A Promise of Fireflies (8 page)

“Chandler’s attorney drew these up and since you’ve already signed them, it means you own everything. Including the business.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. I don’t know anything about building houses. What was he thinking?”

“In my opinion, it’s his way of creating a shelter from Della. I don’t know what’s going on behind closed doors, but I think he may have finally figured out what makes her tick.”

“Took him long enough,” she said, frowning. “But we—he—doesn’t have any money. It’s all tied up in investments, right? And the business is stable, but it’s never been overly profitable.”

“He’s good at what he does and the business has been more profitable than you think. And you’re right, a lot of money is tied up in investments. They’re worth a hefty chunk of change in spite of the economy and they’ll continue to grow. We aren’t going to let anything happen to the spa and that’s what Chandler invested in.” He held up the documents. “Everything is yours, including every penny of the investments.”

“You’re serious?” Confusion flooded her mind.

Mitch shrugged.

“We had enough to live on so I never asked. As long as he was happy, so was I.”

“Chandler must still care about you or he wouldn’t have done this.”

“Don’t go there. He was thinking of Evan’s future, that’s all.”

“Evan is written in as a contingent beneficiary.”

“Which means?”

Natalie’s head toggled between the two to keep up with the conversation.

“If something happens to you, everything will go to Evan. Chandler had his act together when he came up with this.”

“He had it together all right. Knew exactly when to unzip his pants and parade his junk when the circus came to town,” she said, her tone as sharp as the point of a lead pencil. She pressed a palm to her forehead. “I still don’t understand why he did this.”

Natalie caught Mitch’s eye and nodded. “I can’t say I don’t harbor resentment toward Chandler,” she said, “but I think I understand his motives even if you can’t see what’s happening here.”

“See what?”

“Della foolishly underestimated him, Riles.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“He’ll have to start over. He must still love you to give up everything.”

“This is ridiculous,” she said, shaking her head.

Mitch raised a finger. “There’s one more thing.”

Ryleigh pressed a hand to her forehead. “Do I want to know?”

“Evan called earlier. Chandler’s leaving Della.”

The blood that had risen to angry cheeks drained in a cool rush. “Mitch, she’s pregnant. What the hell is wrong with him?”

“He still loves you.”

“Bullcrap.” Ryleigh frowned. “He just doesn’t want to face up to his responsibilities.”

Mitch held up the envelope. “He faced up to this.”

“That’s different.”

“I can’t speak for him, but I think I know what he wants.”

“He doesn’t know
what
he wants.”

“His motives are abundantly clear,” Natalie interrupted.

“Forget it.” Ryleigh glanced from one face to the other. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s too late.”

The asphalt glistened in the wake of the streetlights as she turned onto her street. One storm had passed with a few raindrops and a dusting of snow, but another bubbled hot and liquid. Pain (or was it resentment?) settled in her mind safely locked away—a place she’d vowed not to disturb, afraid to arouse its slumber.

Mitch’s news disturbed her, more than she cared to admit. She’d been on the side of rejection and took no pleasure knowing what Della was going through. Though she couldn’t bring to mind one good reason Della should be a mother, the woman was bringing a child into this twisted picture. Chandler’s child. Her heart ached for the unborn baby. She once loved Chandler with everything in her and knew firsthand what that love meant in creating and raising a child. Her insides whirled. Did Della love him? Could anyone love Chandler the way she had? Did she still?

Stars littered a clear sky, a sheet of black velvet scattered with tiny diamonds. Turning into the drive at the end of Pinecrest Circle at a little past two in the morning, she guessed it was a moot point.

GETTING BACK TO
her weekly column and writing a major feature story about the return of a local Marine for the
Hidden Falls Sentinel
flickered through her fog of semi-consciousness. With everything else in her life upside down, at least she still had a job. Though the post-recession population had steadied, newspaper circulation hadn’t, and many of her coworkers had been forced to find other employment.

Sunday morning dawned over the mountains and spilled through the closed blinds, growing brighter on the inside of eyelids still heavy with sleep. Ryleigh stretched and stirred fully awake, tossed the comforter away from her and crawled out of bed. A low growl and look of complete indignation crossed Kingsley’s face as he emerged, the heavy comforter flattening his ears. He sauntered to the edge of the bed and shook himself, tossed her a smug look, flicked his tail and jumped.

“Sorry,” she said, wrapping herself in a white terry robe. She shook her head at the captious ways of the haughty cat.

Ryleigh finished rolling tortillas with egg, sausage, veggies, and was topping them with shredded cheese and salsa when Evan wandered into the kitchen in rumpled shorts and T-shirt, hair askew and not fully awake. He poured a mug of coffee, yawned, and vigorously ruffled his hair in a useless effort to tame the errant bedhead.

“Breakfast burros,” he mumbled through a sleepy yawn.

She smiled, followed him to the table, and sat with a fresh mug of her own. Entirely of his own accord, Evan chose his father’s place at the table. Fingers laced and mug halfway to her mouth, she paused at the sight. It was pleasant—Evan sitting in his father’s place—yet mixed with a heavy dose of longing. Baby powder. Stale milk. His pudgy hand, fingers dimpled in their youth. But at some point, whiskers had sprouted on his baby cheeks. And Chandler hadn’t come home. Steam rose in lazy swirls from her mug and in the still of the moment, she wondered if her life would ever feel normal again.

Evan took a deep gulp of coffee. “You going back to work tomorrow?”

“I should,” Ryleigh said, “but I’m not anxious to hear my new boss bitch at me for leaving the paper without a column. Bernadette is about as much fun to be around as Meryl Streep in
The Devil Wears Prada
.

Evan chuckled. “She that bad?”

“She’s younger, but I can only wonder how much more cantankerous she’ll become with a little more practice. A confrontation is inevitable.”

“Confrontation?” he asked, shoving a mouthful of burro into his mouth.

“I need more time off,” she said, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The decision hadn’t come easy. She’d wrestled with an ever-multiplying list of contradictory reasons, but every time a perfectly legitimate reason against pursuing answers ended her plans, two perfectly good ones popped up to complicate things. Her decision had been confirmed after a storm had cleared up more than the skies.

“Why?” The word stumbled over pulverized food.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Evan swallowed. “Why more time off?” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and a mischievous smile flickered across his face.

A loud knock interrupted their conversation. Evan jumped up, downed the last of his coffee, and sprinted to the front door. Ryleigh followed.

The door opened to a lanky young man, his hair rumpled as if he’d just crawled out of bed. “Hey, Evan. What’s up? Hi, Mrs. C.”

“Nice to see you, Hunter.”

The two young men exchanged handshakes—the kind that entwined thumbs—and slapped each other on the back.

“I rang the doorbell, Mrs. C,” Hunter said, pointing to the doorbell, “but I don’t think it works.”

Ryleigh nodded and lowered her voice. “It’s dead, Jim.”

The boys chuckled at the Star Trek reference, and then Evan glanced at his watch. “You must’ve been up early to be here by nine with the desk.”

“Need to get back to Tempe early to see Molly.” Hunter wiggled his eyebrows. His smile was warm, and a bit mischievous—one Ryleigh made a mental note not to ask Evan about. These two boys grew up together, and what mischief they got into as youngsters was far different than what they landed themselves into as young men. Frogs and ladybugs versus a young man’s hormone-fueled instinct could prove to be rather embarrassing if pressed for details. Some things were better left unknown.

The boys made short order of heaving the desk into place in the den. They moved quickly and without being told, removed the makeshift desk from the study and positioned the oak rolltop in its place.

When the boys left, Ryleigh surveyed the modest den. The large oak desk nearly overpowered the space and contents from the old desk were strewn across the floor.

Evan leaned against the doorway. “Need some help?” He scratched his head as he surveyed the room.

“You can keep me company.”

“Sounds fair—I’ll sit and you work,” he said, the comment layered with sarcasm.

“Nice try.”

Evan paused and then dragged a thick block of paper from beneath a mountain of odds and ends and brushed the top of a layer of fine dust. “What’s this?”

A prickle of uneasiness grappled with the coffee in her stomach. “Give that to me.” Ryleigh wiggled her fingers.

Evan pulled away from her outstretched hand. “When did you write this?”

“None of your business. It’s an old, unfinished manuscript that pretty much sucks. Give it to me.”

He stepped back, just out of reach. “Can I read it?”

“Of course not—I told you, it’s not finished,” she said, flicking him the look of exasperation she reserved for her particularly naughty child. “There’s no climax. I mean—”

Evan’s head fell backward and he laughed, a deep throaty sound so much like his father. Her chin fell to her chest in a desperate attempt to recant the ridiculously inappropriate comment, but rose as a prudish heat from her toes to every nerve she owned. She pulled her lips in on themselves and lifted her eyes to her son.

“That was priceless, Mom.”

She raised her palms in resignation.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he said.

“No deals. I always end up taking it in the shorts.”

“I promise I won’t let anyone read it but me—”

Her hands landed firmly on her hips. “No,” she said, prepared for a battle of wits.

“You always let me read your work.”

Ryleigh turned away and busied herself restacking a lopsided pile of resource books. Acutely fond of the story, she’d fleshed out the characters and the plot was solid, but the ending never came together. Out of sight for months, she’d simply forgotten the manuscript. The idea of letting it go and her son reading some of the scenes she’d written left her terribly uncomfortable.

“I don’t know—”

“I won’t let it out of my sight. I swear.”

“That’s not the problem and don’t swear.”

“I’ll give it back as soon as I’m done. Thanks, Mom.”

“I didn’t say you could take it—”

The moment he turned and left the room Ryleigh grabbed her stomach, the groan in her throat a paralyzing reality check. A cursory zip signaled he’d opened his sport bag. Then the shuffling of paper. Her unfinished story. Her manuscript under a pile of dirty underwear in a smelly gym bag both amused and nauseated her, but her thoughts abruptly turned to his leaving. He had to get back to Tempe for classes. And she had to focus on returning to work. And to some parody of normalcy.

The space between heartbeats lengthened, the gray silence as unfamiliar as the curveballs life had thrown her. Lost in anxious thought, she leaned against the wall and listened while her son packed his belongings (and one of hers). The first steps onto that stage both tugged at a ripple of excitement and plunged her into terrifying uneasiness.