A Promise of Fireflies (15 page)

CHANDLER PULLED UNDER
the arches of Il Salotto’s entrance, the smoky growl from the diesel engine echoing off the stone pillars. Two years ago he’d spent months on the remodel and yesterday Mitch’s message had urged him to stop by concerning another project. The thought of more work on top of the spec home didn’t pique his interest, but Mitch’s messages weren’t to be ignored—if he had any sense at all. Lengthening his stride, he plowed a hand through his hair and entered the spa.

Expansive glass doors opened to quaint Tuscan architecture. Life-sized photos of the hillside vineyards of Tuscany, the enchanting Amalfi Coast with its red-capped roofs and the romantic fishing village of Marina Grande near Sorrento graced the walls.

Chandler approached the front desk.

“Hey, Mr. Collins,” Hillari chimed from the check-in counter. “Good to see you. It’s been awhile.”

“I guess it has been awhile.” He glanced around at the changes the Burstyns had made since he’d last been here and chuckled at the obvious signs of Christmas. Unseasonably warm for December he’d forgotten the season. “Nat’s been at it, I see.”

Hillari leaned over the counter, craned her neck and peered down both halls like someone itching to tell a juicy tidbit of gossip, but afraid of being caught. “She’s a bit anal about holiday decorating,” she whispered.

Chandler leaned forward. “I see what you mean,” he whispered back.

She pointed to a decorative tray of Italian bread, dried figs, candied almonds, and marzipan fruit. “Grab a slice of authentic Italian panettone.” A steaming urn of cappuccino stood next to the tray. “My idea,” she said, waggling dark eyebrows.

Chandler smiled. “And the art?”

“Yep.” She beamed. “My idea too.” The statuesque blonde flipped her hair over her shoulder. “They’re Mitch’s photos from Italy two summers ago. He’s got a great eye.”

Chandler chuckled at the bubbly young woman. “Keep up the good work.”

“I plan on it, Mr. Collins. Mitch and Nat are expecting you in the back office.”

He took two steps backward, tipped his ball cap, and took off at a steady clip down the north hall.

Massive double doors stood ajar, the office boasting the same Tuscan feel. Mitch stood staring at a computer screen with his hands plastered on his hips, suit coat open. Nat stood next to him in a sleek white tank top and black workout leggings that hugged perfectly toned legs, hands resting loosely on her hips.

Chandler knocked lightly.

They turned in unison, Mitch motioning for him to enter. “Come in and have a seat.” He and Natalie took a seat at the conference table, a set of blueprints curled across the top. “We’re glad you came.”

Chandler sat opposite the couple, set his elbows on the table and clasped his hands. “What’s up?”

“We wanted you to look at a new project we’ve got coming up,” Mitch said. “It’s a big one, but we know you can handle it.”

Chandler pushed his hair from his forehead and frowned. “The setbacks on this property won’t allow for another addition.”

“It’s not an addition.” The couple smiled at each other. “It’s much bigger.”

He looked first at Mitch and then to Natalie, calculating the implications. Framing of the Juniper Ridge house was already penciled in. “How big are you talking?”

Mitch nodded at his wife to continue. “We’re expanding—starting another spa. We purchased a building in Scottsdale and we want you to handle the conversion.”

“Scottsdale?”

“It’s a great opportunity.” Mitch unfurled the blueprints. “We heard Della has her house for sale and is relocating. You’ll be close to the baby. And Evan’s in the Valley.”

“You don’t have to decide right now.” Natalie slid the blueprints toward him.

“We also want you to reinvest in the company. The timing’s excellent,” Mitch said.

Chandler leaned back. “I don’t have a penny for investments,” he said, wiping a hand over a few days’ growth of beard. “I gave Ryleigh everything.”

“We know about that.” Natalie’s face dropped. “We have a suggestion.” She squirmed. “Part of your salary would buy into the company.”

Chandler threw his hands up. “I’m barely scraping by and you want me to take partial payment in stock? Besides, I haven’t done anything commercial in years.” He rose to leave.

“Take the plans, Chandler,” Mitch said, the acidity in his tone duplicating the aversion in his tightly clenched jaw. “Look them over. The money’s good and we need you to do the work. This fishbowl is populated with shitty contractors and at least we’ll know it’s done right.”

Chandler sat, but studied the plans with little enthusiasm.

Natalie leaned across the table. “We need you to take this job.”

“Do you want me out of town that badly?”

Natalie’s eyes narrowed. “I can’t say I don’t want you to rot in hell for what you put Ryleigh through and I’d just as soon slap you as look at you. But that’s not what this is about. You’re the best contractor for the job. Period. And whether I like it or not, your baby is going to need you. We thought—”

Chandler shot to his feet. “Stop.” He gripped the back of the chair, balking at the urge to fling it across the room. “There is no baby.”

Mitch broke an awkward silence. “What happened?”

Natalie grabbed Mitch’s hand and squeezed. “She didn’t do something stupid, did she?”

Chandler thrust his hands on his hips and paced the room. He turned to face them, and then looked away. He couldn’t stand the indignant stares that mimicked the turmoil bubbling inside him. “She made the whole thing up and I was stupid enough to fall for it,” he continued, stuffing his hands in his jeans pockets. “I had no intention of marrying her but I wanted to be a father to our baby.”

Mitch slammed his fist on the table. “Unscrupulous bitch.”

“My sentiments exactly.” Anger flushed Natalie’s face. “I didn’t think anyone stooped to that trick anymore. It’s an unnecessary, evil thing to do.” She placed her hand on Chandler’s arm, the angry lines softening. “You’re human, Chandler. The Dellas of the world are not easy women to resist for anyone with an XY chromosome,” she said, and shot Mitch an
I dare you
glare.

“There’s no excuse for what I did. Baby or not.”

“Oh, I don’t condone your actions. Not for one minute.”

Chandler raked a hand through his hair. “I have to make it up to Ryleigh. I have to fix this.”

“Oh, God.” Natalie’s shoulders collapsed. “I’ve known her a long time, Chandler. She’s moving on and you should too.”

The words seared across his heart. He preferred not to think about it, allowing the days to pile up and avoid the truth of what he’d done. Chandler shook his head. “I won’t believe it until she tells me herself.”

“Take the job,” Mitch interjected. “It’ll be worth it.”

“I’ll think about it,” he replied, rolling the plans tightly, “but I can’t start right away, I’ve got a house to build.” Tucking the blueprints under his arm, he started for the door.

“That works,” Mitch said. “Perfectly, in fact. Construction won’t start for a while—summer probably.” He and Natalie stood to see him out. “Where’s this house you’re building and who’s it for? Anyone we know?”

He looked first to Mitch and then to Natalie. “Juniper Ridge Road.”

Natalie’s mouth fell open and she glowered at her husband. “Mitch?”

“I know. Shit.”

“Chandler?”

Chandler had crossed the room and was turning down the hall when he heard Natalie call after him, but had no intention of answering. No intention of explaining. He had his reasons. And a plan.

“WHO AM I?”
Ambrose sipped his coffee, steam rising in swirls over an abundant mustache. “Ah, yes, I ponder that question myself,” he said with a chuckle. “I am who I need to be at any given time. Today,” he said, taking another sip, “my story is yours—an ambiguous one. Remove your shoes, Miss Ryleigh. Get comfortable. This story is not a comfortable one, but you might as well be.”

Ambrose rose from his chair, the kinks releasing in pops and cracks. He paced. Years of a continuous back and forth shuffle had worn a faded path across an already threadbare carpet. “I shall start from the beginning, some of which you already know.”

Ryleigh kicked off her shoes and curled her legs under her. “I’m ready.”

Ambrose twirled the generous tendrils of his mustache. “This will not be easy for you to hear, Miss Ryleigh. Do you remember earlier when I spoke of storms crossing your path?”

“Yes.” Riddles were tricky and she placed them on her mental list of aversions one notch below surprises. “Earthquakes and tornadoes.” Ryleigh visibly relaxed, allowing her doubts to settle in his trust.

“Ah, yes. This will be one of those earthquakes that will split the earth beneath your feet. Be strong, Miss Ryleigh.” He bunched his hands into knotted fists. “You are your mother’s daughter and of your father’s loins. However,” he said with a deliberate pause, “before I continue, this old man must get some air and stretch his legs before he tells an old story that has been preserved.” He pointed a crooked finger to his temple and said, “The truth unchanged as there have been no storytellers but I. It will be told as it occurred forty-four years ago.”

Reservation crept into her thoughts as Ambrose massaged his leg, short steps obviously branded with pain.

“I shall not be long.”

Ambrose threw a knee-length black coat over wide slumped shoulders and removed a walking stick from a peg by the door. As gnarled and twisted as the fingers that gripped it, the carved haft and mahogany and maple staff was as weathered as the man it bore. Exquisitely honed, it was another testament to the man’s prior status.
“I’ll freshen the coffee,” she said.

The lines of his face deepened with each step, etched as much from the pain as from the unforgiving years that preceded him. Deterioration into pain was no stranger to her, having watched a silent thief destroy her mother day by day. She identified with the pain—not the physical kind—but the kind that pierced the heart. The kind that steals your air. Like drowning. Though she barely knew him, her heart ached with each step the old man took, each one a promise of the wisdom of time passed beneath his feet. How old? She could only guess: as ancient as an eighteenth-century gentleman if she were to guess by the formality of his speech, as seasoned as a riverboat captain by his whimsical attire, yet as youthful as the twinkle in kind, blue eyes.

The storm door groaned and the faint tap of the walking stick mingled with the cold night air. Ryleigh paused at the window surprised to see the shades of evening had slipped into the deep purple of night and if not for the three-quarter moon’s silver spotlight across the pond, the meadow would have been a canvas of black.

The silhouette of the bent figure’s silver-white hair gleamed in the moonlight, his staff by his side. Ambrose raised and then slowly lowered the staff. A flicker of light died in the distance and the right side of an overactive brain kicked into overdrive.
Gandalf.
The subdued, introspective wizard sprang from the pages of
The Lord of the Rings
and into her head. Her fingers gripped the window frame, but nothing moved but a wisp of his breath. If not for the peculiar old man’s trustworthy, quiet nature, he and this place would give her the creeps. Ryleigh rubbed the gooseflesh from her arms and stepped away, content to put the misguided images to rest. For now.

Ambrose had warned her it would be a long night. Her nerves begged for caffeine, and she headed to the kitchen. While the coffeepot gurgled, she sent a short text to Evan that things were going well and she’d call him later. He answered quickly, and she wondered if his phone was permanently glued to his thumbs. She threw him a cyber-kiss and dialed Natalie.

Nat picked up on the first ring. “It’s about time. Well?”

“It’s going okay, but it’s kind of creepy here. Especially since the sun went down and it’s dark. Ambrose is, well, I don’t know exactly how to describe him.”

“You’re a writer. Take a stab at it.”

“He’s a bit…eccentric.” She shrugged. “And he resembles Samuel Clemens.”

“Who?”

Ryleigh smiled into the phone. “Mark Twain, silly. You know,
Tom Sawyer
and
Huckleberry Finn?
”

“Oh. But I can’t say I know what he looks like.”

“Look him up on the Internet,” she said, twirling her hair around her index finger. “The resemblance is uncanny.”

“So, has he told you anything good?”

“My mother was pregnant before her and Daddy got married. Quite the scandal back then.”

“Wouldn’t make much of a splash in today’s world, would it?”

“No.” Ryleigh rubbed her arm. “Had that scenario play out in my living room. But I guess it wasn’t as common in the sixties. Nat, I need to go. The coffee’s done and Ambrose will be back soon.”

“He left you alone?”
“He went for a walk. To stretch. He’s pretty crippled up. I’ll call you when I get back to the Inn if it’s not too late.”

“It won’t be late in Arizona. Call me.”

The coffee finished with a sputter. Ambrose returned, rusty hinges protesting his entry, and stepped gingerly inside. Ryleigh filled their mugs with fresh coffee.