.”

“Marisa St. George, but we were talking about Hilary. I guess things moved pretty quickly.” As they had with him and Marisa—until everything had come to a dead end.

A chuckle that turned into a guffaw was Dad's response. “If you call three years quick. The retreat was three years ago last spring.”

“Three years? Why didn't I hear about Hilary before this?”

Dad gave him one of those “you ought to know the answer” looks that Blake had seen so often as a boy. “Your grandfather. I couldn't subject Hilary to him.”

Blake didn't doubt that Grandfather would have found fault with her the way he had with the few girls Blake had brought home. As a teenager, Blake had thought it a minor miracle that Grandfather had ever married, but Dad had assured him that he hadn't been as bitter when his wife was alive.

“It seems we were both enablers.”

For the first time that day, Dad looked puzzled. “What's that?”

“It's a term I learned from Alcoholics Anonymous. It means—”

The blood drained from his father's face, and he gripped the edge of the table. “Wait a minute,” Dad said, his voice surprisingly weak. “What's this about AA? I didn't know you drank. When did this start?”

“I don't drink. Never did.” Blake was quick to reassure his dad. “The reason I know about enablers is that Marisa's father is a recovering alcoholic. I knew a bit about them from research I did for
Quicksilver
.” Dad nodded, confirming that he'd read the book.

“When I learned about Marisa's father, I did more research to understand what her life and his had been like. An enabler ensures that the person doesn't have to face the consequences of his actions. That's what you and I did with Grandfather. Neither of us confronted him with the fact that he was wrong. Instead, we appeased him, and so he continued to do things we both hated.”

Dad nodded, his eyes thoughtful. “It seemed like the right thing at the time.”

“Or the easiest.”

“That too, but there's nothing we can do to change that now. I'd rather hear about your Marisa and why you look so sad every time you mention her name.”

His Marisa. There'd been a time when Blake had thought of her that way, but it was over. He explained what had happened—how he'd met Marisa, fallen in love, then been confronted with the reality of her anger—concluding with, “I don't know if I can live with that.”

Dad was silent for a moment, his expression leaving no doubt that he was concerned about Blake's revelations. “I wish I could help you, son, but there's only One who can change Marisa. Have you prayed about this?”