by Susan Haught
“That works,” Mitch said. “Perfectly, in fact. Construction won’t start for a while—summer probably.” He and Natalie stood to see him out. “Where’s this house you’re building and who’s it for? Anyone we know?”
He looked first to Mitch and then to Natalie. “Juniper Ridge Road.”
Natalie’s mouth fell open and she glowered at her husband. “Mitch?”
“I know. Shit.”
“Chandler?”
Chandler had crossed the room and was turning down the hall when he heard Natalie call after him, but had no intention of answering. No intention of explaining. He had his reasons. And a plan.
Chapter Seventeen
“WHO AM I?” Ambrose sipped his coffee, steam rising in swirls over an abundant mustache. “Ah, yes, I ponder that question myself,” he said with a chuckle. “I am who I need to be at any given time. Today,” he said, taking another sip, “my story is yours—an ambiguous one. Remove your shoes, Miss Ryleigh. Get comfortable. This story is not a comfortable one, but you might as well be.”
Ambrose rose from his chair, the kinks releasing in pops and cracks. He paced. Years of a continuous back and forth shuffle had worn a faded path across an already threadbare carpet. “I shall start from the beginning, some of which you already know.”
Ryleigh kicked off her shoes and curled her legs under her. “I’m ready.”
Ambrose twirled the generous tendrils of his mustache. “This will not be easy for you to hear, Miss Ryleigh. Do you remember earlier when I spoke of storms crossing your path?”
“Yes.” Riddles were tricky and she placed them on her mental list of aversions one notch below surprises. “Earthquakes and tornadoes.” Ryleigh visibly relaxed, allowing her doubts to settle in his trust.
“Ah, yes. This will be one of those earthquakes that will split the earth beneath your feet. Be strong, Miss Ryleigh.” He bunched his hands into knotted fists. “You are your mother’s daughter and of your father’s loins. However,” he said with a deliberate pause, “before I continue, this old man must get some air and stretch his legs before he tells an old story that has been preserved.” He pointed a crooked finger to his temple and said, “The truth unchanged as there have been no storytellers but I. It will be told as it occurred forty-four years ago.”
Reservation crept into her thoughts as Ambrose massaged his leg, short steps obviously branded with pain.
“I shall not be long.”
Ambrose threw a knee-length black coat over wide slumped shoulders and removed a walking stick from a peg by the door. As gnarled and twisted as the fingers that gripped it, the carved haft and mahogany and maple staff was as weathered as the man it bore. Exquisitely honed, it was another testament to the man’s prior status.
“I’ll freshen the coffee,” she said.
The lines of his face deepened with each step, etched as much from the pain as from the unforgiving years that preceded him. Deterioration into pain was no stranger to her, having watched a silent thief destroy her mother day by day. She identified with the pain—not the physical kind—but the kind that pierced the heart. The kind that steals your air. Like drowning. Though she barely knew him, her heart ached with each step the old man took, each one a promise of the wisdom of time passed beneath his feet. How old? She could only guess: as ancient as an eighteenth-century gentleman if she were to guess by the formality of his speech, as seasoned as a riverboat captain by his whimsical attire, yet as youthful as the twinkle in kind, blue eyes.
The storm door groaned and the faint tap of the walking stick mingled with the cold night air. Ryleigh paused at the window surprised to see the shades of evening had slipped into the deep purple of night and if not for the three-quarter moon’s silver spotlight across the pond, the meadow would have been a canvas of black.
The silhouette of the bent figure’s silver-white hair gleamed in the moonlight, his staff by his side. Ambrose raised and then slowly lowered the staff. A flicker of light died in the distance and the right side of an overactive brain kicked into overdrive. Gandalf. The subdued, introspective wizard sprang from the pages of The Lord of the Rings and into her head. Her fingers gripped the window frame, but nothing moved but a wisp of his breath. If not for the peculiar old man’s trustworthy, quiet nature, he and this place would give her the creeps. Ryleigh rubbed the gooseflesh from her arms and stepped away, content to put the misguided images to rest. For now.
Ambrose had warned her it would be a long night. Her nerves begged for caffeine, and she headed to the kitchen. While the coffeepot gurgled, she sent a short text to Evan that things were going well and she’d call him later. He answered quickly, and she wondered if his phone was permanently glued to his thumbs. She threw him a cyber-kiss and dialed Natalie.
Nat picked up on the first ring. “It’s about time. Well?”
“It’s going okay, but it’s kind of creepy here. Especially since the sun went down and it’s dark. Ambrose is, well, I don’t know exactly how to describe him.”
“You’re a writer. Take a stab at it.”
“He’s a bit…eccentric.” She shrugged. “And he resembles Samuel Clemens.”
“Who?”
Ryleigh smiled into the phone. “Mark Twain, silly. You know, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn?”
“Oh. But I can’t say I know what he looks like.”
“Look him up on the Internet,” she said, twirling her hair around her index finger. “The resemblance is uncanny.”
“So, has he told you anything good?”
“My mother was pregnant before her and Daddy got married. Quite the scandal back then.”
“Wouldn’t make much of a splash in today’s world, would it?”
“No.” Ryleigh rubbed her arm. “Had that scenario play out in my living room. But I guess it wasn’t as common in the sixties. Nat, I need to go. The coffee’s done and Ambrose will be back soon.”
“He left you alone?”
“He went for a walk. To stretch. He’s pretty crippled up. I’ll call you when I get back to the Inn if it’s not too late.”
“It won’t be late in Arizona. Call me.”
The coffee finished with a sputter. Ambrose returned, rusty hinges protesting his entry, and stepped gingerly inside. Ryleigh filled their mugs with fresh coffee.
“Good timing,” she said. “Coffee’s done. I’m a coffee junkie, but I prefer it sweetened.”
Ambrose dipped his head. “Ah, yes, Miss Ryleigh.” He hung his coat and returned the staff to the corner. “A steaming cup of coffee to soothe one’s soul on a chilly night.” Though he smiled, pain pierced his steely eyes. “Unfortunately, I do not keep the ingredients to make the caramel lattes you so enjoy,” he replied with a wink. “I trust your son and dearest friend are well tonight?”
She sputtered, and the sting of hot liquid shot through her sinuses. “How’d you know I spoke to Evan and Natalie?” She wiped her chin with a finger. “And that I enjoy caramel lattes?”
“It is my business to know.”
“You must have a connection to every phone in the country and every link on the Internet. What’s your story?”
“My network,” he said, air quoting the words, “is, indeed, extensive. However, that is neither here nor there. It pleases me they are concerned. However, you are never more protected than when you are with me. Come. We have many mysteries to explore.”
Ryleigh threw him a disconcerted look and brushed past. “You become more complex with every tick of the clock. You’re a parallel to Gandalf and Asimov and Dumbledore rolled into one,” she said, sinking into the cushions of the sofa.
“Your imagination is unequivocal,” he mused as he sat opposite her. “I’m afraid the confusion you feel right now cannot be helped. However, this is not about me. This is your story.” Ambrose stroked his substantial mustache several times, twisting the bristly ends. “I think we shall back up and fill in a few blanks. Shall I continue?”
“Please,” she said and drew her knee
s to her chest.
He smiled. “You know, of course, your mother was raised in St. Louis?”
“I do,” she said, “but she never told me anything significant about her childhood or spoke of my grandparents.” She frowned. “She said they died before I was born, so I never pursued it. Is this true?”
“Partly. Your grandparents did not pass until several years after you were born.”
Ryleigh’s mouth flew open, and Ambrose immediately raised a hand. Bushy eyebrows quirked up. “A seed planted requires patience in its nurture.”
Ryleigh closed her mouth in answer to his ardent stare.
“Eleanor attended private school. The civil rights movement was at its pinnacle, the Vietnam War escalating, and racial turmoil caused tremendous unrest and bitter rivalries among schools. The sixties,” Ambrose said, shaking his head, “turbulent times, indeed.
“Ben first saw your mother in the spring of nineteen sixty-six. Eleanor tagged along when her friends left their school dance to create a little mayhem at a rival school. Ben’s school. Tempers flared, and when they decided to kick some ass—pardon my language,” he said, peering down his crooked nose, “Eleanor put herself between Ben and another boy most anxious for a fight. A brawl was averted, in part to Eleanor butting in, but mostly due to the arrival of the police. Ben was smitten. Before they parted, your mother slipped him her phone number. A few days later, he introduced her to Ryan and rarely were the three seen apart after that night. Ben told Ryan quite frankly he would marry her some day.”
The absence of a past tugged at her heart and the void these few words filled clogged her throat with renewed emotion. Why had she been so stubborn and not asked her mother about this? “She never told me any of this.”
“She would not have done so.”
“But why?”
“Eleanor was severely private and mindlessly compassionate—and she loved Ben with all her heart,” he said, raising a distorted fist over his heart. “And she wanted to protect you most of all.”
Ryleigh circled her finger around the rim of the mug, avoiding the small rough chip and tried to imagine her parents so young, falling in love. The image it summoned was heartwarming. A blush warmed her cheeks. Raising her eyes to meet his, she urged him to continue.
Ambrose rose and positioned himself beside her. “To your mother,” he said, raising his mug. Their mugs kissed with a clink. The old man’s brow furrowed. Blue eyes bored into her with an intensity that unnerved her. She dropped her gaze. “You must remember. He paused to take a deep breath. “Life throws unforeseen storms in your path when least expected.”
“I understand. But so far it hasn’t been so hard to digest.”
Ambrose adjusted his leg. “The boys enlisted in the Army that summer. The 101st Airborne was an elite group of ground troops, transported by helicopter. It was a bloody war; conditions were atrocious. Regrettably, thousands perished. Nothing in your history books can epitomize the horror.” Emotion rose in Ambrose’s eyes. “I could elaborate further, but I shall not bore you.”
“You tell the story as if you were there.”
“A cripple on a battlefield is another casualty waiting to happen.”
She could sense the discontent. “I’m sorry.”
“Do not be sorry. Our lives unfold the way they are destined. I believe we follow a predetermined path. The one you travel today. Your destiny. Your path.”
“My mother’s path. Her story.”
“Yes and no,” he said, his head bobbing from one side to the other. “Your mother so loved Ben, truly and with all her heart. Remember this above all else.” His face went solemn, yet his steel-blue eyes pierced hers. “She never meant to hurt him.”
She held his steady gaze. “What do you mean she never meant to hurt him?”
“My words have no other meaning.”
Despite the warmth from the wood stove, a cold finger of dread slid down her spine. She took a sip of coffee to wet the sudden dryness in her throat, and then set the mug down. Mysteries lurked in his gaze—dark ones he wouldn’t give up, and ones she sensed were leading down a path she didn’t want to go. She clasped her arms around her legs, resting her head on her knees, and gave no mercy to a loose thread on the sofa.
“You need to know your story.”
Ryleigh bit her lip and nodded.
“After Ben died it became easier to bury the past than to relive it. As time passed, Eleanor lived solely for the present, unwilling to disturb ghosts long buried. I did what I did for your mother and for Ben because of his abiding love for her. I agreed to honor her secrets, but I vowed I would not lie to you if confronted.” An awkward moment passed. “It is, indeed, time you know the truth.” He spoke calmly and took her hand in both of his. “That is why,” he paused, gently lifting her chin, “when Eleanor fell head over heels in love with Ben’s best friend, she kept it to herself. She cared for Ben deeply, but she had fallen deeply and irreparably in love with Ryan, the boy with eyes the color of the inside of an ocean wave.”
She hurled him a vicious look. Green eyes met steel in reckless hesitation, and his eyes held hers as tightly as he did her hand.
“Your eyes, Miss Ryleigh.”
Chapter Eighteen
THE WORDS SETTLED in her stomach like a brick of curdled muck. She jerked her hands free. Ambrose fell silent, the ghost of his laugh erased with the caustic words.
She seized and held his unsettled gaze. Gone was the whimsical riverboat captain and in his place was an old man who had delivered a sickening blow—not with his aged body, but with something more powerful—his words. She hugged herself, squeezing the air from her lungs. A clock chimed, the din a hazy cloud of confusion, unbearable hurt and unanswered questions.
Ripples of disbelief erupted and spread, the way rings radiate from the center when a stone is tossed into calm water. Silence magnetized the air. Background noise ceased. Only the pain of uninvited doubt pulsed in her ears.
“I don’t believe you.”
“This is not the end of this story.”
Ryleigh leapt to her feet. “Yes, it is.”
Ambrose stood. “Sit down!” The challenge sizzled with an air of command. “You shall not run from that which you fear.”
She turned sharply to face him. “I’m not afraid.”
“Our lives are weighted by fear,” he said severely and raised a fist. “If you are not afraid, you do not live.”
Ryleigh digested his words, raised her chin and reined in the unnamed emotion trembling on the edge of her eye.
“Gather the courage that runs through your veins. You shall hear this story to the end.” Deep lines creased his brow. Cheekbones, high and hollowed by age, jutted below narrowed eyes. “You will not run!”
As though his words possessed the authority to overpower her will to run, he compelled her to stay. She hesitated, taking in every detail of his face. The words soured her mouth like poisoned spit. Her legs trembled, ready to flee, but she found nothing but truth written in his expression, nothing but sincerity behind eyes that had smiled at her a short time ago. Her knees buckled and she fell into the cushions. She took hold of her thoughts and met his eyes.
“Shall I continue?”
“Go on.” The words echoed from somewhere deep in the hollow cavern where her heart resided.
Ambrose sat and continued in a more civilized voice. “After completing boot camp, they returned home to spend time with their families before being shipped off to war. Christmas of sixty-six. Eleanor and Ryan spent every waking hour together. Shortly after New Year’s Day of sixty-seven Ryan and Ben left for Vietnam.”
Undone with emotion she couldn’t label or contain, Ryleigh wiped a tear with the back of her hand.
“The boys wrote of the splendors of a foreign country and nightmares of a bloody war. Ryan’s letters were filled with his love for her and the horrors surrounding him, expressive and graphic. Your mother cherished them. And when she wrote she was carrying his child, Ryan ce
lebrated amongst tracers and spatter of gunfire, and a deluge of rain.”
Disbelief rocked the foundation of her core, the ache profound. This wasn’t her story, this was fiction. Everything was twisted and wrong. Anger surged through her veins, hot and liquid. She raised her chin, swallowed the anger and met steel-blue eyes. “Ben was my father.”
“Beyond any doubt. He is, indeed, the only father you have ever known.”
With great effort, Ambrose lifted himself from the sofa and handed Ryleigh a tissue. She dabbed her eyes. The groan of the woodstove door split the awkward pause, and Ambrose slid a log into the yawning cavern, pitch hissing as it met the flames and sent a wave of crackling sparks up the pipe.
Ryleigh watched his calculated movements carefully. “Earlier, you spoke of Ben as my father, and Mom—why didn’t she tell me? God, I wish she were still alive.” Her hands bunched into angry fists. “I want to shake the truth out of her.”
“You are undoubtedly hurt and quite angry. Remember your mother as the extraordinary woman she was and I must emphasize she loved you more than life. And she loved your father—Ryan—with everything in her. But time would become her adversary.”
She pressed her palms against her temples. “God, this gets more complicated every time you open your mouth.”
“The story is quite simple, Miss Ryleigh,” he said, taking a seat beside her. “The imprudent decisions of our lives never go away. They simply add up,” he said, strumming his fingers across his knees. “The passing of time complicates matters.”
“Stop saying that,” she said and jumped to her feet. “This is far from simple. This is my life you’re talking about. My life, Ambrose. Me!” She poked a finger at her chest.
“It is simply a portion your mother never shared. She wished to protect you and shield herself from a personal anguish too painful to bear. You are the person you are because of your past and you cannot expect the truth not to exist simply by ignoring it.”
His words hit her full force.
