A Promise of Fireflies (12 page)

Chandler paced the perimeter, gestured to the operator to continue, and then hopped back into the warm truck and grabbed his cell. Footers were ready to be poured.

Before he could dial the concrete subcontractor, his phone chirped. He frowned at the unfamiliar number.

“Collins Construction. Chandler speaking.”

A momentary silence ensued. He glanced at the number again. “Hello?”

“Hey, baby,” she said, the familiar voice sending an involuntary shudder through him that had nothing to do with the weather. “I like the new company name. How are you?”

Chandler grit his teeth. “Della,” he said as his free hand clamped the back of his neck. “Everything okay?”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about. But not over the phone.”

He straightened. “The baby okay?”

“Everything’s fine. Can we meet where we can talk privately?”

“Not a good idea.”

“Jesus, Chandler. People already know I’m pregnant with your child. I don’t think anyone is going to think twice about it. Please,” she pleaded, “it’s important.”

His jaw clenched. “Where?”

“My place? I promise I have no plans except to talk.”

“Pick someplace public.”

“My place. Twenty minutes. You won’t be sorry.”

The line went dead. He gripped the steering wheel and dropped his head to his forearm. “Dammit,” he mumbled, and bundled the blueprints.

Chandler started toward the house he once shared eagerly with a woman he thought he loved and it had cost him dearly—a mistake he wouldn’t repeat.

Della’s sporty black Mercedes was ahead of him by half a minute. The scene was familiar, having been in this situation on a brisk autumn night over a year ago. On that particular night, he’d hidden his truck in the garage away from prying eyes. Today, he parked in plain sight. Guilt tightened his chest.

The garage door opened. The Shelby was gone, the garage empty.

A realtor’s sign wagged in the breeze as he slipped from his truck and went inside. He briefly celebrated the possibility she was leaving town, but his gut objected. Along with her possessions, she would be taking his son or daughter.

Blonde hair fell in soft waves over Della’s shoulders as he approached the kitchen, and she brushed one side to the back, exposing the long lines of her neck and the birthmark she wore as the unmistakable kiss of the Devil. Chandler coughed and crossed a knuckle under his nose to hide a smirk. Della Mayfair didn’t need a set of plans to execute her immutable strategy.

“Like old times, isn’t it, baby?”

Chandler raked the hair from his face. “What’s this about?”

“Let’s talk in the den. It’s more comfortable.” She reached for his hands, but he was quick to deny what he had no intention of giving and pulled away.

“I don’t need a guide, Della.” The muscles in his jaw tightened. “And the den is the other way.” He nodded in the opposite direction and motioned for her to go ahead of him.

Her mouth curled, only to have the rudimentary beginnings of a smile shrivel. “What a difference a few weeks and a pregnant belly make. You can’t stand the sight of me,” she said with a pout and slumped into a leather chair.

He lagged behind, removing his jacket.

Della’s perfectly groomed eyebrow raised.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he said quickly. Throwing the jacket over the twin leather chair, he leaned against the doorframe. “So what’s with the For Sale sign?”

“You noticed?”

“Pretty hard to miss.”

She approached him and leaned into the curve of his arm.

He fixed his eyes on hers and stared into a fathomless blue sea of misplaced infatuation; he stepped away from her attempted embrace. He knew the game. She’d toy with him, twist his thoughts, and play on his emotions. “Your games may work with the next guy in line, but not with me. Not anymore.”

Della turned her back to him and stared out the window.

“What do you want, Della?” Chandler widened his stance and crossed his arms. “I have work to do.”

“You look great, by the way. I like your hair long, it’s—”

His voice rose. “Get to the point.”

She raised her arms, and then let them fall to her side. “I listed the house a couple of weeks ago. There’s no reason for me to stay.”

“How can I be a father to my child if you leave?”

“I’m not going far. I bought a place in Scottsdale.”

Chandler acknowledged the comment with a nod. True, the drive took less than an hour and a half.

“The movers will be here next week. A friend drove the Shelby for me.”

“What’s his name?”

“You don’t have to be so cheeky.”

“C’mon, Della. I’ve been in his shoes. I know what goes on in that pretty head of yours, and you don’t hang with women.”

“He’s just a friend.”

“For now,” he said curtly, adjusting his feet in the doorway. “I guess Scottsdale won’t be so bad. I can take him to Diamondbacks and Cardinals games when he gets a little older. Introduce the little guy to the mountains on weekends.”

She smiled, tilting her head. “You think it’s a boy?”

“Thinking out loud. He’s my flesh and blood. I want to be a part of his
or her
life.”

“You really care about this baby, don’t you?”

“Evan is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Ryleigh was too, but he kept the thought to himself. “It wasn’t hard to fall in love with this kid, either.”

Della turned slowly and crossed the room. “Here,” she said, placing his hand on her abdomen. She smiled demurely and leaned in closer, guiding his hand. Their hands circled her belly. He held his breath. Did it seem rounder than he remembered? Was his child moving yet? Della was so petite, surely she’d show soon and he’d feel the life growing inside her. Della’s free arm slipped beneath his untucked shirt, and she sank into him, sobering his thoughts.

Chandler pulled himself away and held her at arm’s length, her persistent wiles striking a note of irritation beneath an unyielding armor. But pouring gasoline on an ember wasn’t likely to douse a fire that once burned with intense heat. With one hand, he lifted her face and watched the way her smile softened the faint lines around her mouth. He spoke softly, the words forming from the deepest part of his being, the place no one but him knew what resided there. “You’re carrying my child—a child I already love. I will honor that. I will be there for this baby.”

Anguish moistened her eyes. “Chandler—”

“But I’m not coming back. I don’t love you.” His eyes penetrated hers as if to engrave the words in her mind. He smoothed a length of golden hair away from her mouth and dropped his hands to his side. “I’m sorry. And I can honestly say I never did.”

Resigned, she stepped away and fell into the chair. “It doesn’t make any difference anyway,” she said, pulling her legs to her chest and folding her arms around them.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It just means it doesn’t matter.” She stared at the floor. “There is no baby, Chandler.”

Her words sliced through the air and struck him hard. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“God, Della. Did you miscarry? When?”

She hesitated. “I didn’t miscarry.”

“Then what the hell are you telling me?” He raised his hands in surrender.

“Men can be so gullible sometimes.” She stood and faced him. “There never was a baby. Do you think I would do something that stupid? Look at me,” she said, displaying her body with outstretched hands. “I used it as leverage.” Angry tears welled in her eyes. “I’m pretty good at getting what I want and I wanted you.”

The lie simmered in his blood. Was she lying to him now? He’d felt her belly. Small and round and hard. He gripped the doorframe tighter.

“You were different,” she said, pacing the floor. “I couldn’t break you no matter what I did. Then I watched you with your son.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words formed.

“It was stupid and childish, but I had to try.” Tears streaked her face as the confession rolled from her lips. “It almost worked.” Her lip trembled. “I’m not sorry and I’d do it again if I thought there was a chance. But I can’t pretend. I don’t want to be pregnant. Not with your child, or anyone’s, Chandler. I’m not cut out for the ‘mommy’ thing.”

Her words settled coarsely inside him and he couldn’t form his own. He had accepted and embraced the fact he was going to be a father again. “You didn’t do something stupid, you didn’t…” the words stuck in a throat gone paper dry.

“No! God, Chandler, I’m not as heartless as you think.” Her voice rose. “Don’t you understand? I made the whole thing up. I wanted you, not some kid I would be stuck with changing diapers and raising for the next eighteen years.” She cringed. “Not happening on my watch.”

Chandler couldn’t look at her except with what amounted to nothing but pure contempt. How could he have been so blind? Without another word, he turned his back to leave.

“Chandler, wait,” she begged, “you—you forgot your jacket.”

He tensed. With every nerve on the edge of short-circuiting, he forced himself to pause. Without turning around, he slapped the doorframe. “Keep it, Della. Someday you may need it to keep yourself warm.”

He left through the laundry door and fled down the stairs in two strides. Icy December air stung his face as bitterly as her words had his heart.

Still, the echo of what she’d confessed wouldn’t settle, as if the lie itself had been a lie.

RYLEIGH FOUGHT TO
decipher reality from broken dreams, but the night passed and she rose to full consciousness the next morning. Excitement and dread snaked through her veins in equal measure, settling into a knot in her stomach. She welcomed a hot shower, a host of questions teeter-tottering in her head as she stepped beneath the spray. Warm water ran through her fingers and soaked her hair. The disconcerting thoughts slowly dissolved, and she allowed them to swirl with the soapy water into the dregs of the sewer.

She dressed in jeans, a comfortable long-sleeved T-shirt under the hoodie, and laced her shoes over thick socks. She took a deep breath, draped her scarf over her shoulder, and then walked to the breakfast room for some much needed coffee.

The lakeside vista embraced her from all sides of the panoramic windows as she entered the breakfast room; the disquiet of the morning vanished with the fog drifting across the lake. Her eyes settled on the only person in the breakfast room—same solitary man, same seat as yesterday—but he screened his face with today’s
Wall Street Journal
in place of yesterday’s
New York Times
.

Second thoughts sprouted like weeds. A late morning hiding under the blankets of the Inn’s downy bed with a novel and crackling fire seemed more tempting, if not prudent. She’d come to investigate questions she hoped Ambrose could answer. And if he could, would he? Before doubt overpowered her courage, Ryleigh grabbed a large coffee, dressed it with the usual spoonful of creamer and packet of sweetener and snapped the lid into place. She wrapped her scarf twice around her neck and stepped into the brisk morning air. Coffee trailed down her throat as she sipped, replacing the apprehension with brief comfort.

With Megan’s crude map etched in her memory, Ryleigh entered the outskirts of Ballston Spa and slowed. She followed Megan’s directions through the village, hands clutching the steering wheel as visible signs of civilization disappeared. One at a time she wiped clammy palms on her jeans.

Patches of snow blanketed the ground. Overcast in shadow, the forest camouflaged splashes of sunlight that crept through dense pines, and leafless oak and maple trees. She braked hard, nearly missing a stop sign covered by overgrown limbs. Glancing in both directions, she crossed the railroad tracks.

The road turned to dirt and the outstretched fingers of three unmarked dirt roads beckoned her. Instinct (or was it fear?) insisted she turn right. Megan had instructed her to turn left; she eased the Tahoe over a run-down swell of decomposed wooden planks to a suggestion of a road—two ghostly ruts with tufts of undisturbed brown grass covering the middle. A bridge of tangled tree limbs hovered overhead.
Intruders beware.
Gooseflesh pebbled across her skin as if a ghost had brushed its arctic fingers over her arms.