A Promise of Fireflies (14 page)

Ryleigh allowed a pause to rebalance the disquiet. “No apology necessary.”

Ambrose cleared his throat. “They left for war in January of 1967. How those boys remained together is quite the mystery. Same division, platoon, shared the same missions. In February, they received word Eleanor was going to have a baby. In the sixties, a pregnant unmarried young lady carried the weight of a considerable stigma. Eleanor came from a prominent family, and when her father learned she was with child, he legally disowned her. A travesty. I had the unfortunate task of reviewing the papers with her.”

“You’re an attorney?”

“Once upon a time.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “Her family’s reaction devastated her. This is when I stepped in, quite unannounced, but welcomed nonetheless.” Ambrose smiled distantly. “Ah, yes, she told me stories of how the three of them watched the fireflies that summer in St. Louis before the boys left for war and when the fireflies appeared here that summer, their presence helped her through the isolation and loneliness.”

Vivid pictures formed in her mind. She clutched her scarf, but made no attempt to tighten it. Instead, she dug the toe of her Asics in the frozen ground, and a smile drifted across her face.

“The fireflies raised her spirits. She named the pond for the fireflies, you know,” he added with a breathy chuckle.

“Firefly Pond?”

He nodded. “Ah, yes, indeed. It seemed silly, but it made her happy. So many years ago it was.” The old man stared blankly as if in recollection. “She spread a blanket every evening and sat by the pond’s edge waiting for the fireflies to emerge. As you grew inside her, she found it difficult to rise and it was then I gave her the bench.” He leaned back, stroking his bushy mustache. “A unique summer it was. The fireflies remained into September. Never had before or any summer since. There is no doubt they returned each summer night for your mother.”

“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.

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?”