A Promise of Fireflies (10 page)

Ryleigh slung the satchel over her shoulder and shivered as she stepped from her room to find some breakfast. Or at least coffee. Her stomach rumbled, avidly protesting the lack of food. The ground sparkled with frozen dew, her breaths billowing ahead of her as she headed in the direction of the dot on the Inn’s small map.

The breakfast room was nearly deserted, but the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and strawberry jam greeted her like comfortable old friends. She slathered a bagel with jam, grabbed a tall coffee to go and sat at a table by the window. A thin layer of fog hovered over Saratoga Lake. She watched it float across the water and tried to summon the courage sleep had swallowed. She glanced around. Judging by the pamphlets in her room, Saratoga Springs was big on horse racing. During the summer season, the Inn would be bustling with horse racing enthusiasts and bettors would be perusing
The Forum
instead of the lone gentleman hidden behind
The New York Times
.

Ryleigh picked at the bagel, neither tasting it nor realizing she had eaten the last bite. She scooted her chair back, pulled the hoodie tighter around her neck, refilled her coffee, and headed for the Tahoe.

Once inside, she punched the button for the seat warmer. “Whoever invented heated seats should be awarded the Nobel Prize, Barnabas.” She glanced around to make sure no one had seen her talking to herself, or to an empty car. She rummaged in her purse for the address to O’Neil’s Pharmacy in Ballston Spa, touched the navigation screen, and waited for Barnabas to wake up. “Okay, big guy. Here we go. First stop, O’Neil’s.” Ryleigh held her breath until the route appeared on the screen.

The burly voice directed her to the route, but her body refused her brain’s command to move. What was she thinking? How’d she get to the other side of the continent searching for someone she knew nothing about? She’d rarely been out of Hidden Falls, let alone Arizona, and she was definitely no Sherlock Holmes—she detested pipes. And magnifying glasses (which were much too similar to peepholes) gave her the creeps.

Nothing, excluding the sun (the same one that shone over Arizona) was familiar. The air hung heavier, the sky a murkier blue. Strangers bustled about. Maids knocked on doors. Travelers loaded luggage into cars with unfamiliar license plates. Everyone had a purpose. They knew what they were doing or where they were going. She knew neither. A rapacious urge to flee tingled down her arms and skirted her middle.
Keep it simple, they’d said. Find Ambrose and come home
. She eased the gas pedal. The voice boldly told her to stay on the route around the lake.

At least someone in the Tahoe wasn’t lost. Or terrified.

The blanket of fog had lifted. The lake glistened in the midmorning sun along the route, the water mere feet from the road. Boat docks skewered the shoreline and quaint, mostly older homes lined the road, and she soon found the landscape easing the apprehension. Instead of the unpleasant grip of uneasiness testing her coping mechanism, Ryleigh saw the road ahead once again as simply a quest for answers.

She crossed over the Adirondack Northway, and recalled a novel about a little girl lost in the Adirondacks; the little girl had used her favorite baseball player to take her mind off her fears. Chandler wasn’t a ballplayer (in the normal sense of the word) but he’d always been there, until he chose to cast aside an entire life for a woman as transparent as a pane of window glass. But he wasn’t here. No one was. The seat next to her was empty.

Twenty minutes later, she entered Ballston Spa and slowed. She passed a few businesses and a unique coffee shop when Barnabas announced her destination ahead. She parked the Tahoe and chose to walk the short distance to O’Neil’s.

Timeworn and draped in history, the buildings oozed charm and character, frozen in time like a quaint village in a snow globe. If she listened, she was sure she could hear the stories of the souls who once walked the sidewalks.

Ryleigh approached O’Neil’s and pulled on the door handle. A bell tinkled. Her heart raced. History blossomed from the store, but bore the telltale signs of modern technology—fingers tapped a keyboard and a young woman giggled into her cell phone. A Christmas carol jingled in the background and the scent of brisk evergreen collided with the pungent twang of Vicks. Ryleigh made her way to the back of the store and approached the counter. Absorbed in the computer screen, a gaunt, balding man in a white coat didn’t look up right away. When he did, he spoke through a sterile smile, the eastern accent she’d hoped to hear a vague whisper.

“May I help you?”

Ryleigh cleared her throat. “I’m hoping so.” This man didn’t look like the Ambrose she’d imagined, and a quick glance at his nametag confirmed her suspicions. “I’m looking for someone,” she said and then paused. “My mother recently passed away and she spoke of a man named Ambrose she knew here.”

“Sorry for your loss,” he replied coolly, “but I can’t help you.”

“My mother never mentioned a last name, but does Ambrose Thompson work here? I was hoping to speak to him.”

“Don’t think so.”

“He doesn’t work here?”

“Nope.” The man raised weedy eyebrows and glared at her above half-moon spectacles.

“Do you know where I can find him?”

“Sure,” he answered with a fair amount of smugness. “Take this street to the end and hang a left. You’ll find him way in the back under six feet of frozen dirt.”

“Oh.” Ryleigh blinked. “I’m sorry,” she said, wondering if all New Yorkers were this flippant. “May I ask when he died?”

“Alfred, are you giving my customers a hard time again?” The squeaky voice belonged to a round-faced man who had shuffled to the counter, his smile so wide his eyes had all but disappeared. “I’m Casey O’Neil. You must not be from around here if you don’t know about Ambrose. And yes, he worked here for many years.”

“Pleased to meet you, Casey. I’m Ryleigh Collins,” she said with an inward cringe. Should she have used an alias? Detectives and sleuths did, but that option died with her opening her big mouth. She extended her hand. “My mother knew Ambrose.”

He took her hand in both of his. “Hmmm. Been five years now since he passed.” Casey scrutinized her closely.

“It’s not him,” Ryleigh mumbled, reclaiming her hands. Casey threw Alfred a quizzical look. “This letter,” she said, digging in her satchel, “is from him. But it’s not the same man. I’m sure of it.” She pointed to the envelope. “The postmark is only four years old.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Collins,” Casey said, his eyes fully visible. “But it seems you’re quite correct.”

Alfred removed his spectacles and placed them atop his shiny head. “Sorry I was rude.”

Casey rolled his skimpy eyes. “You’re always rude, Alfred.”

“Thank you both for your help.” Ryleigh faked a smile. “You don’t know another Ambrose around here by chance?”

“It’s not a common name.” Casey’s face contorted in concentration. “I’m the only pharmacist in the village, so if this Ambrose needed meds of any kind, he’d have to come to me.” He wrinkled his chin. “Unless he goes to the Springs or Albany.” Casey’s eyes disappeared once again into his smile. “Good luck, Miss Collins. I hope you find your mother’s friend.”

“I do too,” she said with a shy smile. “And it’s Mrs.”
…at least for another day or two
. She made her way back through the store, the little bell escorting her outside.

She leaned against the building and made a quick Google search for him. Nothing. Just as Evan had said. The sun had burned through the clouds, warming the afternoon air. The weather had turned for the better, but her day hadn’t. Disheartened, she strolled along the sidewalk, pausing at a wide storefront. Bing Crosby’s smooth version of“White Christmas” crooned from overhead speakers. Smoke chuffed from a toy train as it circled a quaint village and gingerbread houses lined one end.

“Best gingerbread in New York.” The old man had startled her, but his crooked smile was warm and friendly. The aroma of fresh gingerbread wafted through the doorway as he stepped inside the bakery.

Her gaze returned to the window and in the center of the tiny village, skaters whirled in dizzying circles on an icy pond. And then her eyes settled on the crèche and baby Jesus. Where had the time gone when Evan would have stood on tiptoe, wide-eyed at wonders just like these? When had life pulled the plug on the simplicity of everyday things? And the unity of family? Of her family?

She cinched her scarf and kept walking.

Uncertain what to do next, Ryleigh crossed the street to the coffee shop hoping to clear her head and come up with Plan B. With no address or phone number for the second Ambrose on her list, she was lost as to how to find him. But Ballston Spa surely had a newspaper. Or a library. Both were worth looking into.

Within a minute Ryleigh was sitting in the Koffee Kettle warming her hands on a steaming caramel latte. A small, fat candle flickered in its nest of Christmas holly as she watched the locals pass by.

A young barista approached her table. “Arizona State by chance?” she asked, twisting a stiff tendril of jet-black hair between her fingers. A metal-studded headband held the short spikes in place.

“Sorry?”

She pointed to Ryleigh’s sweatshirt. “Arizona State?”

“Oh,” she said, mildly amused and threw a hand on the ASU logo. “Yes. My son’s in school there.”

“He’s a long way from home,” she said, hands perched on her hips. “Can I get you something to go with your coffee? A scone or a warm croissant?”

“Thank you, no.” Ryleigh flashed a reserved smile. “My son’s close, actually. I’m the one who’s a long way from home.”

“My cousin’s enrolled at ASU and says it’s awesome.” She scrunched her face. “But it’s sort of hot.” The crystal stud in her nose glinted. “What brings you to Ballston Spa of all places?” she asked, rolling her eyes. “It’s not the mecca New York City is. In fact, this place is one person shy of losing our dot on the map.”

Guessing her age as a bit younger than Evan, Ryleigh smiled at the young lady’s frankness.

“I’m Ryleigh and it’s not so bad. It’s loaded with historical charm.”

“Megan,” the barista replied, pointing to her name tag.

“Pleased to meet you, Megan.”

“Likewise.”

“Care to join me?” Ryleigh asked, offering a chair.

Megan pulled up a chair, the glitter in her hair reflecting the light from the window. “There’s a ton of history here all right. Stuff I don’t want to remember.”

“Not a history buff?”

“Oh, I like history. Just not
my
history.” Her chin dropped into her palms. “Real history is cool. Abner Doubleday was born in the Spa, you know. The guy who supposedly invented baseball.”

Ryleigh nodded. She remembered the Doubleday name from something Chandler had told her, but couldn’t recall the details. “What do you mean, supposedly?”

“It’s folklore—debunked by most sports authorities. He’s actually a Civil War hero. His house is here. You should visit. It’s on the corner of Washington and Fenwick.”

“Interesting,” she said, peering over the rim of her mug.

“And, old Georgie Washington is rumored to have come here for the mineral baths. Makes for cool conversation to newbies.” She shrugged. “What brings you all the way from Arizona? If I lived there, I wouldn’t come here.” She wrinkled her nose. “Not deliberately.”

“I’m looking for someone,” she said after a conscious pause. “It was a long time ago, but I’m hoping he’s still in the area.”

“The Spa’s small. Maybe I know him. What’s his name?”

“W. L. D’Ambrose. He is—
was
—a friend of my mother’s.”

Megan rose, bumping her knee on the table. “Shit.” Melted wax spilled over the side of the candle and dribbled down the side. “Never heard of him.” Metal bracelets clinked down her arm as she turned and waved a dismissive hand. “Enjoy your stay in the Spa.”

“Megan, wait—” Having raised a teenager, she had seen the look before—the one that shouted
‘busted.’
“You know him, don’t you?” Ryleigh rose to follow her.

Megan disappeared behind the counter, grabbed a dishcloth, and began scrubbing the espresso machine in short, jerky strokes. “It’s important I find this man,” Ryleigh said as she approached the counter.

Megan didn’t look up. “Why?” A long feather earring swung to and fro with each deliberate swipe.

“My mom passed away a couple of months ago and I found a letter addressed to her from him.” She’d already resigned herself to begging. “Would you care to see it?”

Megan stopped scrubbing. She glanced around at the empty shop. “Yeah, I know him.” Her dark eyes had gone black.

“It’s very important I find him.”

“If I tell you, you have to swear you didn’t find out from me.”

“Deal.”

“No questions asked?”

“Promise.”

She leaned over the counter. “He lives on the outskirts of the village.” She hesitated. “You can find out anything on the Internet. Understand?”

Her heart raced. “Got it.” It wasn’t really a lie; Evan had dug up that much himself.

“No one here knows him by that name.”

“Why?”

“You’ll have to ask him yourself. He goes by Ambrose.”

Megan’s face paled even in comparison to the pale makeup and Ryleigh’s thoughts churned. “What happened? Did he hurt you?”

Megan shook her head. “Good Lord, no,” she emphasized with upraised eyebrows. “He’s an old man, ancient—like Stone Age—and he wouldn’t hurt a fly. But I don’t want to…” she swallowed, “he trusts me.”

“I see.”

“You do?”

“There’s nothing more important than trust.” Ryleigh winced. “So why are you telling me?”

Megan licked dark lips. “I can see the determination in your eyes, and if your mom already knew him by his real name, you’d find out anyway. Besides, you seem honest. And desperate. You look sort of lost. Or something.”

“You’re very perceptive.”

Megan gathered her composure. “Ambrose helped me out. God, if he finds out I told you, he’ll kill me.”

Ryleigh recoiled.

“Shit, not literally
kill
me,” she explained with an exaggerated eye roll, “you know, as in ‘YOU IDIOT,’” she said, gesturing with both hands, black nails bitten ragged.