A Promise of Fireflies

by Susan Haught

  Natalie pulled a sheet of fine linen paper and a pencil from her purse, placed a hand on Ryleigh’s shoulder, and handed her the items. The image formed with each unsteady stroke, consummate and palpable and undeniably real.

  Natalie handed her a pair of white roses.

  Ryleigh tilted her head. “Where—”

  Nat put a finger to her lips. “Lobby of the Inn,” she said and handed Ryleigh the tiny flags the cabbie had given them. And then she nodded, the faint smile a silent missive between the two, the message understood without the privilege of words.

  Ryleigh placed the roses with stems crossed directly under Ryan’s name at the base of the black granite, and then did the same with the flags. The flowers would wilt and die, the flags taken away, but her father’s name would remain indelibly etched in the stone, a simple remembrance of a life given selflessly.

  Ryleigh stepped back, her eyes mirrored in the polished granite at the spot where Ryan’s name had been carved so long ago, and for a fleeting moment, her father’s eyes (her eyes)—the color of the inside of an ocean wave—reflected from the black stone and held hers. And for that one moment, the past united with the present.

  Afraid to blink, to move, to breathe, Ryleigh grabbed Nat’s arm.

  After forty-three years, father and daughter were together for the first time.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ACCEPTING THE JOB as general contractor for the expansion of Il Salotto Salon & Med Spa of Scottsdale amounted to a sizable commercial job Chandler hadn’t attempted since Evan’s birth. Remaining in Hidden Falls had been his main focus, and the lifestyle change afforded him the luxury of remaining close to home to raise his son, stick a pair of cold feet in the investment pool and solidify his reputation as a quality home builder.

  When Evan left for college, his absence left a gaping hole in Chandler’s heart. Then the housing industry crashed. Work was scarce. His wife had her job and her writing and found ways to satisfy the odd hours of emptiness. And eventually, so had he.

  Chandler leaned back and exhaled a long breath. Building anything—from digging the footers to passing the final inspection and each step in between—was a piece of cake, but he’d never tried to fix something as broken as his life. His wife (he couldn’t bring himself to use the ex word) plagued his thoughts. Every decision made was with her in mind. Pushing his hair back with both hands, he wondered if he could strip the nails from the hurt he’d caused and rebuild what he had lost.

  Blueprints to the new spa were sprawled across a small dining table, the curled ends held down with mismatched mugs. He flipped the new elevations to the mechanical drawings, comparing them with the existing building plans. The job would be challenging, but manageable, and he considered the idea it might be worth taking on a project of this magnitude. Yet he struggled to wrap his mind around being so far from Hidden Falls and the one person tethering him here.

  His jaw tightened and relaxed. Chandler concentrated on the details, and upon further inspection of the conversion of an empty office building to Tuscan-style med spa, he talked himself into taking the job on the chance it would be fulfilling (doubtful) and profitable (most likely).

  Pushing the plans aside, he picked up his cell phone and dialed Mitch’s cell.

  “Hey, Chandler. We’ve been waiting for your call.”

  “I’ve been going over both sets of plans.”

  “And?”

  “I’ll take the job, but what time frame are we looking at?”

  “We don’t expect to have all the specs worked out for a few weeks, and escrow won’t close for at least sixty days after signing. New regs.”

  “Red tape’s a bitch.”

  “We hope to break ground in May.”

  “Great,” Chandler said, “the coolest part of the year.”

  “But it’s a dry heat,” Mitch mocked. “Since I’ve got you on the phone, I need a favor—if you have time.”

  “What’s up?”

  “There’s a duplicate set of blueprints and a file I need for a meeting with the finance company early in the morning. Think you could get them to Hidden Falls Packaging and overnight them to me? I’d come get them myself, but I’m meeting with Marc, our attorney, in a couple of hours.”

  Chandler hesitated. “The lumber package for Juniper Ridge won’t be delivered until early tomorrow, so why don’t I bring them to you?”

  “You sure? I’ll put you up in the hotel for your trouble.”

  “Thanks, but the trip has to be a turn-around so I can take inventory before they leave the site.”

  “I owe you one. And Chandler, you’ve made a wise decision taking the job. Our motto is to surround ourselves with the best and the business takes care of itself. It starts at groundbreaking. Welcome aboard.”

  “Thanks. I’ll do my best,” Chandler said. “I need to shower and change clothes. So where should I meet you?”

  “We’re at the FireSky Resort on Scottsdale Road. It’s a little modern for my taste, but the lagoon reminds me of a jungle.”

  “Okay, Tarzan,” Chandler said with a chuckle. “And thanks, Mitch.”

  “Like I said, we surround ourselves with the best.”

  The drive to the Scottsdale resort was a coagulated tangle of rush hour traffic. Chandler hated the city for its hurry-up attitude and standstill traffic, preferring the kicked-back nature of his one-horse town.

  Entering the FireSky’s tiled drive was like driving into a tropical rain forest. Though in the desert, the resort had a modern Mediterranean feel and was surrounded by lush greenery. Chandler tucked Mitch’s blueprints under one arm, grabbed the file, and entered the lobby. Before he could inquire which room the Burstyns were in, the attendant handed him a keycard and a note with his name scrawled across the front.

  “Mr. Collins? Mr. Burstyn asked that I give this to you.”

  Chandler unfolded the paper.

  Chandler—hate to ask, but can you pick the girls up at the airport? US Airways, flight 3721, 8:12 arrival. Had to meet Marc earlier than expected. Drop plans off in the room—enjoy the lagoon until time to go—the girls are expecting you to meet them at baggage claim. Take the Beemer. Thanks —Mitch

  Chandler reread the instructions to make sure he understood the reference to “the girls.” That’s what Mitch called his wife and Ryleigh. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about going to the airport, but the reason was attractive. And he’d bet money only one was expecting him and neither would be overjoyed to see him.

  “What happened to taking a cab?”

  The attendant simply shrugged.

  On his fourth trip around the baggage area pacing like an expectant father, Chandler noticed the uncomfortable stares from the security guards. He knew he wasn’t a threat to airport security, but they didn’t, and before he did something regrettably stupid that increased their suspicions, he shoved his hands in his pockets and headed for the gift shop on level three.

  He decided against buying a rose (she’d probably tell him where to stick it, especially the thorns) and killed the time instead with a Sports Illustrated. He flipped the pages without thought and checked his watch. Close enough. He tossed the magazine in the trash and returned to baggage claim, thankful the security guards had taken up stalking some other would-be terrorist.

  The buzzer clamored and the carousel churned into action. He tapped his watch. Their flight had landed early. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and stuffed his hands in his pockets, heart thumping perceptibly in his ears.

  The girls were descending the escalator shoulder to shoulder when he spotted them, Nat with her overnight suitcase beside her, Ryleigh with her phone to her ear. It was obvious she was talking with Evan. Her smile was radiant.

  Chandler approached the same time the women reached the baggage carousel. Nat nodded.

  “Hello, ladies,” he said with a courteous smile, “your taxi awaits.”

  Ryleigh turned to Natalie with a menacing glare.

  Chandler stepped back. �
��I’m just a taxi service. Seems I was in the right place at the right time.”

  “You just happened to be in Phoenix,” Ryleigh said, the deflated question rolling off her lips as a stiff statement.

  “Yes.”

  “Right.”

  “Mitch needed blueprints, so I brought them.”

  She glared at Natalie. “Did you know about this?”

  “Sorta.”

  “Figures,” she mumbled. “Why am I always the last to know?” Ryleigh reached for her bag, but before she could extend the handle, Chandler took it from her. “I can manage,” she said, reclaiming it.

  Chandler raised his hands in surrender. “Just trying to help.”

  She squinted. “We could have taken a cab.”

  He knew that scornful face well—the one she wore when irritated. Though not particularly fun to be around when she was ticked, he missed it—and everything that went with it.

  Mitch was waiting at the lobby entrance when they arrived at FireSky. Natalie scooted out of the Beemer, and before she had a chance to speak, Mitch lifted her off the ground. She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck and he kissed her enthusiastically, spinning in a lazy circle.

  Ryleigh deliberately cleared her throat. “Excuse me, people, but can we dispense with the PDA and go home?”

  Mitch released his wife and brushed her nose with his index finger. “Oh, right,” Natalie said, a hand fixed on his chest. “There’s a slight problem with that.” She leaned into her husband. “I’m really sorry, Ryleigh, but we’ve got an early meeting, and if you want to go home tonight you’ll have to go with Chandler.”

  “Wonderful,” she said, emphasizing the word with as much sarcasm as she could muster.

  “Sorry. But if he hadn’t been here, you’d have to spend the night with us,” she said, cupping Mitch’s cheek. Her smile widened. “Now that would have been a problem.”

  “Great. I want to sleep in my own bed tonight with my independent cuss of a cat. Let’s go, Chandler. I don’t want to listen to any X-rated sounds coming from the next room.”

  Natalie hugged her.

  “You are so dead meat,” Ryleigh whispered through a set of tightly clenched teeth.

  “I know. Sorry.”

  Natalie turned to Chandler. “Get her home safely, please.”

  “You have my word.”

  Ryleigh felt a low “humph” rising in her throat at the words. Since when did his word mean anything?

  “Thanks for your help tonight, Chandler,” Mitch said, shaking his hand. “You won’t be sorry you took the job.”

  “Looking forward to the challenge.”

  It wasn’t the first time in the past few days Ryleigh hadn’t been privy to what was going on. Always in the dark it seemed, and now the Burstyns’ sudden affability with her ex-husband was a little on the baffling side. She felt a keen kinship with mushrooms. Portabellas. The big ones.

  A worm of irritation squirmed in her stomach. A trip home with Chandler wasn’t how she had anticipated the last leg of this already convoluted few days, and she had no intention of making polite conversation. He would have to act like a cabbie and drive. In silence. Maybe she could sleep.

  With a groan, Ryleigh lifted her suitcase to the bed of the pickup and held her breath as she struggled against the weight. Chandler reached around her and took hold of the bag, thighs flexing against hers as he maneuvered around her. He pressed the small of her back firmly. Without the least shred of desire and certainly without her consent, she hesitated, her body attuned to the gentle pressure marked with invisible ink in a diary of lost memories.

  Ryleigh stiffened. “Sorry,” she said, “it was too heavy.”

  He tightened his grip and turned to her, his face intimately close to hers. The air between them came alive with his clean, musky scent and an unpredictable flush threatened her balance.

  “I just wanted to help.”

  She recovered quickly, slipped from his touch and climbed into the truck, avoiding a moment that would have proven to be both reckless and downright foolish.

  Chandler started the engine and drove through town, and then north onto the highway toward Hidden Falls, the engine’s purr the background music to the silence between them.

  The truck’s headlights pierced the night as the asphalt vanished beneath the tires. Ryleigh leaned into the headrest and stared out the window, the steady rhythm of passing bushes, trees, and occasional vehicle a pacifier to weary thoughts.

  “What’s with the blueprints?” she asked, chastising herself for starting a conversation. So much for sleeping.

  “The new expansion. I suppose Natalie told you about it?”

  She fixed him with a blank stare.

  He glanced at her. “You didn’t know?”

  She shook her head.

  “They’re converting a two-story office building in Scottsdale into another spa. Construction starts in May.”

  Ryleigh punched herself in the thigh for breaking her own promise of no conversation, and when she finally spoke, she did so without inflection. “That’s great. But what’s Della got to say about it? You’ll be gone when the baby comes.”

  Chandler squirmed. “Nat’s been busy, so I guess she didn’t tell you about that either?”

  “I’ve been a little busy myself,” she said, and brushed a nonexistent speck of dust from her sleeve. “Tell me about what?”

  “She moved to Scottsdale.”

  “Gee, that’s too bad.”

  “And she’s not pregnant.”

  Ryleigh’s head turned swiftly. Della seemed the type to do something unimaginably stupid, and her head swam with ugly thoughts. “What happened?”

  “Nothing. She lied about it,” he said, his words colored with self-reproach. “There never was a baby.”

  “Should I be sorry?” she asked with little emotion.

  “I’m the one who’s sorry,” he said, hands clenched on the steering wheel. “I was a fool.”

  “Took you long enough to figure that one out.”

  “You sound like Evan.”

  She shot him a sideways glance. “God, all men seem to care about is sports and sex and not necessarily in that order. Their brains drop between their legs about the time they turn fifteen. And you’re no exception. I was there.”

  “You’re right. I don’t know what I ever saw in her.”

  Was it guilt or perhaps embarrassment she heard in the sobered response? Did it matter?

  “You saw a pretty face and store-bought boobs and followed your stiff prick. She’s as transparent as those skanky nighties she probably wears.”

  “I’m sorry, Ryleigh.”

  “A little late.”

  “If I could turn back the clock, I would.”

  Ryleigh searched his face in the hushed light of the truck. Sincerity lurked behind his words, and it confused her. She quickly shook her head. “Chandler, it’s not just about you. You think in straight lines, like the walls in your blueprints—a precise start and end point. But what about everything in between? So much more constitutes that wall; it’s all jumbled up with wiring and switches, two-by-fours and plumbing,” she said. “You can’t simply apologize and forget about everything else attached along the line.”

  “I’d take it all back if I could.”

  “Hindsight. Pretty damn easy to go there, isn’t it?”

  “I know I can’t—”

  “You’re right. The past can’t be changed. Nor forgotten.”

  Tension poisoned the air with a stagnant pause. He plowed a hand through his hair. “How was New York?”

  She was exhausted and much too close to the man who should have been with her through her mother’s death, walking beside her on foreign sidewalks looking for a man she’d never met, and holding her through Ambrose’s stories, protecting her, consoling her. His arm should have held her when she walked from her brother’s grave and it should have been his hands helping her bridge the gap between past and present at The Wall. Caugh
t somewhere between resentment and just plain pissed off, her eyes blurred. She blinked back the sudden moisture, but she couldn’t fight the lone tear that gathered weight and spilled.

  “I don’t want to talk about New York.” Ryleigh groped for the darkness beyond the window and with her head turned, she wiped at a moist cheek. “Or anything. Just drive.”

  They pulled into Ryleigh’s drive, the remainder of the trip spent in silence. The light on the front stoop had sparked and died when she’d tried to replace the bulb, and the bronze carriage lights on either side of the garage did little to light the front door. Chandler set the suitcase down and fumbled with the key.

  Her teeth chattered. “Why do you still have the house key?” she asked, folding her arms in front of her.

  He shrugged. “You never asked for it back.”

  “I am now. Leave it on the counter before you go.”

  The lock released with a thump. Ryleigh flipped the light switch and tossed her denim jacket over the counter. Kingsley bounded into the room, winding himself around her legs.

  “Hey, Kingsley,” she cooed, and stooped to pet him. Purring loudly, he arched his back petitioning for more attention.

  “Your key.” Chandler slapped the key on the counter.

  When she reached for it, Chandler put his hand over hers. “I’ll let you have it when you tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Not a chance in hell. You’ve done your good deed, now please go.”

  He tightened his grip. “Tell me and I’ll leave.” His voice was calm, yet his words echoed the same firm resolve his hand held on hers.

  Subtle signs of endless days spent in the sun appeared at the corners of his eyes, the lines etched faintly into tanned skin. The contours of the man before her had changed, his smile seasoned. Though the lines had deepened, the edges had softened, become more thoughtful.