by Susan Haught
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.
“Got it. Tell me where I can find him. Please?”
Ryleigh sat and Megan slid into the seat opposite her, again surveying the store. “He’s sort of a recluse. Lives at the end of Nightshade Path. I’ll draw you a map.”
“I have navigation.”
“Sweet. But you won’t find it on any Google map.”
“Why not?”
“Doesn’t exist.”
“Excuse me?”
“If you research his address or anything about him, he seriously doesn’t exist.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will,” Megan replied, “once you find him.” She squirmed in her seat, pulled a napkin from the dispenser, and drew a crude map. “He lives like a hermit and isn’t crazy about visitors. Goes to the Springs and Albany to take care of business. Doesn’t own a phone. Landline or cell.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Like I said, he helped me out.”
“How so?”
“Jeez, you’re nosy,” she said as she tossed Ryleigh a sheepish grin.
“So I’ve been told. Guess that’s part of the reason I’m here.”
“I’ll tell you, but never ever let on you found out from me. He really will kill me.”
“Your secret’s safe,” Ryleigh said, swiping her pinched thumb and index finger across sealed lips.
“Famous last words.” Megan gnawed on a thumbnail. “God, why did I open my big mouth?” She slapped her head in her hands, sighed, and then looked directly at Ryleigh. “Guess it’s too late now.” She studied the chipped polish on her nails. “A while back I did something really stupid and got myself knocked up. Well, I didn’t get myself knocked up, but I suppose you know how that works.” She fingered the feather earring. “Ambrose helped me with the adoption. He’s amazing. Doesn’t seem to be anything he doesn’t know, or can’t do.”
Ryleigh’s eyes lit up. “How so?”
Megan raised an eyebrow. “Don’t interrupt or I might lose my courage. I shouldn’t be telling you any of this.”
Ryleigh nodded for her to continue.
“Everyone in this crummy village thought I went to visit my aunt in Chicago because I hated school and I look like this.” Megan cocked her head and raised an eyebrow, gesturing to her clothing and oddly placed body piercings, pale face, and dark makeup. “But I stayed right here in the Spa. No one knew I was preggers either. Ambrose took care of me and forced me to keep up my studies. He’s majorly smart—like way over my head smart,” she said, waving her hand over her head. “Anyway, he took me to a doctor in Albany. When the kid came, he was there with me. And the adoptive parents. Everything was cool.” She lowered her eyes. “But I don’t know where they took my son.”
Ryleigh slumped, an involuntary reaction to the sudden disquiet in Megan’s tone.
Megan’s brow furrowed momentarily. “Doesn’t matter now.”
Given the circumstances and the young woman’s age, she understood, yet her stomach did a dizzying somersault.
“I so want out of the Spa when I graduate next December. Pretty cool, huh?”
“Umm, okay. If you think it’s cool…”
She scowled and waved a hand. “I meant graduating early.”
“Of course.” Ryleigh let out a sigh of relief. “The whole story is incredible, Megan. How did you get hooked up with Ambrose?”
“Whoa, I never hooked up with the old guy,” she said, shaking her head.
“Sorry. I forget the idioms of kids even though I have a son a little older than you.”
“Right. I hooked up with a sailor; cute, but as dumb as a box of rocks. But hey, I don’t have room to talk. I’m pretty talented at making bad decisions. For every action there’s a reaction and my reaction was throwing up for three months.”
“Morning sickness isn’t fun.” Ryleigh twisted a wayward strand of hair. “How’d you know Ambrose would take you in?”
“Didn’t. The old guy knows things. He found me. Never did ask how he found out I
was preggers, and if I didn’t know better I’d swear he knew before I did.” She shrugged. “I was glad I could get it past my old man—he would have killed me,” she said, raking her hand across her throat in a slicing motion, her dark eyes wide.
“Your father doesn’t know?”
“Nope. And if he finds out…” she said, pointing a ringed index finger at Ryleigh.
“No worries, Megan.”
“After I went back home, my father left me alone. He thought my aunt straightened me up. But it was Ambrose. Told me in order to get out of the Spa, I needed to score not just good grades, great grades. I told my dad what he wanted to hear, that my aunt worked me over to get me to conform to their ways. They’re two of a kind, and it ain’t no picnic being around either of them.”
It was the first time she had used anything but good grammar—aside from the occasional cuss word or teenage jargon—a slip possibly, back to the old Megan. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine.”
“It worked out.” She sighed. “Ambrose took care of everything—tickets, correspondence, my aunt.” She pushed her bangs back with her palm. “Ambrose is a master at hiding people—like scary good.” She leaned forward. “I refer to it as witness protection. Sounds cool, kinda FBI-ish.” Megan bobbed her head mockingly. “The way he knows things—stuff he shouldn’t—is creepy sometimes.” Three tiny metal studs rose with one dark eyebrow.
“He should have the answers to my questions then, and I have no plans of ever coming back.” She reached across the table and squeezed Megan’s hand. “By the way, I’m curious. You seem to have your act together, so what do you want to study?”
Her cheeks flushed. “Thanks,” Megan said quietly before perking back into high gear. “International law. I want to travel the world. See and do it all. Maybe do an internship in Italy.”
Ryleigh folded her arms on the table and smiled. “Italy’s on my bucket list.”
“Maybe I’ll see you there.” The girl with the artificial Goth look stood. “I hope you find the answers you’re looking for, Ryleigh. Ambrose is an antique, but he’s cool. Just keep it low-key. The Spa is a small town and people like to flap their jaws.”
