A Promise of Fireflies (20 page)

Natalie tossed the latest issue of
People
magazine aside and pressed her fingers to her eyes. With a little over an hour left before her flight, she dialed Ryleigh’s cell phone. Voice-mail. “Dammit, Ryleigh,” she muttered, “why won’t you answer your flippin’ phone?” The words came out quietly, but what she really wanted to do was scream.

Several hours later with the last leg of her flight finally on the ground, Natalie dialed Mitch’s cell and waited for the beep. “The eagle has landed in Albany and I’m on my way to Saratoga Springs,” she said, and then glanced at the airport clock and counted backward to adjust for the time change. “You’re probably in a meeting, so I’ll call you after I find Ryleigh. I love you.”

Natalie followed the navigation’s directions to the Brook Hollow Inn. A light snow had begun to fall and a skiff of white settled around Saratoga Lake, as if the edges had been dusted with sugar.

The Inn’s parking area was deserted, so she parked near the door to Ryleigh’s room. Pulling her collar tight around her neck, she dissed herself for not packing a heavier coat.

Natalie knocked, the cold stinging her knuckles. “Ryleigh? You in there?” Another loud rap on the door. “Damn, damn, damn.” She paused and rubbed her fingers, and then marched to the Inn’s lobby.

The attendant assured her Mrs. Collins hadn’t checked out.
Another crappy delay counting the minutes
. Slipping back inside the warm SUV, she leaned against a folded arm. Heavy weights pulled on her eyelids and the fog of weariness overtook her.

With a bare hand, Ryleigh touched each letter of the name engraved in the granite tombstone, scribing an indelible imprint on her fingertips. Her mind was numb, not from the bitter cold, but from the images of fragmented, disconnected dreams.

“I want to leave, Ambrose.”

With his hands crossed over his walking stick, Ambrose stood quietly, peering over the graveyard. “I believe we shall return. The weather has been most disagreeable,” he said, blinking away snowflakes.

“No, Ambrose. I want to go home. To Arizona. Where at least things are familiar and make some sort of sense. Here I’m this person who never existed and I’m listening to stories that don’t belong to me.”

“Ah, but they do, Miss Ryleigh, they do.”

“It’s not that.” She hesitated. “Everything is inside
you
, and I’ve merely been eavesdropping. I don’t even know you and I damn sure don’t know how to deal with this.” She lowered her head. “I don’t want to deal with this.”

“Come. We shall go. It will help clear the webs the spiders of truth tend to weave.” Ambrose rested his hand in the small of her back, guiding her. They walked side by side, silent, back to the Jeep.

Once inside, Ryleigh rested her elbow on the armrest with her head in her palm. The snow had stopped, but the world outside blurred.

The Jeep warmed quickly. Ryleigh noted they took an even less traveled route back briefly following the railroad tracks.

By the time they returned to his house, the fire had died. Ryleigh rubbed her arms at the chill that had settled in her bones. Taking one last, long look around at the discriminating possessions and the doors behind which he sheltered a storied life; she couldn’t help but wonder how her past had changed his life, and how his would change hers.

Tossing her jacket on the sofa, she turned to the woodstove. The heavy cast iron door uttered its lonely groan, the protest as loud as the reservations inside her heart. The embers had nearly died but, having grown up in the mountains, kindling a fire was second nature, and it didn’t take long for the wood to spark into flame.

Ambrose emerged from the kitchen carrying a cast iron pot he placed on top of the woodstove. “Ah, Miss Ryleigh, my deepest thanks for resurrecting the fire.” He turned his back to the stove. “I do hope you will join me when the soup is warm. You need something to eat, as do I.”

“I haven’t been very hungry lately.”

“Ah, yes. Understandably so.”

“I should go.”

“Not quite yet.”

Ryleigh shut her eyes tightly. “No, Ambrose. I’m done. I can’t—”

“Please. A trifle longer. While the soup warms. This may be the last time we see each other.”

A frown tightened her brow. “I can’t come back?”

“Doubts plague you, Miss Ryleigh. I perceive you well enough.”

She paused, unsure whether to let him continue or grab her things and go. Ambrose limped toward her, sparing her the decision.

“Megan is an extraordinary young woman. I have seen her along her rightful path, but that is neither here nor there.”

Ryleigh hugged her middle and turned away, the weight of a suspended bubble following her. “Why do you keep insisting I know this Megan?”

“Your discretion is admirable, indeed. Now, if you will indulge me for a few moments longer.”

Ryleigh swallowed any sort of remark and gave him a shallow nod of approval.

“I wish to impress upon you, Miss Ryleigh, when your mother lost Ryan and her son, a part of her died. Ben returned from Vietnam, his body whole but never truly the same, and he tried to fill the void and did so to some degree. Eleanor was happy…as happy as one could expect without the love denied her with Ryan and the son she would never know. I assumed she would lapse into depression. But she did not.”

Ryleigh’s eyebrows rose.

“She chose a path possibly worse. Instead of accepting her past and moving on, she chose to ignore it. And if you’ll allow me to say so, I believe you inherited that trait from your mother.”

She scowled. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

“Do not be offended. Consume it. Digest it,” he counseled, pounding a fist on his heart. “Scars are merely the evidence—noble reminders, if you will—of our battles. Use what you know to be the truth of yourself and your past to your advantage. It is a part of you that cannot be ignored. You wear your heart openly. What you feel inside weeps on the outside, but you possess the strength of two honorable men and that of your mother. Use this, and it shall define your future.”

“Ben is my past. He’s the only father I ever knew. Ryan is a stranger,” she said adamantly. “How can I ever love him as I loved my father?”

“This you shall process in time, Miss Ryleigh.” Ambrose cradled her face in his large, misshapen hands and looked her intently in the eye. “Ryan’s gift flows from you as it did him. Your future will be shaped by your words. Do not let another so gifted remain silent.” His hands fell to his side. “Now if you will forgive me I must eat. The soup is bubbling, I am sure. Please, will you join me?”

“I’m exhausted and I want to go home.”

“Indeed, you must go. Please do not forget your treasure chest.”

“I don’t know if that’s what I would call it.”

“It is a treasure chest—without a doubt.”

“It’s just an old cigar box.”

“The treasures of family lay hidden inside. The letters they wrote to one another will turn the pages of the unknown. Compose your story as you uncover details I have forgotten or inadvertently omitted. Read the letters buried among your mother’s things. Read your father’s words. Understanding will surface as you do so. They reveal the innermost part of himself and shall live beyond death, and their strength will be yours and shall bind you as one. And when you write, a part of you is exposed.”

“I was so taken with the journal I haven’t looked through the letters yet.” She sighed heavily. “Ambrose, I don’t know how to process all of this.”

“Take the box. You will uncover the treasures within,” he said, scrutinizing her. “When someone you love becomes a memory, the memory becomes a treasure. You must learn to live with your past.” He took both her hands and squeezed, the pressure assuring. “Do not ignore it. Embrace it. Release it to the wind and allow it to set you free. Love will be your guide and keep your heart safe.”

Ryleigh paused, tucking her hair behind an ear. “You’ve never mentioned Chandler.” His name stuck in her throat.

He looked down his crooked nose, his eyes searching one and then the other of hers. “The heart has expectations and some allow those expectations to become stale until the eyes no longer see the disappointment of reality. The one you first loved is now your past.”

“Maybe.”

“Indeed. He claims to love you still. Does he not?”

A deep furrow creased her brow. “I never dreamed he’d ever stop loving me.”

“Perhaps knowing the choices one makes is not because of you, but is a decision they make in spite of you. You cannot know the strength of one’s love, and perhaps knowing this will help sever the threads that bind you. Open your heart and allow yourself to let go.”

Ryleigh tilted her head. “You sound as if you already know the outcome.”

“Let me simply say, another shall be the source of your passions.”

“That’ll be the day.”

“My dear Miss Ryleigh, you must set a match to the past in order to light the path of your future.”

Holding the box to her chest, she turned to him. “May I come back someday?” Her cheeks flushed.

“Ah, yes. I see you are going to prove me wrong.” He twisted the wiry hairs of his mustache. “The sun sets. A new day arrives,” he said, showing her to the door. “There are other worlds to explore. New paths to follow.”

Still clutching the cigar box, she reached up and hugged the lanky figure.

He hugged her in return and then held her at arm’s length and gave her hands a tender squeeze. “Never forget, Ryleigh Endicott,” he said, wagging a gnarled finger at her, “there will always be storms that rattle the foundation of your life and tear at your heart. The life you were comfortable in is over. Embrace your past. Use it to forge your future. Live and love for tomorrow. Trust me. You have survived the storm. Now you must learn to dance in the rain.”

The gleam had returned to his liquid blue eyes, deep wells of memories as old as life itself. Or time, perhaps. Mysteries lurked there—carefully guarded questions with no answers, only belief. “Now, you must go. Natalie is waiting for you at the Inn.”

Never having had much insight into her family history, Ryleigh wrestled with herself, teetering between laughter and tears as she drove back to the Inn. Missing years of her past tangled with the present, and she ached for normalcy, a mental library filled with ordinary memories like everyone else. Her tiny circle of relatives had expanded and imploded in the course of a single day.

Incomprehensible—the only way she could describe the last two days.

Despite a zealous curiosity about the world around her, it was odd how little consideration she had given her own past. She had quelled the desire to seek answers, not by conscious choice, but simply by loving a mother who had chosen to live a guarded, solitary life; a mother who had chosen to bury the past in the same way she had buried so many of those she loved.

A stranger, Wilford Langhorne D’Ambrose, knew fragments of her family history. No common blood flowed in their veins, but the bonds he shared with her family were not dissimilar to the bonds she shared with Evan. That, she understood. Perhaps someday the pieces would fit together, the dots of her personal timeline shuffled into place, as neat and tidy as a column of numbers.