A Promise of Fireflies (4 page)

“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.”

The feeling drained from his legs and her words hung in the air, a heavy cloud of idle, misconstrued chatter. Surely.

“I’m having a baby, Chandler,” she whispered, fondling the buttons on his shirt. Eyes the color of a cool summer sky rose from beneath wisps of black lashes. “Our baby.”

The anemic squelch of the doorbell interrupted their last swallow of fries. “Needs replacing.” Ryleigh rolled her eyes. “Along with a few other things around here.”

The women exchanged eye contact and walked together to the door. “You really need a peephole, Riles.”

“Distorted faces leering at me through a tiny glass? That’s creepy. No thanks.”

Natalie shook her head.

“Who is it?”

“Ryleigh?” The voice was muffled, but all too familiar.

Dinner flipped inside Ryleigh’s stomach. With a deep breath, she opened the door. “It’s late, Chandler.”

“Can I come in?” Chandler averted his eyes and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Della thinks I’m picking up my allergy meds.” He shrugged. “Season’s late this year.”

Ryleigh acknowledged with a slight nod, having suffered through many an allergy season with him, but she’d never have let his prescription run out.

She straightened. “You could’ve called.”

“She wouldn’t understand.” The lines deepened between his eyes. “I couldn’t think of any other way to see you,” he said, pausing, “to see if you need anything. After Eleanor’s passing and all.” The compassion in his demeanor caught her off guard. “I have some news and I wanted to tell you myself. I still care for you, Ryleigh. I hope you believe that.”

Chandler wasn’t one to outwardly show emotion for anything except the career-ending injury of an Arizona Cardinal or a disastrous Diamondbacks trade, so this rare display puzzled her. “Come in out of the rain.” She relented, drawing the door fully open. “I assume you haven’t forgotten the way to the living room?”

Chandler stepped into the entry. “Natalie,” he acknowledged with a nod.

Natalie’s lips pursed. “Chandler.”

“I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I didn’t know you were coming over.”

“Touché.”

Natalie spun around, entered the living room, and plopped herself on the smaller of the two sofas.

Ryleigh took a seat next to Natalie. “What’s so important it couldn’t wait until morning?”

Chandler sat opposite the women. “Is there anything I can do to help with Eleanor?” He raked a hand through wet hair and then across his face, wiping at the moisture gleaming on his skin.

Ryleigh eyed him with sudden longing. Though on the backside of forty, his rugged features, sun-bleached hair, and steely good looks favored his years. He was exceedingly handsome—one legitimate excuse for Della’s ploys, though a fifteen-year gap separated their ages. “Mom’s been gone two days. Why now?”

Deep furrows creased his brow, adding years to the otherwise graceful face. “I thought you might need some help.”

“You’re too late.” She shook her head adamantly. “Arrangements are made, her apartment is clean and Evan will be home tomorrow. So, no.”

A weighted pause hung in the space between them. “Too late,” he whispered, glancing around the room. “Thought I’d ask.”

Chandler sat on the edge of the sofa, forearms stretched across his knees. He picked randomly at the back of his hands and examined his nails. In detail. He raised his eyes slowly, the summer color not yet faded from a face littered with uneasiness. “I don’t know how to say this.”

“Try English. My Elvish is a bit rusty.”

Natalie glanced from one to the other.

“I wanted to tell you before this whole damn town starts wagging their tongues.” Sad sincerity darkened his eyes to steel gray, a battleship amid a stormy sea, and then darted back to his hands as if something terribly interesting lurked there. “Della’s pregnant.” The words tumbled carelessly from his lips and splashed across her face.

Remnants of dinner burned in the back of her throat and every breath became a concentrated effort not to curl into a fetal ball. Instead, she rose on unsteady knees and walked to the window, arms wrapped tightly around her middle, shielding herself from the reality of shattered hope. Pregnant? How could he? He had a grown son.
Their
son. And dammit they were still married!

Chandler broke the awkward silence. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

She whirled around. “For what to happen? Sleeping with her?” She squeezed her hands into tight fists and choked back the urge to slap him. “Or knocking her up?”

“I didn’t plan either.”

“What do you think happens when you screw someone?” she said, her voice louder than she expected. “You’re forty-eight. Not fifteen.”

“We were careful.” Chandler stared at the floor, picking first at his left hand and then the right. “I don’t know how it happened.”

“You stuck your hard prick where you shouldn’t have. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know when to bag it, Einstein.”

“She said she was on the Pill.”

“That gives you permission to shut off your brain?” Ryleigh raised her hands to stop him from saying anything, but it was meant to stop herself. Calm is strength and she wanted, she
needed
, to remain resolute. “Forget it. It’s your problem, not mine.” She stared at him from across the room, wishing he’d stop that infernal picking—his hands, strong, steady, and the lifeblood of a carpenter—were rough enough.

“I’m sorry.” He hesitated. “Ryleigh, I…” He rose and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“I just lost my mom. I don’t want anything from you,” she said, ignoring the trite apology. “You know the way out.” She turned her back to him.

The thump of his Dr. Martens echoed down the hall. How many pairs had she tossed and replaced for him over the years? The oily balm of new leather passed through her senses as if she held his shoes in her hands.

The distant click of the door cleared the memory and signaled the door had closed—not only to the entrance of the house they had called their home and raised their son in, but to the place in her heart only one man had ever entered. In that moment, her heart broke—the pain crushing and deep, reopening the unhealed wound.

A tear trickled past her nose. She swiped at it, sickened at the prospect of its reminder. It wasn’t a tear for the staggering news her husband had delivered, or for the resentment she felt toward the woman who had stolen her life. Nor was it for the bitterness she harbored toward the man who left her for a younger woman and left a gaping hole in her world. A silent tear spilled for what she had known for quite some time.

Her marriage—like her mother—was dead.

Light autumn raindrops merged into little streams cascading down the glass, distorting the reflections in the picture window. Emptiness rooted her to the spot. Moving would surely tear apart the remaining threads of a thin membrane that held her world together. Her mother, whose long fingers stroked her baby-fine hair, whose voice lulled her into slumber when she cried for an absent father, and whose love was warmth enough for them both, was gone. And Chandler embraced another. His dreams, his future, and his love were hers no longer. And his seed—the evidence of their love—ceased to flow inside her. She would no longer feel the connection, the oneness Chandler had provided for nearly twenty-four years.

CHANDLER PULLED THE
door shut, and with a doleful click the latch engaged, the sound the signal she was safe from the outside world, something he’d done without a conscious thought hundreds of times. He shouldn’t leave her like this, vulnerable and upset. Her body language was unmistakable; the unwavering staunchness, the resolve—the barrier she built whenever threatened. Rain spit in his face and pelted his clothes, yet his throat had dried to a sticky silence. He hadn’t counted on invisible fingers reaching in and twisting his gut. It was inconceivable how badly he had hurt her. Again. He sloshed through a puddle where the concrete sank. Why hadn’t he fixed it? Standing alone in the rain, he wished he had.

Drenched and hair dripping, he shoved his hands in his pockets and turned back toward the house. He stopped midway. Powerless to see a way back through, he stood in the rain staring at the door. “Dammit, Ryleigh.” He tipped his face to the sky and let the cold rain pour over him, her name dissolving into the force of the storm. “What have I done?” He couldn’t bring himself to finish walking the few steps to tell her what he needed to. Instead, he made his way through the rain to his truck, heaved the door open, and stepped in. He’d done this to them. He’d severed the ties that bound them as one, and the reality forced him to bear its heavy weight.

They were broken. And though he was one of the best contractors in town, this was one thing Chandler Collins didn’t know how to fix.

NATALIE JO BURSTYN
felt like throwing up. She’d risen discreetly and left the room. With one of the most forgiving hearts she’d ever known, she knew Ryleigh would have taken Chandler back in a heartbeat. Maybe now she could finally accept the fact he wasn’t coming back. Maybe now she could leave her wedding ring at home.

“Hey,” Ryleigh said as she entered the kitchen.

“I’m so sorry, Riles.”

“You promised things would get better.”

Natalie looked away. “I still believe that. God won’t give you any more than you can handle.” She couldn’t keep her words from growing heavy in the weight of sadness. Her friend hurt. And so did she.

“Mom said that when Chandler left. I’m not so sure I believe it right now.”

“You’ll believe again. Someday.” Natalie gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “I love you, Ryleigh, and you
will
get through this. I’ll make sure of it. Mitch and I will always be there for you.”

“You’re a lucky girl, Nat.”

“Mitch knows better,” Natalie scoffed. “I’d break his friggin’ legs if he ever cheated on me.”

A frown curdled what had almost been a smile.

“Do you have any of the Syrah wine left? The one made here in Arizona?”

Ryleigh examined her.

“The bottle your boss gave you for Christmas.”

“Coming from Bernadette, I figured it wasn’t worth drinking. Why?”

“It’s actually an exceptional quality.”

Ryleigh reached into a nearby cupboard. “She couldn’t have known what she was buying.”

Nat twisted the opener and popped the cork with the skill of a seasoned pro. A fragrant fog rose from the bottle and she promptly filled their glasses with the smooth, aromatic liquid.

“To the future,” Natalie said, raising her glass.

“If there’s one worth toasting.”

“There will be.” Natalie grazed a finger around the rim of the glass. “Don’t you have something to show me?”

“Mmm, the old Kodak.” Ryleigh raised her eyebrows. “It’s definitely my father,” she said, a trace of excitement elevating her tone.

They entered the den and Ryleigh picked up the computer print she’d made of the photograph and handed it to her.

“It’s a little blurry,” Ryleigh added with a vague smile. “I enlarged it on the computer.”

Shock widened Natalie’s eyes. “All by yourself?”

“Bite me.” She pointed to the picture. Although somewhat blurred,
I-C-O-T-T
was clearly visible on the uniform near the pocket.

“Your dad was a nice looking man, but this other guy is seriously handsome. Gorgeous eyes.”

“His name is hidden, but military buddies sometimes kept in touch. If I only had a name.”

Natalie’s insides leapt at her friend’s sudden enthusiasm.

“He probably doesn’t remember or care. Otherwise why didn’t Mom ever mention him?”

Natalie set the snapshot on the improvised desk. “Okay, Sherlock. Grab a bug detector, a magnifying glass, and cell phone spyware and start investigating.”

“What?”

“I read John Grisham. Once in a while.”

“Nat, I don’t know—”

“Your eyes speak louder than words, Ryleigh Collins. Your curiosity just shifted into