A Promise of Fireflies

by Susan Haught

  “Fireflies aren’t around all summer?”

  “No more than a month. Two at best.” He shrugged. “That summer was magical.”

  “Touching story.”

  “Trust me, Miss Ryleigh, this story is far from over.”

  Her eyes met the penetrating blue of his, ones that somehow knew her. “I do trust you, Ambrose.”

  He nodded courteously. “I am, indeed, honored.”

  “Please finish.”

  “As you wish,” he said, and cinched his coat tighter around him. “Our paths were meant to cross, but I was none too pleased about harboring a visitor, especially a pregnant one.” His smile broadened as he took a deep breath. “But it was not long before I too fell in love with her.”

  Ryleigh shot him an accusatory look.

  He laughed openly. “I loved her for her elegance, her grace, and undeniable courage. Quiet and smart. And she loved you so from the moment you were conceived.” His face softened as he spoke of her. “She stayed with me until you were four months of age and Ben returned from Vietnam. He took you in his arms and you were his baby girl, without a doubt.”

  “Four months?” she asked, every pore screaming in protest at the divergence of what she knew as truth.

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “That means—”

  “It simply means your father took you in his arms for the first time when you were four months old.”

  She leaned into the bench. “I don’t remember much, but that’s one thing I do remember, Ambrose—I would crawl into his lap and he’d hold me close and read to me.”

  “He did, indeed.”

  “Why didn’t you keep in touch?”

  “That is neither here nor there and is quite another story. I remain, as always, under the radar, so to speak. I am highly proficient at what I do. Stealth in its purest form.” He twisted one side of his profuse mustache, and then the other. “You failed to see me at the Inn.”

  She considered the statement. “That was you behind the newspaper in the breakfast room?”

  “Ah, yes. But did you see me?”

  “I guess I didn’t actually see anyone.”

  “Indeed.”

  Ryleigh regarded him quizzically. He raised one bushy eyebrow in response, as if anticipating the question. “And you knew Mom passed?”

  Ambrose nodded.

  “How?”

  “It matters not. As I have said before, little gets by me that I care to know about.”

  “This is incredibly…weird,” Ryleigh said under her breath.

  “This story will become much more incredible as it unfolds, Miss Ryleigh. Now, we must return to the house. It is cold and these old bones ache dreadfully.” Wincing, he rubbed his leg vigorously. Steadying both hands on his thighs, he boosted himself up.

  Shadows hugged the woods, a jagged silhouette against the deepening hues of winter’s watered-down blue sky. Ambrose led the way along the path, his breaths coming in shaggy spurts to match his labored steps.

  Ryleigh cinched her scarf a little tighter, unsure whether to cling to the temptation of knowing, or run from the fear that the past may devour more than it had already.

  Chapter Fifteen

  RYLEIGH FOLLOWED THE white-haired man, his steps deliberate, bracing his hand against a thigh as if doing so would ease the pain.

  She tucked her mouth inward and looked away. “Forgive me for keeping you so long by the pond. I didn’t realize you were in so much pain.”

  Ambrose shifted his weight to his good leg and waved for her to go ahead into the house. “Ah, yes, you have your mother’s compassion.”

  “No,” she said, awakening the guilt at her reluctance to see her mother in her final days.

  “Your words speak the contrary,” he said, pitching his jacket on the rack. “The pain will ease a bit with warmth.” He shook his head and sighed. “Do not worry.”

  With a knotted finger, Ambrose released the top button of his collar, pulled at his tie, and eased himself into the recliner. Broad but thin, his weary shoulders relaxed, as did the deeply cut lines of his face as he closed his eyes.

  Ryleigh unwound her scarf, pulled the hoodie over her head, and clasped her hands loosely in front of her. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Acting as hostess in a stranger’s home. Indeed. Allow me a few minutes to warm up. We have only skimmed the surface and have miles of tales to tell.”

  Ryleigh eyed him curiously, quite sure skimming was far less dangerous than digging a trench you could fall into. “I’m pretty handy in the kitchen. Let me fix you something—a sandwich or coffee—while you warm up, if you’ll allow me to rummage through your kitchen.”

  “Insistent. As was your father.” He chuckled. “Stubborn, if I am to be honest.”

  “My father was stubborn?” Ryleigh’s gaze fell to her clasped hands. “But I wouldn’t know that, would I?”

  “Indeed.”

  “I was only four when he died.”

  “Ah, yes. You were very young, indeed. And yes, he was quite stubborn. When a notion popped into that boy’s head rarely did he hesitate. Simply took off running.” Ambrose laughed aloud, a twinkle accompanying the sound. “A wild, benevolent dreamer. Wanted to write songs.” He grimaced. “The afternoon has faded and I have been a most unaccommodating host. You must be famished. I think food is a marvelous idea, Miss Ryleigh. Please, make yourself at home.” Ambrose waved a twisted hand toward the kitchen.

  “Okay, then,” she said, clapping her hands together. “Let’s see what I can find.”

  The kitchen adjoined the living room, and upon entering, Ryleigh swept her hand along a perfectly groomed counter. She gathered her bearings and spun in a slow pirouette. She spotted a coffee maker and started a fresh pot, the filter and gourmet coffee stored conveniently next to the appliance. With plenty of lettuce, tomatoes and freshly sliced turkey she dug from the fridge, she built a fair representation of two turkey club sandwiches. She sprinkled her own blend of spices into the mayo and called it good. When the coffee pot sputtered, she poured two mugs, choosing the chipped one for herself, set the sandwiches and mugs on a china tray she found in the dish drainer and returned to the living room.

  Ambrose had fallen asleep. The highway of lines defining his face had eased under the frowsy mop of white hair and repose of sleep, the roadmap whose destination and origin remained a mystery. She smiled uneasily, unsure whether either would ever be revealed.

  The plate clinked when she set it down and the old man’s eyes twitched under paper-thin lids. She borrowed a fleece throw from the sofa to cover him, but his thin frame caused her to hesitate. His body, taller in stature than she realized, was nothing more than a boulevard of blue veins beneath a sheath of pale skin stretched over a thin frame. With the care she’d used so many times with her mother, she covered the gaunt frame.

  She stepped back and glanced around. Many of his possessions—modest by today’s standards—were but a snapshot of a former life; it was quite obvious he’d once been a wealthy man.

  Pitch sizzled in the woodstove and the spicy scent mingled with the musty bouquet of old paper and ink. An entire wall was devoted to books—Dickens, Crane, Dostoevsky, Steinbeck, and Hemingway paraded across the shelves. Raised gold letters of Gone with the Wind gleamed in the dim light and she couldn’t resist pulling it from its niche. The binding crackled as she opened the cover to an inscription and a hand-torn paper heart. She looked away as if she’d happened upon something intimately private, closed the book and returned it to the shelf. She glanced at her peculiar host. Ambrose remained undisturbed.

  Unlike her collection of books where mismatched paperbacks mingled with worn hardcovers, these books were masculine, bold, and quite old. Ryleigh dragged a hand along the spines of timeless best sellers and massive sets of leather-bound law books. They stood erect, a line of timeless soldiers, and she felt the image of the man mirrored in them—old and oddly comforting, yet unique and curiously disconcerting, each
with its own story crying out from within their covers.

  Careful not to wake Ambrose, Ryleigh took her mug from the coffee table and sipped the cooling liquid as she stepped to the window—the afternoon sun a pink tinge across the meadow. Lacing her fingers, she tapped a finger against the rim as she thought of the light fading from pink to orange to rust. Evening came early in winter and would plunge the meadow into hues of purple, the only light a three-quarter moon in a brooding New York sky. A pang of uneasiness crawled through her belly at the thought of returning through the tunnel of trees. Sitting comfortably safe at home reading a Stephen King novel was one thing; living it with a strange man in an eerie forest that seemed to rise from the pages of The Lord of the Rings was entirely another. She sat, crossed her legs and pushed aside thoughts of Black Riders and a magic ring with which to disappear.

  With an exaggerated stretch, Ambrose woke. “I see you have managed in the kitchen.”

  She turned to face him. “I did, but the coffee has cooled. Can I warm it for you?”

  “Ah, yes, most appreciated.” The old man spilled two pills into his palm and raised the mug of cold coffee in a mock salute. “The intelligent thing would have been to take the pain pills before I slept.” He returned the mug to the table. “You must excuse my despicable manners and accept my sincere thanks. Many days have passed since anyone has graced this house to share in conversation or the simplest of chores.”

  Megan. “Really?”

  “Ah, yes. I presume you are thinking of Megan?”

  Averting the obvious surprise that widened her eyes, Ryleigh said nothing.

  “Megan,” Ambrose chuckled, the sound deep and unassuming, “is an exceptionally bright young woman. Spunky little thing, actually. She will make an excellent attorney someday.”

  Ryleigh had no intention of reneging on her promise. “Who’s Megan?” she asked, picking at a shoelace.

  “My dear Miss Ryleigh.” He removed his glasses and looked down a long, crooked nose at her. “I have no need for pretense. Little that concerns me remains unknown because it is I who allows it. You needed Megan. Megan confessed her secrets. The dribble of facts Evan discovered on the Internet—it was I who made it possible. The letter in the desk?” Ryleigh’s head jerked up. “Strategically placed. My life is a puppet show and I the puppet master. I alone control the strings. The time had come for us to meet.” Puffy pillows of skin underscored an intent steel-blue gaze. Ambrose lifted an unruly set of robust eyebrows and raised his mug in salute. “And here you are.”

  Ryleigh’s face was obscured in vacillation. “Who are you?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  CHANDLER PULLED UNDER the arches of Il Salotto’s entrance, the smoky growl from the diesel engine echoing off the stone pillars. Two years ago he’d spent months on the remodel and yesterday Mitch’s message had urged him to stop by concerning another project. The thought of more work on top of the spec home didn’t pique his interest, but Mitch’s messages weren’t to be ignored—if he had any sense at all. Lengthening his stride, he plowed a hand through his hair and entered the spa.

  Expansive glass doors opened to quaint Tuscan architecture. Life-sized photos of the hillside vineyards of Tuscany, the enchanting Amalfi Coast with its red-capped roofs and the romantic fishing village of Marina Grande near Sorrento graced the walls.

  Chandler approached the front desk.

  “Hey, Mr. Collins,” Hillari chimed from the check-in counter. “Good to see you. It’s been awhile.”

  “I guess it has been awhile.” He glanced around at the changes the Burstyns had made since he’d last been here and chuckled at the obvious signs of Christmas. Unseasonably warm for December he’d forgotten the season. “Nat’s been at it, I see.”

  Hillari leaned over the counter, craned her neck and peered down both halls like someone itching to tell a juicy tidbit of gossip, but afraid of being caught. “She’s a bit anal about holiday decorating,” she whispered.

  Chandler leaned forward. “I see what you mean,” he whispered back.

  She pointed to a decorative tray of Italian bread, dried figs, candied almonds, and marzipan fruit. “Grab a slice of authentic Italian panettone.” A steaming urn of cappuccino stood next to the tray. “My idea,” she said, waggling dark eyebrows.

  Chandler smiled. “And the art?”

  “Yep.” She beamed. “My idea too.” The statuesque blonde flipped her hair over her shoulder. “They’re Mitch’s photos from Italy two summers ago. He’s got a great eye.”

  Chandler chuckled at the bubbly young woman. “Keep up the good work.”

  “I plan on it, Mr. Collins. Mitch and Nat are expecting you in the back office.”

  He took two steps backward, tipped his ball cap, and took off at a steady clip down the north hall.

  Massive double doors stood ajar, the office boasting the same Tuscan feel. Mitch stood staring at a computer screen with his hands plastered on his hips, suit coat open. Nat stood next to him in a sleek white tank top and black workout leggings that hugged perfectly toned legs, hands resting loosely on her hips.

  Chandler knocked lightly.

  They turned in unison, Mitch motioning for him to enter. “Come in and have a seat.” He and Natalie took a seat at the conference table, a set of blueprints curled across the top. “We’re glad you came.”

  Chandler sat opposite the couple, set his elbows on the table and clasped his hands. “What’s up?”

  “We wanted you to look at a new project we’ve got coming up,” Mitch said. “It’s a big one, but we know you can handle it.”

  Chandler pushed his hair from his forehead and frowned. “The setbacks on this property won’t allow for another addition.”

  “It’s not an addition.” The couple smiled at each other. “It’s much bigger.”

  He looked first at Mitch and then to Natalie, calculating the implications. Framing of the Juniper Ridge house was already penciled in. “How big are you talking?”

  Mitch nodded at his wife to continue. “We’re expanding—starting another spa. We purchased a building in Scottsdale and we want you to handle the conversion.”

  “Scottsdale?”

  “It’s a great opportunity.” Mitch unfurled the blueprints. “We heard Della has her house for sale and is relocating. You’ll be close to the baby. And Evan’s in the Valley.”

  “You don’t have to decide right now.” Natalie slid the blueprints toward him.

  “We also want you to reinvest in the company. The timing’s excellent,” Mitch said.

  Chandler leaned back. “I don’t have a penny for investments,” he said, wiping a hand over a few days’ growth of beard. “I gave Ryleigh everything.”

  “We know about that.” Natalie’s face dropped. “We have a suggestion.” She squirmed. “Part of your salary would buy into the company.”

  Chandler threw his hands up. “I’m barely scraping by and you want me to take partial payment in stock? Besides, I haven’t done anything commercial in years.” He rose to leave.

  “Take the plans, Chandler,” Mitch said, the acidity in his tone duplicating the aversion in his tightly clenched jaw. “Look them over. The money’s good and we need you to do the work. This fishbowl is populated with shitty contractors and at least we’ll know it’s done right.”

  Chandler sat, but studied the plans with little enthusiasm.

  Natalie leaned across the table. “We need you to take this job.”

  “Do you want me out of town that badly?”

  Natalie’s eyes narrowed. “I can’t say I don’t want you to rot in hell for what you put Ryleigh through and I’d just as soon slap you as look at you. But that’s not what this is about. You’re the best contractor for the job. Period. And whether I like it or not, your baby is going to need you. We thought—”

  Chandler shot to his feet. “Stop.” He gripped the back of the chair, balking at the urge to fling it across the room. “There is no baby.”

  Mitch broke an awkw
ard silence. “What happened?”

  Natalie grabbed Mitch’s hand and squeezed. “She didn’t do something stupid, did she?”

  Chandler thrust his hands on his hips and paced the room. He turned to face them, and then looked away. He couldn’t stand the indignant stares that mimicked the turmoil bubbling inside him. “She made the whole thing up and I was stupid enough to fall for it,” he continued, stuffing his hands in his jeans pockets. “I had no intention of marrying her but I wanted to be a father to our baby.”

  Mitch slammed his fist on the table. “Unscrupulous bitch.”

  “My sentiments exactly.” Anger flushed Natalie’s face. “I didn’t think anyone stooped to that trick anymore. It’s an unnecessary, evil thing to do.” She placed her hand on Chandler’s arm, the angry lines softening. “You’re human, Chandler. The Dellas of the world are not easy women to resist for anyone with an XY chromosome,” she said, and shot Mitch an I dare you glare.

  “There’s no excuse for what I did. Baby or not.”

  “Oh, I don’t condone your actions. Not for one minute.”

  Chandler raked a hand through his hair. “I have to make it up to Ryleigh. I have to fix this.”

  “Oh, God.” Natalie’s shoulders collapsed. “I’ve known her a long time, Chandler. She’s moving on and you should too.”

  The words seared across his heart. He preferred not to think about it, allowing the days to pile up and avoid the truth of what he’d done. Chandler shook his head. “I won’t believe it until she tells me herself.”

  “Take the job,” Mitch interjected. “It’ll be worth it.”

  “I’ll think about it,” he replied, rolling the plans tightly, “but I can’t start right away, I’ve got a house to build.” Tucking the blueprints under his arm, he started for the door.