A Promise of Fireflies (11 page)

“Got it. Tell me where I can find him. Please?”

Ryleigh sat and Megan slid into the seat opposite her, again surveying the store. “He’s sort of a recluse. Lives at the end of Nightshade Path. I’ll draw you a map.”

“I have navigation.”

“Sweet. But you won’t find it on any Google map.”

“Why not?”

“Doesn’t exist.”

“Excuse me?”

“If you research his address or anything about him, he seriously doesn’t exist.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will,” Megan replied, “once you find him.” She squirmed in her seat, pulled a napkin from the dispenser, and drew a crude map. “He lives like a hermit and isn’t crazy about visitors. Goes to the Springs and Albany to take care of business. Doesn’t own a phone. Landline or cell.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Like I said, he helped me out.”

“How so?”

“Jeez, you’re nosy,” she said as she tossed Ryleigh a sheepish grin.

“So I’ve been told. Guess that’s part of the reason I’m here.”

“I’ll tell you, but never ever let on you found out from me. He really will kill me.”

“Your secret’s safe,” Ryleigh said, swiping her pinched thumb and index finger across sealed lips.

“Famous last words.” Megan gnawed on a thumbnail. “God, why did I open my big mouth?” She slapped her head in her hands, sighed, and then looked directly at Ryleigh. “Guess it’s too late now.” She studied the chipped polish on her nails. “A while back I did something really stupid and got myself knocked up. Well, I didn’t get
myself
knocked up, but I suppose you know how that works.” She fingered the feather earring. “Ambrose helped me with the adoption. He’s amazing. Doesn’t seem to be anything he doesn’t know, or can’t do.”

Ryleigh’s eyes lit up. “How so?”

Megan raised an eyebrow. “Don’t interrupt or I might lose my courage. I shouldn’t be telling you any of this.”

Ryleigh nodded for her to continue.

“Everyone in this crummy village thought I went to visit my aunt in Chicago because I hated school and I look like this.” Megan cocked her head and raised an eyebrow, gesturing to her clothing and oddly placed body piercings, pale face, and dark makeup. “But I stayed right here in the Spa. No one knew I was preggers either. Ambrose took care of me and forced me to keep up my studies. He’s majorly smart—like way over my head smart,” she said, waving her hand over her head. “Anyway, he took me to a doctor in Albany. When the kid came, he was there with me. And the adoptive parents. Everything was cool.” She lowered her eyes. “But I don’t know where they took my son.”

Ryleigh slumped, an involuntary reaction to the sudden disquiet in Megan’s tone.

Megan’s brow furrowed momentarily. “Doesn’t matter now.”

Given the circumstances and the young woman’s age, she understood, yet her stomach did a dizzying somersault.

“I so want out of the Spa when I graduate next December. Pretty cool, huh?”

“Umm, okay. If you think it’s cool…”

She scowled and waved a hand. “I meant graduating early.”

“Of course.” Ryleigh let out a sigh of relief. “The whole story is incredible, Megan. How did you get hooked up with Ambrose?”

“Whoa, I never hooked up with the old guy,” she said, shaking her head.

“Sorry. I forget the idioms of kids even though I have a son a little older than you.”

“Right. I hooked up with a sailor; cute, but as dumb as a box of rocks. But hey, I don’t have room to talk. I’m pretty talented at making bad decisions. For every action there’s a reaction and my reaction was throwing up for three months.”

“Morning sickness isn’t fun.” Ryleigh twisted a wayward strand of hair. “How’d you know Ambrose would take you in?”

“Didn’t. The old guy knows things. He found me. Never did ask how he found out I was preggers, and if I didn’t know better I’d swear he knew before I did.” She shrugged. “I was glad I could get it past my old man—he
would
have killed me,” she said, raking her hand across her throat in a slicing motion, her dark eyes wide.

“Your father doesn’t know?”

“Nope. And if he finds out…” she said, pointing a ringed index finger at Ryleigh.

“No worries, Megan.”

“After I went back home, my father left me alone. He thought my aunt straightened me up. But it was Ambrose. Told me in order to get out of the Spa, I needed to score not just good grades,
great
grades. I told my dad what he wanted to hear, that my aunt worked me over to get me to conform to their ways. They’re two of a kind, and it ain’t no picnic being around either of them.”

It was the first time she had used anything but good grammar—aside from the occasional cuss word or teenage jargon—a slip possibly, back to the old Megan. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine.”

“It worked out.” She sighed. “Ambrose took care of everything—tickets, correspondence, my aunt.” She pushed her bangs back with her palm. “Ambrose is a master at hiding people—like scary good.” She leaned forward. “I refer to it as witness protection. Sounds cool, kinda FBI-ish.” Megan bobbed her head mockingly. “The way he knows things—stuff he shouldn’t—is creepy sometimes.” Three tiny metal studs rose with one dark eyebrow.

“He should have the answers to my questions then, and I have no plans of ever coming back.” She reached across the table and squeezed Megan’s hand. “By the way, I’m curious. You seem to have your act together, so what do you want to study?”

Her cheeks flushed. “Thanks,” Megan said quietly before perking back into high gear. “International law. I want to travel the world. See and do it all. Maybe do an internship in Italy.”

Ryleigh folded her arms on the table and smiled. “Italy’s on my bucket list.”

“Maybe I’ll see you there.” The girl with the artificial Goth look stood. “I hope you find the answers you’re looking for, Ryleigh. Ambrose is an antique, but he’s cool. Just keep it low-key. The Spa is a small town and people like to flap their jaws.”

The source of idle chatter was nothing new to her. “Your secrets will go to the grave with me,” she said, crossing her heart. “You have my word.”

“Good luck.”

“Good luck to you too, although I think Megan the Barista will make her own luck. You’re a very bright young lady.”

Megan blushed. The new color in her cheeks didn’t go well with her stark black hair and pale features, but Ryleigh suspected the Goth look was merely a ruse to draw attention away from the young woman underneath.

Ryleigh rose and hugged the teenager. “By the way, what’s he look like?” she asked, pushing the door open.

Megan chuckled. “Do you like to read?”

“Yes, why?”

“You’ll know him.” A sly smile thinned her lips. “He looks exactly like a well-

known author.” Megan slipped behind the counter. “You’ll see.”

Looking back through the window outside the Koffee Kettle, Ryleigh smiled. Megan had already struck a conversation with a new customer as she mixed another coffee creation.

Ryleigh hurried the few blocks back to the Tahoe, crude map in hand. The engine came to life. She leaned into the headrest and air-pumped a fist.

Unfamiliar with the area, she studied the map Megan had given her. By the time she found her way (if she didn’t get lost) morning would be a memory and she had no intention of finding her way back in the dark. She sighed, knowing this leg of her adventure would have to wait, and instructed Barnabas to return to the Inn.

As Barnabas calculated the return trip, apprehension crept up her spine. Megan had said Ambrose was a loner and didn’t encourage company. What if she wasn’t welcomed? Maybe he wouldn’t know her even though the letter had mentioned her by name. Doubt riddled her thoughts. She locked the doors and engaged the Bluetooth. Chandler’s deep, calming voice would reassure her. Should she make the call? She shook her head and dialed Natalie’s number instead.

Natalie picked up on the first ring. “Hey, Riles—everything going okay?”

Nat’s soothing voice eased her apprehension. “I found him.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard. What’s he like?”

“I haven’t met him yet, but it’s too late today.”

“Good grief, it’s only noon—oops. Forgot the time change. It’s probably afternoon there.”

“It is and I’m not familiar with the area, so I asked Barnabas to take me back to the Inn and get a fresh start in the morning.”

“Who the hell is Barnabas? Have you taken in a stray vamp?”

“No, you goof—he’s my navigation.”

“You need to be a little more specific when you mention vampires. I don’t want to have to charter a jet and come rescue you.”

“If by chance I had taken in a stray—vampire or not—I don’t need rescuing. Especially if he looks like Johnny Depp. And besides, Barnabas shares my last name, and I can take care of myself. I think. Who knows? Might be fun.”

“Oooh,” Natalie purred. “Perfect age, perfect male specimen.”

She pictured Natalie’s naughty grin. “You know what I mean, vampires…never mind.”

“You read way too much fiction, Ryleigh Collins. Sometimes I think you have your head stuck in a fantasy world.”

“Maybe I do.”

“Okay, what gives?”

“I met a girl at the coffee shop who knows Ambrose. She says he’s a loner and doesn’t care for visitors. What if he won’t talk to me, Nat? What do I do? What if he’s got a gun or something?”

“You’re overreacting. Your mother wouldn’t have made friends with a creep. He wrote her—and called you by name. I doubt he’s a serial killer, nor do I think he’ll turn you away.”

“Megan says he has secrets.”

“Who doesn’t? Some are a little scarier or more embarrassing than others, so take a deep breath, go back to the Inn and relax. Then tomorrow when you find him, have your cell handy. He’s not going to do anything stupid. Trust me.”

“Easy for you to say, you’re thousands of miles away. Twenty-five hundred to be exact.”

Natalie laughed. “You’ll be fine. Go back to the Inn and leave the
Dark Shadows
vampires to Victoria, okay?”

“Not a chance,” she teased. Excitement was beginning to overpower her trepidation.

The two women embraced their smiles, though neither could see the unspoken expression.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, Nat.”

“Sleep well.”

Ryleigh pressed the disconnect button, sent Evan a quick text and then proceeded through town and onto the highway. The panorama of the village dwindled in her rearview mirror, and Ryleigh turned up the volume on the radio to fill the silence. The day had left its unexpected imprint—a dead end, and then an intriguing young lady and a route roughly scribbled on a paper napkin—her very own lost highway. She hummed along to the radio. Maybe Bon Jovi knew their life was clearer and where they were headed on their “Lost Highway,” but she had merely turned the corner of her own.

CHANDLER PULLED TO
the edge of the property on Juniper Ridge Road and cracked his window, the gritty idle of the diesel truck mixing with the drone of the backhoe. Permits to begin construction had been processed and he’d wasted no time in scheduling subcontractors. Work was scarce with the housing industry at a near standstill, and subs practically begged for any kind of job, big or small.

He shoved the gearshift into park, laced his arms over the steering wheel, and scanned the property. Over the years he’d kept a close eye on the secluded piece of land and couldn’t remember how many times he’d stood on this spot, waiting for the right opportunity. As fate would have it, he was able to purchase the land at nearly half the appraised price—one bright spot in the housing slump.

Earlier, with the morning sun barely over the treetops, he’d laid out the dimensions of the house in chalk lines placed precisely where the den would overlook a craggy bank of rock and a creek—no wider than a man’s exaggerated stride­­—that ran along the edge of the shallow rock canyon. Over the last months, as an orange western sky swallowed the sun and dragonflies hovered over the inconsequential trickle of water, he’d contemplated the placement of the house. On one overcast day, a doe and her twin fawns gathered near the water at twilight as a bald eagle circled overhead. It landed on the stone cliff, a sentinel regarding his surroundings. In that moment, he decided this would be the view from the bay window of the den he’d promised her.

God, why hadn’t he built it sooner?

The gentle slope from the creek’s bed opened into a clearing where the house would stand no more than six or seven months from now when the air was warmer and spring wildflowers bloomed. The bay window would frame the view, a constantly changing seasonal landscape. She would love it for its natural beauty. He loved it for the warmth and beauty of her smile.

The engine idled loudly, and a sudden fog of diesel fumes blew through the window on a cold burst of October wind. Chandler closed the window, unfurled the blueprints, and checked the foundation elevations. Though winter had embraced the mountains of Arizona, the ground was frozen only through the topmost layer and the backhoe teeth, worn slick from the abrasion of rock against steel, dug tirelessly into the earth blazing a trench for the footers. He pushed the hair from his face, repositioned his Diamondbacks ball cap and mentally calculated the old man’s maneuvers. He stepped from his truck to the dirt road and pulled the collar of his lined denim jacket a little tighter around his neck.