by Susan Haught
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.
Chapter Ten
EVAN PULLED INTO the driveway earlier than expected for Thanksgiving break, the Civic’s horn screeching through an otherwise quiet neighborhood. Ryleigh hurried to meet him, arms flailing to stop the infernal noise. Joy split his features into a mildly malicious grin, and he picked her up and twirled her around. “Mom, you’re never going to believe this.”
“You know I don’t care for surprises, so tell me,” she pleaded, slapping him on the shoulder. “But first—Put. Me. Down. I can’t breathe.”
Evan released his death grip and once inside the house, slid into his adopted place at the kitchen table opposite her. “Well?” she asked, her eyebrows arched to match the curl of her smile.
“I landed an internship,” he said, a profusion of emotions radiating across his face, “and it’s paid.”
“Evan, that’s wonderful,” she said, tilting her head and folding her hands on the table. “A perfect way to spend next summer.”
“It’s full time.” Evan sucked a breath between his teeth. “And it’s next semester.”
“What about school?”
“I’ll earn credits from the internship and I can take classes online,” he said and rubbed his hand across a sparse growth of whiskers, “but it means an extra semester of school.”
Ryleigh nodded, calculating the added expenses. But the normal spark in his eyes had grown into a consuming passion. Her apprehension seemed trivial, and she bathed herself in the gravity of his exuberance.
“It’s a small, upstart magazine publishing company based in Los Angeles.”
California. First her husband. Then her mother. And now her son? The emptiness she thought she had abandoned swallowed her, and she lowered her eyes to hide the sudden casualty of her elation. An unbearable weight anchored her to her seat and her fingers clasped into a tight fist squeezing her disappointment into a steeple of white knuckles. Every ounce of enthusiasm vanished, yet she feigned a smile.
“I think it’s fantastic.”
Evan squirmed. The chair legs dragged across the floor punctuating the silence with a pathetic groan. “You don’t look very happy about it.”
A deep breath dispersed her misguided jealousy. “I thought I had three semesters to get used to you leaving Arizona.” Slowly, she lifted her chin to face him. “This is an exceptional opportunity you can’t pass up, and if you’re happy, I’m happy. And you can’t imagine how proud.” She reached across the table and gave his hands a firm squeeze.
“There’s something else.” His expression turned serious. “I found him.”
“You found who?”
“Ambrose.”
A hand rose to her mouth. “Oh, God.”
“Actually found two. Judging by what little information I could gather, either of them could be the right one. Or neither.”
Ryleigh nodded and leaned forward on her elbows, her chin resting on her folded hands.
“And?”
Evan handed her a scribbled note. “Here’s the address for Ambrose Thompson. His family’s been in Ballston Spa since the 1700s. Says he’s a pharmacist at O’Neil’s. It’s a small town—they call it a village,” he said, his eyes trained on her. “Shouldn’t be hard to find.”
The realization stunned her to momentary silence. “You think I’m going to go traipsing all over the country in search of this guy?”
“There’s no doubt in my mind.”
“I’ve got plenty for both of us.”
“Why would you ask me to snoop if you weren’t going to look for him?” A flicker of amusement turned the corners of his mouth upward. “Be good for you to get out of town. Spread your wings.”
“I don’t need to spread my wings.”
“The other guy’s name is W. L. D’Ambrose.”
“Wait….” Ryleigh pressed her back against the chair. “D’Ambrose is his last name?”
“Couldn’t find much on him. There one minute, then poof—gone.” Evan shrugged. “He just vanished off the Internet.”
A whirlwind of opposing thoughts saturated her mind and heart, desire and fear grappling with one another. She pressed her fingertips hard against her temples as if doing so would clear the playing field. The points stacked against finding Ambrose far outweighed finding him. Yet a niggling itch tapped at unguarded logic. “I don’t have a clue where to begin.”
“With an airline ticket.”
“Very funny.”
He spread his hands in front of him in a self-appreciative gesture.
“I’m anxious for answers…but it’s frightening.”
“Mom,” Evan said, his voice slicing through spoken and unspoken thought, “take the time off and
go.”
“I had it all planned in my head, but now that it’s an actual possibility, it’s so far away,” she said, cringing.
“It’s New York, not the Outer Limits. Besides, you were born there, maybe you have roots you don’t know about.”
“I doubt if there’s any connection at all, except Ambrose, or Mr. D’Ambrose, or whatever he calls himself. This whole thing is rather intimidating.”
“Gram must have known someone in Ballston Spa, or why’d they go there in the first place?”
Despite the fact her mother had never mentioned anyone by the name of Ambrose and Ballston Spa meant nothing to her but an unfamiliar town on her birth certificate, Evan had a point. She suspected the restless suspicions would continue to gnaw at her. One question would raise another until she’d be swimming in a tiny universe of unsolved mysteries. At least until she found answers. She guessed it would be no different than digging for the facts for her newspaper column and hoped she didn’t drown.
She glanced at Evan. The resultant silence flowed back into the space that seconds ago reverberated with animated conversation. She bit her lip and held out her hands in a mock surrender. “Okay.”
“You’ll go?”
“Soon,” she said, the weight of the word hanging in the air.
Evan glared at her. “Mom?”
“Okay, okay.” She twisted a strand of hair around her finger. He’d always been persuasive, but she wondered when he’d become so…weighty. “After Thanksgiving I’ll tell Bernadette I have plans for an early Christmas vacation.”
Chapter Eleven
SANTA CLAUS, SLEIGH bells and pine boughs replaced pumpkins and honeycomb turkeys everywhere and as quickly as Thanksgiving disappeared, Christmas barreled in right on schedule.
So had her flight to New York.
Time evaporated over rivers and mountain ranges as the plane passed from west to east. A recent snowstorm left a blanket of snow over the New York landscape, and from the air the roads crossed the landscape in a spider web of black asphalt. Though her wristwatch ticked slowly past two in the afternoon, the setting sun painted a much different picture as the plane descended into the shadows of New York. At least Evan had reserved a vehicle with navigation, and Ryleigh was fairly certain the GPS wouldn’t steer her in the wrong direction, even though she’d already done a good job of doing exactly that without an ounce of help.
A wave of anxiety clutched her chest and whitened her knuckles as the airplane’s wheels kissed asphalt with a jolt.
The Albany terminal dwarfed in comparison to Sky Harbor, but departing the plane and stepping into the terminal on the other side of the continent was as foreign to her as an intergalactic space station. She was surprised at the ease with which she claimed her bag and walked the short distance to the Alamo counter. The Tahoe, equipped with all the gadgets a techno-whiz could wish for (useless bells and whistles for the technically challenged), was ready, and a young attendant synced the Bluetooth and briefed her on the navigation. With a smile filled with blue and gray hardware, he assured her the navigation would take her to the Brook Hollow Inn’s doorstep in Saratoga Springs without a hitch. He handed her the key fob and left her to navigate an unfamiliar world.
Ryleigh recited the instructions step by step and entered the address. The male voice that answered the instructions surprised her.
She patted the dash. “Nice touch,” she said and pulled forward, the man’s voice telling her to turn right at the airport exit. “We’ll be spending some intimate time together, Mr. Navigation, so you need a name. It’s night and vampires love the night. Barnabas.” She shrugged and turned right. “Take me to my temporary home, Barnabas Collins. I’ll share my last name with you if you promise not to get me lost.” Talking to an invisible man in the dashboard seemed awkward, but the company—invisible or not—was more than welcomed.
A half-hour later she pulled into the Inn.
The room mimicked a quaint coastal cottage in weathered blues and white, and flames danced in the fireplace with a flip of the switch. Ryleigh stepped to the deck. She shivered and tightened the pink ASU hoodie. Pearls of moonlight rippled over Saratoga Lake as the moon’s drowsy rise took dominance over the stars, the air brisk and pungently fishy. Waves lapped against the shore. Returning to the warmth of the room, she dialed her cell phone.
“You made it, huh? How was the flight? And your room?”
“Everything’s perfect, Son. The lake is gorgeous. I just wish you or Nat were here with me,” she said with an uninvited note of uncertainty.
“You’ll be fine. Ballston’s a small town. And if this Ambrose is an objectionable sort, somebody will tell you. People in Hidden Falls would. So many dubious characters wander the streets there.” Sarcasm dripped from his words. “Oh, I almost forgot. Dad called. He was pretty upset you went to New York by yourself.”
Ryleigh slumped. “Why’d you tell him?”
“Didn’t know it was a secret. He said he should have gone with you.”
Her heart faltered on the words. She stared out at the black water, moonlight rippling across it like fingers strumming a guitar. “It doesn’t matter what he thinks.” Her voice wavered and she kicked herself for the lack of control. “Some things can’t be changed.” A pause afforded her the time to gather her composure.
“Sorry, Mom. I thought you’d want to know.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, rubbing her temples, “but once certain things are set in motion, they can never go back to the way they were.”
“I get it.”
“I should call Nat. It’s late and I need some sleep.”
They offered their good-byes and Ryleigh waited for the connection to go silent. She blew him a kiss and hoped the lump in her throat would subside from the news he’d so candidly blurted out.
She hadn’t known. And what had caused Chandler’s sudden concern? She shook her head. It made no difference now. The dissolution would be final any day.
Dismissing thoughts of Chandler and a life she’d worn like a treasured sweatshirt, she dialed Nat’s number. When it went straight to voice mail, she told Nat everything was perfect and she’d call her tomorrow.
With her inner clock set to Arizona time, she ran a bath and sank to her nose into the hot water. The jets chiseled away at the uneasiness. Though an intimation of apprehension remained, she drifted into the conscious daydreams that precede sleep, and a sense of satisfaction bubbled around her, rising with the faint aroma of lemon sage bath salts and the roar of the jets.
Fatigued from the bath, Ryleigh slid beneath thick blankets and let their weight fold around her. As she gave in to the magnetic pull of slumber, she allowed herself to fully grasp the first step into unknown territory. It terrified, yet comforted her—as did the words written in the leather journal. The decision to resist the stagnated state of her life and come here felt right. Yet in the furthest places she couldn’t grasp, a small knot remained.
On the first night an entire continent away from home, Ryleigh drifted uneasily over the threshold of sleep.
Chapter Twelve
RYLEIGH WOKE EARLY (Arizona time) with a queasy mix of intrigue and dread. Dressing quickly in a well-worn pair of jeans and a pink long-sleeved cotton T-shirt, she pulled the ASU hoodie over her head, took another glance in the mirror and fluffed her hair. She blew out a breath, the air lifting short wisps of bangs. Her arms dropped to her sides with a slap.
Stalling would get her nowhere.
She opened the satchel and made sure the journal, Ambrose’s letter and the drawstring bag containing the patch and button were still there.
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 th
e 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.
