A Promise of Fireflies (2 page)

“You should.”

Ryleigh raised the journal. “This is raw passion,” she said, sniffing back the telltale signs of her emotion. “Emotion stripped naked.”

“Your work is like that. Peeking inside the places of your heart no one ever sees.”

“Maybe I don’t want anyone to see.”

Nat paused, and then wrapped her arm over Ryleigh’s shoulder. “Things will get better. I promise.”

Nat’s words comforted her, a spoken ointment soothing a fresh wound.

The women sat cross-legged in the empty apartment sorting a mish-mash of items. One scrap at a time, Ryleigh placed the pieces of her mother’s life into neat piles, turning each one front to back, puzzled at how little she knew about the odd trinkets, mementos, and letters safeguarded inside worn-out cardboard boxes. With one pile marked “Save” and the other to be discarded, it occurred to her what a parallel her mother’s passing was to the death sentence Chandler had given their marriage. Nothing remained but the pompous flashbacks of one and a handful of useless trinkets from the other, and with one flick of the wrist (or philandering penis in Chandler’s case), they are tossed aside with yesterday’s trash. Yet the part that remained—the part that had wrapped itself around her heart—seemed useless to try to dismiss. Love doesn’t stop with someone’s absence. Sometimes it grew heavier, the ache deeper, until the hurt no longer gave in to tears.

The gravity of grief had exhausted her, and she felt as overused as the boxes that held her mother’s meager belongings. Ryleigh pressed her fingers hard against her temples as if the pressure would numb the ache and quench the niggling urge to leave it all behind and walk away. Yet that wasn’t entirely true—the impulse to run bulldozed past any rational thought.

“You okay?”

Ryleigh rubbed the back of her neck. “Just tired.” Her hands fell to her lap. “It’s just,” she said with a sigh, “none of this makes any sense.” Ryleigh picked up a patch embroidered with an open-mouthed eagle’s head and tugged at the broken threads. “Who keeps junk like this?”

Natalie shrugged.

“Or this?” She held up a single brass button. “Mom had hundreds of orphaned buttons. Why isn’t this one with the others?”

“Don’t know,” Natalie said, straightening, “but I’m curious about the letters.”

Ryleigh stilled. “What letters?”

Natalie reached for the stack bound with a rubber band. “These,” she said, “postmarked forty-something years ago with no return address.”

Fragments of Eleanor’s life lingered in Ryleigh’s hands—tokens she never bothered to share. Or had she simply not paid attention when her mother spoke of these things? In either case it was a moot point: she’d never bothered to ask. And now it was too late.

The items were meaningless, but an ambiguous feeling tapped at her like the annoying click of a retractable pen. “I don’t want to save this crap, but it feels strange to think about throwing it away. Does that sound weird?” She voiced the question with no expectations of a reply.

“Of course it does,” Nat said, the usual lilt returning in her tone. She rose and brushed the dust from the backside of her jeans. “But it doesn’t surprise me. You
are
weird.”

“Thanks,” Ryleigh said, reaching for the shoebox. The penciled sketches on the front had faded, but the drawing of the stylish low-heeled dress shoes remained intact. Over the years, the corners had become torn and sloppy and the lid slipped easily free. She placed the items inside and then pressed the lid into place, concealing portions of her mother’s life, remnants absent of explanation.

An empty feeling swept over her. “Something isn’t right, Nat.” In truth, it felt as if she’d been yanked from the pages of a fairy tale and didn’t know how to find her way back.

Or if she truly wanted to.

“We’re almost done, Riles.” Natalie offered a hand up, her deep brown eyes glistening with tiny flecks of copper in the afternoon light. “All that’s left is the desk.”

Ryleigh’s shoulders slumped. “I forgot.” She clasped the journal with one hand and grabbed Natalie’s outstretched hand with the other. Nat had been her rock when she needed a steady hand, yet waggish enough to celebrate the good times with all-out regale. Always there. No matter what. With an achy groan that migrated through every forty-three-year-old bone, she allowed her best friend to pull her upright.

A photograph fell to the floor between them.

Ryleigh reached it first. They rose together and turned toward the apartment window, light spilling across the photograph. Yellowed and creased, and deckled edges crimped in several places, it wore the markings of time.

“Wait…is that your father?”

Ryleigh nodded.

“Where’d this come from?”

“Must’ve been inside the journal.” She pushed the hair from her eyes. “Why didn’t Mom ever show this to me?”

“Don’t know, but check out your father’s friend. The Kodak is faded, but he’s gorgeous. Killer eyes,” she said, letting loose an exaggerated whistle.

Ryleigh flipped the photograph over. “Look at this,” she said, tracing a finger over faded ink, a ghostly impression of time long passed. “
Today this may be nothing, but tomorrow it may be all that’s left
.”

“An ‘R’ and 1967.” Natalie raised an eyebrow. “Just like the journal.”

“I wonder if my father’s friend is still alive? Is he the author?”

“Be fun to find out.”

“Fat chance. I’m a fair hand at research for inconsequential feature articles for my column, but I’m no sleuth. I can’t find my phone half the time.” Ryleigh slumped. “Or keep track of a husband and where he’s sleeping. Or with whom.”

“Ouch.” Natalie paused, cleared her throat, and then pointed to the photo. “The jungle background. The dates. This was taken in Vietnam. It’s as good a place as any to start.”

Ryleigh tapped the photo three times against her fingers. She worried her bottom lip in a series of successive tugs and slipped the photograph into the shoebox.

Natalie grinned. “Well, Sherlock? Shall we find him?”

ASIDE FROM THE
memories, the garishly carved oak desk was the only thing of value left in the tiny apartment. Preparing to dive into the chore of emptying it, Natalie shimmied her sleeves to the elbow, straightened her shoulders, and turned to Ryleigh who was busy packing the smaller items into bigger cardboard boxes. The kind with cut-out handles. The kind that made it easy to carry the trinkets (memories) of someone’s life out the door.

Natalie rolled her head from side to side, each rotation a useless attempt to relieve the underlying tension. “Is there any coffee left, Riles?”

Ryleigh stuffed one cardboard flap inside another and sat back on her heels. “No, but it sounds good. I’ll make a fresh pot.”

Natalie shifted her weight. “I’ll get started on the desk.”

“Don’t get lost in there.” The corners of Ryleigh’s mouth turned up but didn’t reach her inquisitive green eyes that normally exhibited the passion of a rising sea, and her lips were void of the natural blush that endorsed her smile. Grief-infused exhaustion had its own set of distinguishing marks and Natalie didn’t care for the autograph written across her friend’s face. Over the past year, Ryleigh had ridden a broken carousel with more downs than ups, and Natalie had to stand by as her best friend’s heart shattered.

Ryleigh tucked the flap over the last box. Natalie’s heart stuttered. She missed the carefree girl, the silly teenager and the amiable yet determined-to-a-fault woman she’d known most of her life.

Nat leaned against the desk and watched as Ryleigh performed the ritual of filling the coffee pot, spooning ground coffee into a filter, and rinsing their cups while the coffeepot gurgled to life. The automatic movements passed in slow motion. How many times had Ryleigh done this for her? For Chandler? Her hands curled into tight fists. Turning away, she plopped to the floor, her rear end taking the brunt of the sudden drop and dug her hand into the largest desk drawer.

Jammed with recipes, the contents of the drawer were easily removed, and without lifting her eyes from the task, she raised her voice to travel the short distance to the kitchen.

“Hey, Riles—” The sudden appearance of long, slim legs cut the words short.

“I’m not deaf,” Ryleigh chuckled, handing her a mug.

Rising steam greeted Natalie with the mellow aroma of glazed chocolate doughnuts. She took an indulgent swallow. “This is heaven. Remind me to order some for the med spa.”

Choosing a spot adjacent to the desk, Ryleigh propped a foot against the wall and leaned into it. With both hands laced around her mug, she sipped the hot liquid. “Your clients would love it,” she said, the gold band on her left hand snagging the last bit of light from the setting sun.

Natalie nodded, the ring a reminder Ryleigh had yet to face the facts about her husband. A benevolent dreamer, she stretched the boundaries of forgiveness, searching for the tiniest scrap of explanation to justify foolish behavior. And Chandler Collins topped the list of those whose foolish actions had done more damage than a category five tornado.

“So,” Nat said turning to her, a mountain of recipes in both hands—some with torn edges, others cut with precision and neither in any sense of order. “There must be thousands of recipes in here.”

“Toss them.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. Mom rarely used recipes.”

“Like mother, like daughter,” Nat said and tossed them into a large trash bag. Eleanor had passed her cooking skills to her daughter and it was one thing Chandler never complained about—Ryleigh’s cooking always seemed to satisfy him.

Fringed in thick, dark lashes, Ryleigh’s eyelids lowered over weary green eyes. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, but vanished as her attention steadied on the floor and whatever message lay ingrained in the dense hardwood planks. Natalie sighed, her hands on her thighs. What had happened between them that her husband had sought satisfaction dabbling in someone else’s software? Maybe he thought he’d found a sweeter deal. Some people switch baseball teams midstream just because their team isn’t winning. A lifetime of loyalty deserted for instant gratification. Wimps.

Natalie crossed her legs and swung around on the bit of real estate she’d claimed with the rear of her jeans. “Stupid, horny old man,” she mumbled and smashed another mountain of recipes into a bunch at the bottom of the trash bag.

“Excuse me?”

Natalie pushed the hair from her forehead and slumped. “I was thinking nasty thoughts out loud.”

“And taking it out on the trash?”

“I can’t stuff Chandler’s sorry ass in there.”

Natalie stood, brushing the dust from the backside of her jeans. “I thought your husband was smarter than that,” she said, and shoved her hand into the back of the desk. More papers flew.

“All he saw was a younger woman ogling him.”

“She’s nothing but a gold-digger. Said so herself that day at Il Salotto, bragging how she’d been married and divorced. Twice,” Nat said and slapped the desk. “Ouch!” She rubbed her palm, hot and stinging and flushing bright red. “How could he not see through that, that—”

“Bimbo?”

“Bitch. Don’t give her the benefit of the doubt.” The vivid memory of Della Mayfair’s dramatic entrance into Il Salotto Salon & Med Spa a year ago still nauseated her. Female clients gossiped. Male clients drooled. “What was he thinking?”

“He wasn’t.” Ryleigh shrugged. “Except with the part of his anatomy standing at attention between his legs.”

“No-o-o, not because of a perfect pair of double Ds and podgy lips men go all stupid over.” Nat waved her hands at her mouth, sighed, and then took Ryleigh’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Sorry, Riles. I didn’t mean to bring this up.”

“You’re merely verbalizing my thoughts.” A furrow formed across her brow and deepened. “Damn him!”

Natalie scowled. “Damn that horrid woman,” she said and shoved her hand to the very back of the desk. Angry pain shot through her finger and up her hand. “Shit!” she said, poking her finger into her mouth. The tang of wet copper replaced the foul bitterness in her mouth. “What the hell was that?”