A Promise of Fireflies (47 page)

A bouquet of purple hyacinths (forgive me) among a spray of baby’s breath (everlasting love) trembled in his hand. Leaning on one knee, Logan placed the flowers at the foot of Laurie’s headstone. One at a time he absorbed each letter of her name—the name she’d taken willingly so many years ago—and closed his eyes to pray. The letters blazed white behind his eyes until one by one, they faded into the hallways of memory—not to be forgotten, but covered with love and tucked safely away where they belonged. His muscles relaxed. Every nerve steadied until the trembling subsided and his breaths came easy.

Logan raised his head. A breath of lavender brushed his face as if she were here, in the wind, in the rustle of leaves, in the chatter of birds, but no longer a prisoner of his heart. The invisible bindings that held him captive loosened and fell away, as if Laurie had finally let him go. In reality, it was he who had let her go.

And for the first time in three years, he didn’t weep.

RYLEIGH ARRIVED AT
the bookstore on Sunday a few minutes ahead of the scheduled nine o’clock opening. Wanda met her at the door and the two women went straight to the table they’d set up for Ryleigh the night before. Together they straightened the remaining books into neat stacks and set them at an angle to best showcase the striking hardbound cover.

Wanda clapped her hands together. “Ready?”

“We wouldn’t want to keep anyone waiting, would we?” Ryleigh nodded toward the empty entrance.

Wanda laughed, a spirited snigger that matched her smile. “Well, this isn’t American Idol, hon, but don’t worry, they’ll come.”

Although yesterday evening hadn’t produced much of a crowd, people stopped intermittently to chat or to ask her to sign their copy of
Firefly Pond
, and today’s crowd did much the same, wandering in and out in a slow but steady stream.

The door opened and an older woman walked by the table. Spying the modest stack of books, she turned to address Ryleigh.

“Excuse me, are you the author?”

“I am.”

“Oh,” the woman said, scrutinizing her. Then she broke into a smile. “Your picture doesn’t do you justice. You’re much lovelier in person.”

Ryleigh’s cheeks flushed warmly. “Thank you,” she said and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re much too kind.”

“I read my sister’s copy of this charming story and I came to buy a book, so I’ll buy yours and have you sign it. How exotic,” she said without taking a breath, her smile as crooked as Wanda’s was perfect. “Will you be reading?” Ryleigh’s heart jumped into her throat at the thought as she reached for the closest copy. The binding creaked, the spice of newsprint and fresh ink a comforting balm. “Make it to Millie, please.”

Ryleigh handed her the signed book. “I’ll be reading shortly.” Her feet rearranged themselves and she pinched her toes into curls.

“Chapter thirteen? When Landon takes Reena to the pond?” Millie reared her head back and clutched her heart. “So lovely. Oh, Ms. Endicott, it’s been a pleasure, and my sister Lottie will be green with envy.” The woman walked away, hand still resting over her heart.

Ryleigh checked her watch, surprised at how much time had passed and then made her way to the nook at the back of the store. Wanda had placed chairs in a semicircle around the fireplace, and a wave of heads turned in her direction.
Where’d all these people come from?
Another surprise she could do without. She picked her way to the stool, a sea of eyes following her. The fireplace showed no signs of life, yet her skin prickled with heat.

Ryleigh sat with one leg over the stool, one planted firmly on the floor. “Good morning, Scottsdale.” Her voice wavered.
So many people.
The crowd responded with smiles and muffled greetings. “I’m honored to be reading for you today from my novel,
Firefly Pond
.” She couldn’t afford the luxury of giving in to anxiety and swallowed past the words competing with the heartbeat in her throat. “I’ve been asked to read from chapter thirteen.” She winked at Millie, who’d taken a front row seat.
People who love to read
. Millie scrunched her bony shoulders to her ears, smiled, and winked back. Ryleigh’s quivering stomach eased at the cordial gesture.

A ribbon marked a previously chosen place, but she turned to chapter thirteen instead.
People who enjoyed her work.
Ryleigh cleared her throat, and her voice steadied.
“Every ounce of willpower he possessed failed. Landon took her hand and kissed each of her fingers sequentially, the spark of his skin against hers reignited…”
Ryleigh immersed herself and became one with the words. The crowd smiled. The pleasure on their faces spread inside her and she returned it with a generous smile of her own. This was where she belonged—in a fantasy world created for others to enjoy.

Ryleigh closed the book to a round of applause. The crowd mingled for a few minutes and then gradually dispersed. She returned to the front of the store in time to see a short, paunchy man in shorts and shirt lumber through the door, red cheeks huffing. He raised his clipboard to Wanda, who signed for the delivery and pointed to Ryleigh.

“For you,” he said, placing a dozen white roses on the table.

“Me?”

“Are you R. M. Endicott?”

“Last time I checked.”

He smiled. “Then they’re for you.” He returned a moment later with another dozen roses. Ryleigh stared at them and then at him. He returned twice more—four dozen in all, each pure white, each without flaw.

“Wanda, did it say who they’re from?”

“Nope.” Wanda’s face bloomed into a brilliant smile. “You must have one devoted fan.”

“I guess so.” She cringed. Chandler was in town. Flowers weren’t his style, but given the talent her life had for throwing curveballs, she wouldn’t put it past him to show up unannounced. With flowers. Two surprises too many. Both of which she could do without.

Not many people knew of her passion for white roses. This was something Ambrose might have done, but that was preposterous. Psychic? Possibly. Omniscient? Maybe. But not to the point of ordering flowers from the grave.

People milled in and out of the bookstore. A few knew of her; most didn’t, but seemed eager to chat. Some even bought her book. But the roses were distracting. The only other explanation—she shook her head and pushed the ridiculous thought from her mind.

Near noon, Natalie and Mitch sidestepped through the clogged doorway, generous smiles pasted to their faces. They waved. She waved back and then froze. A silver-haired man wove among the people leaving, the disheveled copse of hair bobbing as if he bore the weight of a limp.
Ambrose?
No, the mere idea seemed silly. She was used to creating fantasy, but this was absurd. Keeping her eye on the door, she backed away and nearly knocked over a stack of books. In the instant it took to regain her balance, the man had vanished, but her wits refused to settle.

By straight-up noon, the small crowd had fast become no crowd. Wanda locked the door and Ryleigh bent to gather her things.

A customer approached the table and placed his book on the table in front of her. “I would be honored if you would sign your book for me,” he said, his voice deep and even. “I collect signed first editions.”

His voice resonated inside her as surely as if he’d stroked her skin, the sound as deep as a ripple of thunder, yet as gentle as the sough of the wind, and it swelled inside her until she couldn’t breathe. Her heart leapt, but her stomach turned a buffet of somersaults. Her legs faltered and she sat. Afraid she was imagining the voice, she dared not look up. “Who would you like me to address it to?”

“I’ve been called a lot of things, but ‘smart-ass’ will do.”

Her knees trembled. Thoughts collided in a wave of desire and disbelief.

“With a capital ‘S.’”

Unsteady hands fumbled to open the book. Two items fell from inside the cover. Moisture blurred her vision and she tucked the items between the pages.

“And I prefer you sign it ‘the girl with eyes the color of the inside of an ocean wave.’”

“Logan,” she whispered and scraped enough courage together to look up. Wanda slipped quietly past and turned the sign in the window to ‘Closed’ and stepped into the back room. Mitch and Natalie followed.

“I’m here, Cabin Number Three.”

His voice, deep and strong and mellow, pulsed inside her and he stood before her, solid and as absolute as the first time he’d held her. Still, she raised caution around her heart, but the same heart defied her and leapt at the image before her.

Ryleigh stood, the chair grating across the floor. Logan stepped around the table. She stepped back, and then grabbed the table to stop the floor from shifting under her feet. He reached for her, the distance between them weighted in hesitation, yet rife with the need to draw near. She held up a hand to his imminent touch—one she both wanted and cursed but hadn’t the courage to reach for.

Dark eyes held hers, their expression one of longing and joy and hesitation, yet guarded in fear. He stepped closer, empathy allowing the distance between them to simmer and she touched the lines of his face with her eyes the way she’d once touched them with her hands.

“I so want to hate you right now,” she said, unable to mask the pain beneath the words.

“Do you want me to leave?”

She shook her head.

“May I approach you?”

Again, she shook her head.

“I’m not leaving,” he said, his words gentle, yet spoken with conviction.

“That’s what terrifies me.”

“You’ve nothing to be afraid of. Trust me.”

“I trusted you once.” The memory burned in her throat, bitterness fused with longing. “You took my trust and my heart and left.”

“I will never again leave you.”

She leaned into the table. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she said, clutching the edge of the table. “Breaking them is too painful to bear.”

“For either one of us.”

The implication of his words reached beyond the distance, and she tamed the need to reach out, to touch him, to comfort the invisible scars and soothe her own.

“I can’t promise the memories will never haunt me, as I expect they will,” he said, his voice husky with emotion, “for I bear the scars of the life I have lived, ones I fear may never completely fade. I can’t guarantee there will be no pain or sorrow, for life promises both.” He raked a hand over a day’s growth of beard. “But I will promise your heart will never know emptiness, or want, or need, and I will protect your heart and your soul with everything that is in me. You’ll not stand alone without me by your side, and the fire you kindle within me will forever warm your bed.”

He stepped toward her, tall and resolute and of solid flesh before her, the distance between them no more than a breath. And that was enough for now.

“The first time I touched you, I felt your blood flow through me as my own.” He wrapped her hands in his, and bent his head to her upturned face. “At that moment, my heart became yours. And if you’ll have me, Cabin Number Three, I’ll give life to your dreams, bear your sorrows, and I swear,” he said, his eyes dark with the joy of concession, “I’ll never let you fall.”

With only the sound of his breathing as background noise, she stood weighted by eyes that held her as tightly as his hands, ones that saw only with his heart. And she tucked his words inside her heart, the need to preserve them, to stop time and safeguard this moment overwhelming.

“It’s too late, Logan,” she said, tears filling her eyes. “I already have.”

Memories were shaken free but none could compare to his presence and promise of his words, prying open a heart once tightly sealed. This man gave all of himself or nothing at all. Of that, she was sure. Yet, she had let him go. A decision she cared not to repeat. And never would again.

Ryleigh stepped into his arms, his response as solid and strong around her as she remembered. She fitted against the hollow of his chest, a place both newly acquainted and comfortably familiar and she took title to all of him, the inside and the out, both broken and whole. And in her next breath, she relinquished her fears back to him.

Logan held her in trembling arms and kissed the trail of tears, absorbing each silent cry of her heart, filling the cavern of empty space his absence had left. Her tears fell warm and wet against him, a soothing ointment for two lost souls. They remained quiet in each other’s arms, the pieces of their world falling back together.

The moisture on his cheek echoed hers, and she touched them, fear and sadness shifting beneath her fingers. A hesitant smile rose with her touch. She traced the lines anchoring his dimples down to the cleft in his chin and then sketched the outline of his lips as if she had been blind and was seeing him for the first time.

“God, I’ve missed you,” she whispered. “You have no idea.”

Relief softened his eyes and erased the remaining apprehension written in the lines of his face. “I’ve held priceless treasures in my hands only to see them slip away and I believed I could never love again. Then you came to me, and I let you slip away too. But you never let go. Awake or in sleep, you never left me. Yes,
amore mio
, I think I know.”