A Promise of Fireflies (18 page)

She couldn’t breathe. The woman who thrived on words couldn’t form a single syllable.

“Tell me you’re okay.”

“Please don’t worry.”
Get a grip.
“I’m okay. I’m sorry. I’ll call you tomorrow.” She pressed the disconnect button before Natalie could answer and she set the phone to silent.

Natalie redialed. Voice mail. “MITCH?” She raced through the hall, lugged a suitcase from the closet and mumbled a few choice words. “MITCH!”

Mitch flew from the theater room and caught her by the arm. “What the hell’s the matter, Nat? And what are you doing with a suitcase? It’s the middle of the night.”

“It’s Ryleigh. I’m going after her. Something’s wrong, and it’s not the middle of the night.”

Mitch raked her into a tight embrace.

Her eyes filled with tears. “She wouldn’t tell me anything, but she was sobbing. And now she won’t answer her phone. I have to go, Mitch.”

“I know you do. But let’s think this through. It
will
be the middle of the night in New York.”

“I don’t care. I need to go now. Will you call Southwest and book a flight to Albany?”

Mitch caressed her face in his hands. “Don’t worry,” he said, wiping her cheek. “She’ll be okay.”

“God, I love you, Mitch.”

“I know you do,” he said, patting her on her bottom. “Now get moving. I’ll take care of the reservations.”

Natalie stuffed a couple of day’s worth of clothing into an overnight bag and zipped it closed as Mitch walked into the room. “Did you book my flight?”

“Southwest had no flights until morning, so I booked you on U.S. Airways. Eleven-fifty tonight to Albany.” Mitch checked his watch. “Just enough time to make it to Sky Harbor.” He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her neck. “There’s a stop in Philly, and I reserved a car in Albany.”

“Thanks, Mitch.”

“Do you know where you’re going?”

“I know where she’s staying and her room number. You reserved a car with navigation, didn’t you?”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” he teased, nuzzling her neck again. “Only the best for my girl. Please be careful, Nat. It’s a long flight and you don’t get into Albany until late morning.”

She turned to face him, her hands resting on his chest. “It won’t be the first time I’ve gone without sleep. I’ll be fine,” she whispered. “I have to go to her.”

“There’s no doubt in my mind.” He kissed her forehead. “I’ll get a room in the Valley and take care of the loose ends on the Scottsdale deal while I’m there. Kill two birds with one stone.”

“Perfect. Let’s get out of here.”

From the deck of her room, Ryleigh stared across the lake, wisps of hair lifting in the cold breeze. Pebbles of gooseflesh swept over her, a ghostly draft that refueled the bewilderment.

Nothing had been familiar when she arrived here. Now her entire life seemed so remote, a stranger taking up airspace in a story that had once been simple—painful at times—but simple. Her thoughts battled for their rightful place in a timeline of unforeseen events. In the crossfires of hell. Denial had been but a fleeting distraction and she’d plunged headfirst into anger.

Clapping her hands on the deck railing, she returned inside and downed two sleeping pills.

She showered, the force of the water cleansing her thoughts. The confusion began to clear. Returning to the house by the pond was disconcerting and produced a fresh wave of dread, but going back seemed inevitable. What she really wanted to do was change her ticket and go home.
Run.
To escape the past—or was the past her present? Her future? Juggling the idea, she didn’t care which as long as it was as far away from here as possible.

But first, she had to make one more trip down Nightshade Path.

Ambrose was expecting her. Of that, she was sure.

Heavy clouds clothed the morning sky, yet the passageway through the trees seemed less ominous, partly due to the daylight, mostly because more pressing issues overshadowed her thoughts. She parked the Tahoe and walked the short distance to the steps, the satchel tucked securely under her arm.

Ambrose met her at the door. The sunless sky smothered the prism’s rainbows, and the pillows beneath his eyes had darkened. The wind chimes remained languid.

“You decided to return, Miss Ryleigh.” The old man’s greeting matched the overcast sky.

“You knew I would.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, his voice a whisper. “You were born with your father’s spirit and his insatiable curiosity. Your return was inevitable.” He motioned for her to come in.

Ryleigh followed him through the screened porch, wooden planks repeating their welcoming groan. Ambrose sank heavier into his limp, and the night’s sharp edge had carved the lines deeper into sallow skin. Inside, he waved for her to be seated. She did so without hesitation.

“Would I be correct in assuming sleep did not come easy?” Ambrose handed her a fresh mug of coffee.

“I took a couple of sleeping pills. It helped.” She looked away to bury the lie. “You?”

“I did not sleep well either,” he said, easing himself to the sofa. “Though much time has passed, I had not fully prepared to relive those events.”

“You said you weren’t there, yet you told the story as if you were.”

“That is neither here nor there.”

She raised her hands in concession. “There’s more to the story, so I suggest we get started. What happened after Ryan—my father—died?” The words rolled awkwardly from her mouth, unable to wrap her feelings around calling a complete stranger her father.

Ambrose fixed her with a searching gaze. “Pieces of the story remain untold, Miss Ryleigh. Some are significant. Some are not.”

“I need to know.” She squared her shoulders and her eyes narrowed. “Everything.”

“As you wish.” He rubbed both hands hard against his thighs, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Before the medics took Ryan’s body, Ben took the journal—the one you now have in your possession—and as promised, gave it to your mother. He also ripped the Screaming Eagles patch from his shoulder and tore a button from his shirt. Those you also have in your possession. During the Vietnam campaign, soldiers wore one dog tag around their neck, the other tied to their boots in case of—” Ambrose stammered, abruptly looking away. “Ben cut Ryan’s laces and retrieved it. His body would be shipped to his parents in St. Louis and your mother would never see him again. He wanted her to have something of Ryan’s, besides you of course, to hold onto in order to one day let go.”

“I didn’t find dog tags in Mom’s things.”

“It is here.”

“Why do you have it?”

“Certain things were too painful for her to keep, though she clung to them feverishly. The dog tag she left with me. It belongs to you now.”

Pain skewed his face. The old man leaned heavily on the arm of the sofa. Rising slowly, he limped toward the closed door of an adjacent room that seemed to have been added to the house as an afterthought. Ambrose opened it enough to slip by, shadows rippling beyond the doorway, returned, and handed her a small wooden box.

As if seeking permission, she caught his eye. He nodded. With no locking mechanism, the lid lifted easily, the faint tang of cigar tobacco rising from the inside. The dog tag jingled on its ball chain as she raised it from atop a stack of envelopes. Her fingers traced the letters of his name,
LEIGHMAN RYAN MICHAEL
and his service number. She paused on
A POS
, and then skimmed over
PROTESTANT.

“Type A positive,” she said aloud, but didn’t look up. “Same as mine.”

A remnant of his life she held in her hand, another coursed through her body. Her fingers lingered on the indentations, cold and lifeless, the name of a man she didn’t know, but whose blood flowed through her veins. A vague smile pulled at the corners of her mouth and she closed her hand around the metal. The impressions—hard to absorb yet palpably real—left her fingers and sneaked into a corner of her heart. An odd sensation flowed through her as if her blood had suddenly warmed.

“Are there any other pictures of him, Ambrose?”

“None that I possess. But trust me when I say you favor him, as does your son.” The old man’s face softened, the gleam in his eyes rekindled. “Your amazing smile, the soft dimple in your left cheek, and those exquisite blue-green eyes—”

“—the color of the inside of an ocean wave.”

“Always.” Ambrose hesitated, raking a bony hand through a thick crop of unruly white hair. “What pictures remained went to Michael and Allison Leighman, Ryan’s parents, who are buried in St. Louis alongside their son.”

“Grandparents. Something else Mom failed to mention.”

“Ah, yes,” he began. “Ryan never had the chance to tell them about you. They knew of Eleanor, but assumed she simply fled when Ryan left for the war, unaware she was carrying their grandchild. Ryan wanted to keep it quiet until the three of you were together. And of course, upon his death, Ben took over the responsibility.

“Your mother closed herself to everyone but you after Ryan’s death. You were her entire world. I was but a shadow. Not until Ben returned did she begin to pull herself out of the darkness.”

“Daddy? When did he come back?”

“Late January 1968. You were four months old. Ben loved you both and had no reservations about keeping his promise to Ryan. He knew Eleanor would never love him the way she loved Ryan, but it made no difference. He was honoring a promise he made to a dying man and surrendering to his feelings for your mother and you. He was ardently in love with your mother and he adored his baby daughter. He was content.”

She pinched her eyebrows.

“Ah, yes, Miss Ryleigh, there was never a doubt in Ben’s heart you were his daughter from that day forward. He was by any definition, your father.”

“But my birth certificate. And the marriage license—the dates, everything is fake.”

“I am considered an expert at what I do. Abstract identities. Alternate worlds. Even providing that which does not exist. I shall not exhaust you with details, but the documents were created exactly as specified.”

“You’re kind of creepy, you know that?”

A boisterous laugh exposed a bank of crooked teeth. “Ah, yes, a distinct entitlement, indeed. And speaking of documents, you will need to take some of those in your box to an attorney.”

“Why?”

“Ryan left several government bonds for your mother. She chose not to take the money, instead transferring the documents to you. Rest assured, everything is quite legal.”

“Aren’t you an attorney? Can’t you take care of what I need?”

“Ah, yes. I have worn many hats throughout time, but that part of me died when the need no longer existed. However, two things remain which I must tell you. The first concerns your name.”

“Great. I suppose it’s fake, too.”

“The name on the dog tag.”

Unaware she had been clutching it tightly in her hand, she opened her fist.

“Look at your father’s first name. The first two letters.”

She shot him a puzzled look.

He pointed to the tag. “Now the first half of your father’s last name.”