A Promise of Fireflies (44 page)

Early June air smelled of jasmine and held the promise of a long, warm summer. She smiled, returned the driver’s greeting and signed for the small package postmarked from New York.

The name on the return address was spelled out with no hint of the alias he insisted on using. Dread prickled the back of her neck. She examined it, turning the package over several times before finally snipping the tape. The wrapping fell to the floor.

The leather journal was identical to the one her father had filled so many years ago, yet no blood stained the cover. The pages were stark white and empty except for a single sheet of yellow legal paper, edges precisely aligned. The letter was penned in the same scrawl she’d seen in a note handwritten to her mother. The paper quivered in her hands.

‘My Dear Miss Ryleigh—

I hope you find words enough to fill these pages for the man you desire—yes, I know of Mr. Cavanaugh.’

Her mouth went dry. How did he know? A shiver of warmth crept over her at the sight of Logan’s name, the pleasure of his touch and her body curled next to him more real than memory. Afraid her legs would crumple, she entered the den, fell into the old blue chair and continued:

‘The desires of the heart are rarely an obstacle for those who treasure love. He is one who truly deserves a place inside your heart, inside your treasure chest. Kindle his love with your words. Write to him often, in here. He is an insightful man. Trust me.

I am pleased to hear of the success of your book and plans for Ryan’s journal. Words flow from you as they did your father, a true and rare gift, indeed. Words are your destiny. You see the world from the eyes he gave you: eyes the color of the inside of an ocean wave.

You should receive this package about the time you learn of my leaving this realm. Please do not mourn—I am ready to pursue a new adventure! I do not leave much behind, nor do I have anything to offer save the wisdom of my indiscretions.

Most importantly—write what your heart reveals to you in this journal. Write to the man who desires your heart and whom you so desire. He will hear you, for love is ageless and knows not the boundary of time.

You have dismissed the complacent routes along your path and have embarked in a new direction, indeed. You have dug deeper than I ever imagined. I am well pleased. You will always hold a special place in my treasure chest, but I beg you never forget—it is not how you weather the storms of life, Miss Ryleigh, but that you learn to dance in the rain.

Most affectionately,

Ambrose’

Surrounded by ghosts, she allowed the longing to take hold and breed. Tears splashed across his words as the old man—whose compassion and love spoke through a grizzled exterior—came fully to life. Pale, twinkling eyes. Knotted knuckles. A roadmap of memories etched across an aged face. The chipped mug, a souvenir of the jagged pieces of memory he’d given her. His arm around her shoulders.

Moisture puckered the page. The ink ran, leaving the mark of her emotion, yet renewed optimism tapped at her heart. Did he truly sense her with Logan? Surely too much time had passed. No, it was best to think of this as an old man’s dying wish. Yet, it would be easy to do as he suggested. Her heart overflowed with things to say and she needed to write her story—if only for herself—to help her understand and let loose the grief.

She set the letter aside and opened the journal. The words flowed effortlessly across the empty page.

under protection, murky darkness of dusk

a wake of light, a path, a way—

awaken from sleep; a calloused heart

convictions lost in winter’s snowy quay

broken promises, dispirited heart

severed dreams shattered in transgression—

disclosed secrets, silent ones lost

assuaged under cover of winter’s confession

solitary souls in solemn solitude

surrender as one, a sheltered egress—

calmed fears, forged of queried faiths

lost souls found within winter’s embrace

~RME~

The words came easily as did her tears, branding her journal as her father had done decades ago in the jungles of Vietnam.

It can’t pop out of nowhere. Ryleigh checked the e-mail address again. Clueless to the inner workings of computers and things as romantically idealistic as the Internet, she thought surely there must be some way—

The buzz from her cell phone broke her concentration and she slapped a hand to her back pocket to quiet the intrusion, but the swoon of “California Dreamin’” had her racing to answer.

“I’m glad you called, Evan.”

“I thought you were always glad when I call.”

“I am,” she said, stuttering on the words, “but…” Even though she couldn’t see his face, she knew Evan’s eyes had narrowed and he’d already formulated questions. “I was just wondering how, I mean, do you know…? Crap. I can’t figure out where this e-mail came from. There’s no address.” She slapped her hand to her thigh.

“Send it to me and I’ll take a look.” A heavy silence fell over the line and she envisioned his exaggerated eye roll. “Send it from your Mac, Mom. Not your phone.”

“I knew that.”

“Yeah, right,” he said, and laughed, the infectious sound deeper than when he’d left, she was sure. The dead space in their conversation seemed to last an eternity.

“Wow.”

“Wow, what?”

“Means I’ve never seen anything like this web interface, and actually—”

“Never mind, I wouldn’t understand it anyway. I just wanted to know where it came from.”

“Cyberspace. Hey, this is from Ambrose, that guy you visited in New York, right?”

“Yes.”

“Does the subject line, ‘My adventure begins’ mean anything to you?”

“He’s gone, Evan.”

“I’m sorry, Mom. He was Gram’s friend.”

“Mine too. I knew this was coming, but I didn’t think it would happen so soon. It’s only been two days since I received his letter.” She bit her lip to suffocate the rising emotion, prior to the subsequent interrogation from her son.

“I think you owe me some details. About your trip to New York.”

She groped for a reasonable explanation, or better yet, a quick way out. “I didn’t want to say anything when I got back because of the internship. And then came Colorado, the book, now the journal—”

“Wait. That’s been months ago. And what’s Colorado got to do with this?”

“Five months since New York.”
Four since Colorado.
“Of course you’re confused.”

“I’m waiting.”

“I’m flying into L.A. tomorrow to see my publisher and go over the details with your editor on the Vietnam spread. We can talk then. I have to be in Scottsdale for a book signing afterward, so I can’t stay.”

“You’ve kept it from me, so it must be bad.”

“You’ll find it interesting, I’m sure, and you’ll look at the whole picture as a bump in the road of life.”

“You make me sound heartless.”

“Optimistic.”

“Hmph.” He paused. “Have you started your new book?”

“I have.”

“Cool. Can’t wait to hear what this one’s about.”

She chuckled. “I write fantasies, Evan.”

“Yeah, romance. How about an evil corporate takeover-slash-murder plot, or vampires this time?”

REMINISCENT OF KING
Arthur’s days, stone replicas of noble knights poised atop battle-ready horses guarded the entrance to Camelot Gardens Resort on the outskirts of Chicago. Horse-drawn carriages clip-clopped along cobblestone drives and the distant plink of guitars readied the band. A setting typical of a Wentworth-Cavanaugh property, Camelot Gardens posed as the ideal spot for a fairy tale June wedding.

Shoulders squared, Logan stood in a white tux amid the wedding party, men in matching tuxedos to his left, women in breezy lavender gowns to his right. He clutched a worn Bible, the spine tucked firmly into crossed hands. One thumb worried the top of his hand while he waited to deliver the vows that would unite his oldest daughter in marriage.

A flourish of small lavender and white hand fans waved rhythmically among the sea of guests, the air moist and heavy with the perfume of wisteria and freshly mown grass. And for the father of the bride, incredibly hard to breathe.

Guitars meshed into a soft intro. He looked up. Straightened. The crowd hushed. The volume rose as the band launched into the “Wedding March.” Heads careened backward. The grip on his Bible tightened and without warning, his knees faltered. He had single-handedly transformed the grounds into a stunning landscape, but nothing compared to the sight before him, a stunning, priceless gem he hadn’t created alone, nor took any credit for her beauty.

Glowing as if she’d been dipped in sunlight, Sophie walked arm in arm alongside her grandfather through an arbor of lush English ivy and Wisteria vines heavily laden with lavender blossoms. She caught his eye and smiled with sparkling blue eyes that put sapphires to shame. Dark hair cascaded over her bare shoulders, contrasting against a jeweled white gown—one that had taken the Cavanaugh women weeks to choose and nipped a rather large chunk from Logan’s wallet. He smiled at the recollection—he’d have gladly given his last dollar to see her eyes sparkle the way they did today.

Logan shifted his weight and rubbed a knuckle under his nose. Since the first time he’d held her in his arms he’d been the one to tuck her in and read her fairy tales at bedtime, and he’d prayed she would find a man worthy of her, one who would take up the role as protector, become one with her as lover and be her prince in her own fairy tale.

Sophie’s radiance outshone the Chicago summer sun, so much like her mother, Laurie, he had to bite back a growing lump as Sophie’s grandfather placed her in the hands of Logan’s very soon to be son-in-law.

As he recited the words and listened to his daughter and son-in-law share their vows, Logan’s heart swelled, the pleasure slowly churning up a fountain of emotions awakened during a snowstorm in the Rocky Mountains. Fleeting recollections of tender passion flooded his veins with ardent heat, incomparable to the late-morning temperatures, and he prayed his daughter shared the same feelings with the man who vowed to love and protect her always. In all ways. A handsome, tall, and effectual entrepreneur, Reese Davenport seemed the perfect son-in-law, but so help him God if he wasn’t respectful of his little girl.

“C’mon, Daddy,” Sophie begged, pulling Logan to the dance floor. “They’re playing our song.” Long, dark hair with a touch of natural curl and deep-set dimples (thanks to the Cavanaugh genes) flashed below vivid blue eyes (compliments of her mother) as she fell into his arms for the traditional father-daughter dance.

All eyes turned to them as the band transitioned into Heartland’s “I Loved Her First.” With grace and eloquence, he led her around the parquet floor to the country song, their steps gracefully synced and her head nestled into the curve of his shoulder.