A Promise of Fireflies (7 page)

it is the shadow

ever present still

it is the shadow

it is God’s will'

~R~ ‘67

She felt an inexplicable connection, of déjà vu, as she read the words. But there were no notes—nothing to hint at the writer—except the sole “R” and the year closing each composition.

Ryleigh let the journal fall to her lap. The pages hesitated, and then stood at attention—a silent plea to re-enter their world. She hesitated, yearning for more, yet sidestepping the urge to toss it back from where it came.

Instead, she turned to the last entry. Though she’d read this one before, the words begged her back inside them.

Encased in the fragile world of grief, every word seemed to settle in her heart as an ache, a growing abscess threatening to explode in a rush of anguish.

Reading the disturbing verses unleashed the anger, pain, and guilt she’d kept locked away. The barrier she’d built around herself as an impasse to a year of pain had shattered and it gushed from her, a flood of emotion for the decimation of years built on trust. Tears stung her eyes, and deep, aching sobs shook her shoulders.

Minutes ticked by. Her tears ran dry. In her forty-three years there had been tears, of course, but there had been happiness, and fun, and love. But late into this October night, she couldn’t see past the pain that had overtaken her tiny slice of the world. He’d been unfaithful once. How many other faceless ghosts would emerge? He’d never reeked of anything but sawdust and sweat, but looking back, she swore she felt the ghostly whispers of unnamed women stroke the inside of her mind. But what did it matter? One time or twenty, he’d still broken their vows. She would forgive, eventually; but contrary to popular belief, it was impossible to forget.

Evan turned the corner into the swanky neighborhood. The Civic’s headlights pierced the dark façade and portico, casting shadows in the stone crevices. As impressive as it was, he never felt comfortable here. In fact, it gave him the creeps and embarrassed him to think his dad couldn’t see through the motives of someone as superficial as Della Mayfair. She was hot, but come on, even someone his age could see through the false layers. Like a rotten onion. The deeper the layers, the deeper the spoiled flesh.

God, he hoped he never proved to be that shallow.

Light spilled from the open garage, the familiar white Ram parked in the furthest stall. Della’s Mercedes wasn’t there. He couldn’t have timed his arrival any better, and allowed himself to breathe as he killed the engine and stepped from his car.

Chandler stepped from the house carrying an armload of books and ledgers and when he looked up, he stopped, balancing the pile on his knee.

Evan waved. “Hey, Dad.”

The sincerity of Chandler’s smile met the corners of his eyes as he raised a hand before he tossed the books through the Ram’s window with his other. At the sight, a sense of dread swallowed Evan’s elation. They slapped each other on the back and his father pulled him into a vigorous embrace.

Evan pushed himself away, hands on his hips. “What’s with the business ledgers?” Recognizing the scene from a year ago, he searched his father’s face for the answer he already knew.

Chandler adjusted his ball cap, the Diamondbacks logo obscured by the upward tilt of the bill. He cleared his throat. “I rented an apartment on Frontier.”

“You’re leaving her?” Resignation rendered the part of Evan’s brain that controlled movement useless. “She’s pregnant.”

“I see your mother told you about that.”

“First you dump Mom.” He shook his head. “Then you knock this woman up and now you’re turning your back on her?”

“I take full responsibility for the baby.”

“
Your
son or daughter,” Evan said, clenching his jaw, “and my half-brother or sister. This makes twice you’ve walked out on your family.”

Anger narrowed his eyes. “Don’t make insinuations you know nothing about.” Chandler released a long breath and Evan took a step back. “At least let me explain.”

“This is bullshit.” Evan stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and took several more steps backward. “It was a mistake coming here,” he said, eyes fixed on his father.

Chandler stepped toward his son. “Evan, wait.”

Evan matched his step with another backward. “Why should I?” He turned his back to his father.

“I’m still in love with your mother,” he said, his voice a faltered version of the usual deep, steady tone.

Evan froze and then turned abruptly. “You have an epiphany between yesterday and today?” He teetered between the urge to cry like a little boy with a skinned knee and standing up to his father like the man he was and punching him.

“You don’t understand.”

“What’s not to understand about divorce?”

“I had to file.”

“Or what, Dad? What catastrophe would have happened if you didn’t? Except maybe putting our family back together?”

Chandler raked a hand through his hair. “You don’t know Della.”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea, but go ahead,” Evan said, raising his hands in frustration, “explain her to me.”

“I don’t need to explain her or myself to you. I’ll take care of this baby. That’s all you need to know.”

“How fucking sweet.” Sarcasm dripped from his words.

“And I’ve taken care of your mother. She’ll understand when she reads the decree.” Chandler paused, searching the ground with his eyes. “I was a fool.”

“You’re just now figuring that out?” Evan yanked the car door open. “And by the way, Dad, you still are.”

The engine whined to life and he shoved the gearshift into reverse. Chandler motioned and then hollered after him to stop. Evan ignored the gesture and gunned it. Glancing in his rearview mirror, his father’s outline grew smaller as the distance grew wider. Hands in his pockets and head down, the silhouette of the man he had always looked up to seemed lost and somehow broken. Evan navigated the last curve in the subdivision with a twinge of regret.

RYLEIGH SLID INTO
the Tahoe, her teeth chattering as she turned the key. As she waited for the car to warm, she tapped a message to Evan on her phone. Fairly adept at the simple technology of texting (a desperate lesson in keeping up with the times) she’d refused to master the art of butchering the English language and wrote the message in full. “Going to Nat’s. Don’t wait up.”

She had barely left the driveway when Evan answered. “take divorce papers to uncle mitch.”

She tapped her finger three times against the phone. The suggestion seemed a good one, and although Mitch wasn’t an attorney, he wore money and business like a second skin. She replied and then backed up to retrieve the envelope from inside.

A crescent moon severed its way through the lingering clouds as Ryleigh started down the street on the other side of town to Nat’s house. The house backed the Tonto National Forest and overlooked a trickle of water they loosely called a creek.

The house wasn’t expansive, but it had a den. A
real
one, not a converted bedroom decorated with misfits. With a bay window overlooking the almost creek and shelves and shelves of books, Nat’s den had everything Ryleigh dreamed of. The trickle of water gurgled over river rock in the summer and cool breezes sweetened with evergreen and jasmine blew through the open windows. Chandler had promised to build her one of her own someday—isn’t that what contractors were supposed to do? She stacked this promise on top of all the other broken ones.

Natalie met her at the front door with an embrace meant for a mother shielding her child.

“You look awful.”

“Thanks.”

“Get your butt in here. I’ll make us a latte.”

Ryleigh followed her to the kitchen and threw a leg over a barstool. “I brought the divorce papers.” She plopped the envelope on the counter. “Think Mitch would take a look at them for me?”

“Of course he will.”

“I didn’t read them,” Ryleigh said and tucked her misbehaving hair behind an ear.

Natalie glared at her over the top of the espresso machine. “What?”

“I’m not contesting anything.”

“You should know what’s in there.”

She shrugged. “I just want this over and the quicker the better.”

Natalie handed her a goblet, the espresso rich and dark with a thick layer of frothy milk, a sigh of caramel rising with the steam. “C’mon.” She waved and grabbed the envelope. “Let’s sit in the den. Mitch turned the lights on by the creek.”

The double doors invited them inside; nubuck the shade of a newborn fawn covered the window seat and overstuffed pillows lined the perimeter. Natalie set the envelope on Mitch’s desk, stepped to the window seat and removed two throws. Ryleigh curled up next to her and drew her knees and the blanket to her chest, the sweet spice of cedar lingering in the fleece.

A smile softened Natalie’s face. “It’s been a long time since we sat together like this.”

Ryleigh nodded, the echoes of forgotten memories surging to the forefront of her mind.

“You’d recite poems I didn’t understand. We’d plan the future. Not a care in the world.”

Ryleigh sank into the childlike whimsy—magical carefree times wrapped in the frayed ribbons of time. But little girls grow up and dandelion wishes and fairy tales rarely turn out the way of dreams.

“I’m glad you’re here, Riles. I’ve been worried, wondering when you were going to finally break.”

Ryleigh’s brow creased into a daring accusation.

“Get over it.” Natalie raised her index finger. “You have to let go of Chandler before you can begin to heal.”

“Don’t bring him into this.” Ryleigh sipped her latte.

“He left you. And though it was a different kind of separation, so did your mother.”

She took a deep breath. “I thought I buried the hurt. And doubt,” she said, lowering her eyes. Then she took another breath, raised her eyes and straightened her shoulders. “The self-pity pool is empty.” As she spoke, the heartache eased as if the air had filtered the pain. “Time to crawl out from under this nightmare.”

Mitch tiptoed across the hardwood floor in his stocking feet.

“We’re here for you, Riles,” Nat said and caught Mitch’s eye as he left the room with the envelope. He winked, an unspoken reply to her comment.

Ryleigh leaned into the cushions. “I know I can count on you.”

“Hey, we’ve been inseparable since we were five years old. You’re pretty much stuck with me.”

The grandfather clock chimed once, marking the half hour. Huddled like schoolgirls at a slumber party, the women talked until Mitch poked his head into the room.

He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, ladies.” He held the envelope in front of him. “Ryleigh, we need to talk.”

Ryleigh straightened, a flush of warm dread pushing aside the thin veil of serenity.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Mitch scratched his temple. “In fact, it’s a little puzzling.”

Ryleigh pushed the blanket aside and dangled her legs over the seat. “What do you mean?”