by Susan Haught
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?”
The women peered into the corner of the desk. A rapid search of the dark chamber of secrets revealed a splinter jutting from the wood like a tiny oak dagger, poised keenly in its mission. They exchanged a curious look. Beneath a neatly trimmed measure of tape, an envelope hung from the back of the desk.
“That’s odd,” Ryleigh said, reaching in.
“Watch that splinter. It’s wicked.”
Ryleigh loosened the tape and with a final tug the envelope came free.
Early evening light filtered through the window. Natalie flipped the switch to the overhead light and touched her friend’s arm. “Do you think your mom taped it there on purpose?”
She shrugged. “I wish I could ask.”
The short edge had been torn open and Eleanor’s name and address were neatly handwritten across the front of the envelope, the postmark’s inky footprint smudged across a Yoda forty-one-cent stamp—several years old in postage cents. Ryleigh removed a single sheet of lined legal paper folded into thirds, edges perfectly aligned. Grasping the edges, she unfolded the paper, turned slightly to catch the best light and read aloud:
“‘Dearest Eleanor:
The documents are ready for delivery when the time arrives. All is as you requested, and are in perfect legal order. I recognize a binding legal document, and I foresee no complications. I have, however, extreme reservations concerning this matter. She must be told—at your discretion—but you are well aware of my position concerning this most sensitive matter.
I am grievously troubled to hear your illness has advanced. I send my heartfelt wishes for your recovery and as always, my unfaltering love. Though I know you will honor my request in due time, I implore you do so in the very near future. Please give my love to Miss Ryleigh.
Highest Regards—
Ambrose’”
Natalie watched Ryleigh scan the words again secretly hoping an explanation would seep miraculously from between the lines. She refolded the paper and tucked it inside the envelope, tapped it three times against her hand, and turned to Natalie. “Who’s Ambrose?”
“Your mom never mentioned him to me.”
“It’s like reading a stranger’s mail.”
“It’s kinda creepy, Riles. How does he know you?”
“It’s obvious he knew my mother, so I’m assuming that’s how he knew she had a daughter. But am I the ‘she’ he refers to? And the postmark.” Ryleigh steadied the envelope. “Ballston Spa, New York.”
“Where you were born?”
Ryleigh nodded.
“Someone in Ballston Spa knows you?”
“Mom said her and Daddy were passing through when she went into labor. Couple days and they were on their way to Arizona. I had no idea she knew anyone there, and if I’m the ‘she’ in the letter, what was she supposed to tell me and what’s this about honoring a request?” Ryleigh let out a deep breath. “What request? What documents?”
Natalie’s eyes grew wide.
“God, Nat, am I looking at my life hanging upside down from a monkey bar? Who is this guy?” Ryleigh glared at her. “And who’s the author of the journal?”
Natalie crossed her arms. “Only one way to find out.”
Chapter Three
BY THE TIME Ryleigh arrived home, the purple autumn halo above the mountains
surrounding Hidden Falls had vanished. She stepped into the laundry room from the garage, tucked the shoebox securely under her arm, and flipped the light switch.
“Crap.”
She tried the switch again—up, down—as if the power of suggestion would repair the faulty switch Chandler had promised to fix. He’d promised to fix a growing list of neglected items. In fact, he’d promised over twenty years ago to honor their vows. And she’d witnessed firsthand how that panned out. Why would she assume he’d fix a disconnected switch? Or the cracked walkway? Not to mention their broken marriage. The muscles in her jaw tensed. The unsavory thoughts burned inside her but she forced them to fizzle before they rekindled the anger.
Ryleigh groped her way along the wall in the dark—and froze. Cold denim brushed against her leg. Fear sucked the air from the room. Her pulse thundered behind her eyes. She tightened her grip on the shoebox, scrambled for the light switch and spun around.
Iridescent cat eyes stared quizzically up at her. His ears, a lighter gold than the rest of him, twitched warily. “Kingsley.” She set the shoebox on the counter and slid down the wall to the floor beside him. “You scared me,” she crooned, stroking his back. “You know I hate surprises, you silly boy.” Kingsley pushed his head into her palm, golden eyes sleepy with the sudden attention. With an ostensibly squashed face, she thought him absurdly adorable. And the best of companions, even if he did just scare the piss out of her. A birthday gift a few Septembers ago, the kitten (now a hulking tomcat) had been a surprise from Chandler. Her now estranged husband had beamed the entire day, knowing she’d fake a tantrum at the surprise. But she’d seen his eyes well with tears when he presented her with the ball of fur and she’d begun to cry. He’d said he was allergic. Cedar trees? Yes. Cats? No.
She cupped Kingsley’s head in her hands and kissed him squarely between the eyes. The hirsute cat pulled away, flicked his tail, and with an indignant strut, sauntered away. “Off you go, Mr. Arrogant.”
Ryleigh pulled herself to her feet, reclaimed the shoebox, and headed for the den. The contents intrigued her. And although it haunted her, the journal had kindled her curiosity.
Glass French doors with amber knobs defined the room she referred to as her den. Aside from the modest desk concocted from yard sale finds, a large padded circular chair filled the area beneath the window, worn just enough to be comfortable. The furniture and stacks of books piled in a reconditioned closet consisted of homeless strays. Her affinity to the orphaned items magnified the sense of being adrift without an anchor.
Across from her desk, she’d stenciled the words “Liber Dilectation Animae—Books, the delight of the soul.” She pressed her palm to the wall and opened her mind’s eye. Locked inside a child’s memories, the gravity of her father’s rich, deep voice echoed in her mind, the rhythm and colorful words soothing and comfortable in the safe cocoon of his arms wrapped snugly around her five-year-old frame.
This memory was hers alone—one she was certain of. Soap and minty toothpaste. Prickly whiskers, caterpillar eyebrows, and big, comfy lap—the images stamped in her mind as real as if she could reach out and touch flesh and bone.
Ryleigh lifted her hand and the memory faded like a watercolor image bleeding down a wet canvas.
Kingsley strutted into the room and entwined himself in and out of Ryleigh’s legs. “I must be absolved of my earlier crime of passion, huh, Kings?” She curled into the pulpy chair and tucked her legs beneath her. The cat leapt, curled up nose to tail beside her, and set his purr motor on high. She placed the shoebox on her lap, careful not to disturb the contented cat.
Once home to a distinctly ’50s pair of black and white pumps, the shoebox had been around longer than she had, edges shabby from years of being moved, shuffled, and stored. Opening the vintage shoebox felt exhilarating, yet oddly paralyzing. Her heart drummed between her ribs. A treasure chest? Or quicksand? A moment’s hesitation would make no difference in the trash or treasure that lay hidden inside.
She removed the lid.
Stacks of letters lay neatly inside, but she picked through them until her fingers brushed the pebbled surface of the journal. Her eyes lingered on the deep-set stain. She set the journal beside her opposite Kingsley and sifted through the letters for the photograph. Kingsley kneaded her thighs in response.
Two soldiers in military fatigues stood side by side, arms stretched over the other’s shoulder. A single dog tag dangled from their necks. One wore a bandana tied around his head and each held out a can in an animated salute to the photographer. “I’m sure this is my father.” She hesitated. “Why not try to find his friend?”
Ryleigh rose and set the shoebox on the chair. Kingsley peeked through one partial slit of an eye at the sudden movement. She placed the photo on the scanner bed and held her breath as the device hummed to life. Only when the photo appeared on her computer screen did she dare breathe.
Kingsley lolled upside down in the middle of the chair. The schoolhouse clock chimed nine tones, and Kenny Chesney warbled from her pocket, startling her and irritating the cat. Ryleigh answered Nat’s call. “You forget something?”
“I didn’t want you to freak out if I rang the doorbell.”
“Doorbell’s toast anyway. Sounds like a sick bullfrog.”
“Let me in before I freeze into a permanent lawn ornament. It’s raining.” A soft knock followed Nat’s voice. Ryleigh rolled her eyes, stuffed the phone in her back pocket, opened the door, and came face-to-face with a sack from Jack in the Box.
“I brought food. I know you don’t care for eating artery-clogging junk food, but I’m not much of a chef, and a good burger with extra pickles and fries once in awhile aren’t going to kill you.” Natalie stepped through the doorway. “And the fries are hot.” Dark eyes twinkled.
Ryleigh’s stomach rumbled at the mingled aromas of hot potatoes, grilled burgers, and spicy dill pickles. “I hope you ate your own,” she said, blowing on a hot fry before popping it into her mouth. “Remember the old photograph we found?” She swallowed a mouthful of potato, dragging Natalie by the arm.
Nat nodded, her mouth busy.
“Well,” Ryleigh said, raising an eyebrow, “I found something interesting.”
Chapter Four
THE ECONOMY HAD taken a deadly toll on the quaint mountain town of Hidden Falls. Work in the building trades had come to a near standstill since the meltdown, sending most local contractors to the bigger cities of Phoenix and Tucson looking for anything to keep them from going under. Most did anyway. A general contractor for over twenty years, Chandler Collins had seen the good, the bad, and the ugly.
His business ledgers were aligned in sequence, a brown envelope stuck between them—the kind that held important documents. Chandler leaned into the office chair and checked the date stamped across the postmark. Weeks had passed, yet the culmination of twenty-four years of marriage waited for him to sever the ties with the sweep of a pen.
He turned the envelope over, the swish of paper against calloused hands a harsh reminder of the erosion of time and what he once had. The freedom his signature would assure meant nothing to him. The two lives represented inside the envelope belonged together, but the odds of finding his way back after a year of regret seemed insurmountable.
He rolled the sleeves of his flannel shirt and thermal tee together to his elbows. Chandler’s jaw muscles tightened and his stomach took a nasty twist as a hint of perfume drifted through the expansive den. The delicate scent preceded her feather-soft touch.
Della wrapped her arms around his neck. “Those papers aren’t going to sign themselves,” she cooed, dusting the curve of his chin with a lingering kiss. “It’ll be easier for both of you once this is over.”
Chandler rose, took her hand in his, and released it back to her before shoving the envelope back between the ledgers. “It’s not the right time,” he said, turning to face her. He took a step, but with a quick shift to her left, Della matched it.
“It’s been a y
ear.” Della folded her arms across an abundant chest. “You deserve your freedom.”
“You mean you deserve my freedom, don’t you?”
Long lashes fluttered. “For us.” Quick with a response—with her body if her tongue failed—Della was unrivaled when it came to manipulating the situation to her own desires.
He turned to leave. “I’ll know when the time is right,” Chandler said, intent on avoiding another confrontation on the subject either upright or horizontally, the latter her special recipe infused with guilty pleasure.
“Chandler, wait.”
“I have work to do.” He grabbed the door frame.
She stepped toward him. “Maybe now is the right time.”
“The framing inspection came through on the Sommars’ house. Electrical and plumbing subs need to be lined up.”
“That can wait a few more minutes. Or until morning.”
He rubbed his neck, and then dragged his hand slowly through the thick tangle of hair, coarse with sweat and wood dust. He faced her, a single lock of hair falling against his forehead. Leaning against the door frame, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The solid muscles of his forearms bunched into a knot. “I told you I’d take care of it.”
Della approached him, silver blue eyes chipping at his defenses. “I’m tired of waiting.” Her words dripped with provocation, and without breaking eye contact, she reached her arms around his waist.
Chandler’s jaw tensed. “Not now.”
Ignoring his words, she pressed her breasts against his chest, urging him closer, hinting at what lay beneath the thin barrier of cloth.
He willed himself to fight the involuntary responses his traitorous body summoned from her mere touch.
“It’s the right time,” she said, her mouth turned in a wry smile. “In fact, it’s perfect timing.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re going to be a family.”
