She nestled herself against his chest, the pungent summer air a soothing breath of pine and moss. And him. “Crickets and owls, but no stars tonight.”
“There will always be stars, Cabin Number Three,” he said, lifting her chin. “They’re God’s creation and He won’t let them die. But if they should, there will be fireflies to fill the darkest nights,” he said, tracing the faded splash of freckles under her eyes. “But you’ve never seen stars as brilliant as those under the Tuscan moon.” Mischief danced in his eyes. “Come with me to the Tuscany Valley.”
Ryleigh gasped. “Italy,” she said, more a statement than question.
He nodded.
Excitement swallowed her normal voice. “The country shaped like a boot? Across the Atlantic?”
“Where the true Dolomite Mountains rise on the horizon.” He paused. “I’m contemplating the purchase of a property with a small vineyard I think would make a fine addition to Wentworth-Cavanaugh Properties. Please say you’ll come with me. I’ll need help testing the wine the vineyard produces.”
“Logan, I can’t. I’ve never been out of the country. I don’t have a passport.”
Logan chuckled. “I have connections.”
“Of course you do. Speed dial three? Or four? Legal? Or not so much?”
Logan laughed again and pulled her close, her head buried in his chest.
As if written into the perfect script, everything seemed to fall into place and there wasn’t a trickle of doubt she loved him. Maybe it was the way she knew he would always be there in subtle ways—presenting her with a shiny pebble or a book of poetry simply because he knew she adored Frost, or in obvious ways—the day he’d saved her from the river. To trust someone so immediately and completely, yes, she knew. Maybe it was the answer she’d longed for while trying to sidestep a malignant past. Maybe the answers to prayers aren’t exactly what you ask for, but what is destined. Memories filtered through her mind with refined intricacy and would always be there—not as the haunted memories that made up so much of her past, but cherished and treasured—the kind belonging in a treasure chest.
After a long pause, she answered. “Eighteen months ago, I wandered through the days as if in shadow. Now the only shadow I want to see is yours. Next to mine.” She paused. “How can I say no? Besides, we can’t let Rose’s Italian lessons go to waste.”
Logan laughed aloud, lightly stroking her back. “Did you know Longfellow mentions the word wauwatosa in ‘Hiawatha’?”
“What’s it mean?”
“It’s Chippewa for lightning bug.” Taking her arms, he slowly turned her around. “Fireflies, Cabin Number Three.”
The evening came alive as hundreds of fireflies lit up the creek bed, a twinkling myriad of silent song, a trail of yellow-green ribbons in their wake.
She glanced at Logan. He laughed quietly. Leaning into the bridge rail, she reached for them, luminescent teardrops just beyond her reach. “Fairy lights, Logan, magical fairy lights. I never dreamed…tiny falling stars. The essence of dreams.” She reached to touch one and its light blinked, as if they were winking, relaying some magical language of secrets.
THE REFLECTION IN
her eyes was as wondrous as a child’s, and he would never tire of the feeling it gave him. Beautiful and talented, gentle and passionate, she had captured him with her unsophisticated innocence and natural charm. He’d been drawn to her as a moth would a light and had fallen for every inch of her, an angel God had surely blessed him with.
‘Even in darkness light dawns for the upright.’
Sometimes choices aren’t choices at all.
He watched as she marveled at the fireflies; he simply marveled at her.
“Your dreams are my dreams now, Cabin Number Three. To keep safe, to treasure and to ensure every one comes true. If I do nothing but fulfill my promise to love you for the rest of my life, I promise you fireflies for the rest of yours.”
Ryleigh leaned into his embrace. The hunger to please her, to fulfill her dreams deepened. The air hung heavy. Birds and crickets stilled. Even the wind paused and held its breath, and his world fell into balance.
Raindrops pattered on the bridge. A smattering at first and then as the fireflies winked and disappeared, fell in a light drizzle.
“It’s raining, Logan.”
“That it is.”
“Shouldn’t we go?”
“Soon, Cabin Number Three.” And he took her in his arms. “Dance with me first.”
And they did.
As the rain soaked their clothes, they danced to the rhythm of the falling rain.
“You must learn to dance in the rain,” she said, raindrops clinging to her lashes.
“Always.” Logan brushed rain-soaked hair from her face. “I do so love you, Miss Ryleigh. You’ve captured half my heart here among the fireflies.”
“Only half?”
“I lost the other half in the Rocky Mountains beneath a blanket of snow.”
RAINDROPS BLURRED HER
vision. They gathered on Logan’s cheeks and trickled from the curls of his hair. He had come into her life unexpectedly, his attraction deliberate yet slow, content to stand beside her, to let her set the pace. Though she thought he’d been lost to her, he had come for her and she saw none of the loneliness, none of the sadness behind his soulful eyes. There she saw the man complete and beautifully made, the one who understood her with all her secrets and still chose her. Like the reflection witnessed in a granite wall, the past had merged with the present and their memories were simply that. Memories. Defining who they were, but no longer haunting them.
The drizzle lightened and then let up for good. The air stirred with cricket-song. A host of fireflies emerged from the banks of the creek, their beacons shining through the mist. Logan took her in his arms and kissed her sweetly. She disappeared into his shoulder, where she belonged—not somewhere, but to someone—in the sanctuary of his kiss and the safe haven of his embrace.
Comfortable.
Safe.
Home.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
One Writer’s Confessions
I BELIEVE IN
fairy tales, so when Ryleigh and Logan popped into my dream in a sleigh drawn by two very large horses, I knew I had to write their story. I need to thank them first and foremost for not abandoning me, and for their ever-present (and sometimes annoying) banter inside my head. With their story complete, maybe they’ll allow me to get some sleep.
Now, to answer your questions concerning Ambrose--yes, he’s a puzzling character, and no, I’m not going to reveal his secrets. Not yet. But if you happen to catch a glimpse of a tall, lanky man with frowzy hair who walks with a decided limp, do say hello. You never know where or when he’ll show up.
No story would ever be told without those who help along the way. To my husband, Bruce, I owe you. Big time. Without you, the dust bunnies would have morphed into dinosaurs, Mercedes would have signed herself into a shelter for abandoned dogs, and doubt and fear would have completely consumed me. You’re the constant in my life. My rock. And I love you. To my son, Adam—I wish I had a smidgeon of your ambition and courage. Watching you exhibit yours has kept me reaching for my dream and for that, I admire you. My love for you is a given. Always. And to my friends—thank you for tolerating my reclusive tendencies over the life of this project. And by the way, I’m free this Friday—if you haven’t given up on me.
As I was writing the final draft, Logan informed me he intended to purchase a vineyard in Italy (now you tell me) and I soon discovered Google couldn’t translate the foreign phrases into the dialects I needed. So, to Tyana Bennett, for translating them into Italian the way they should be, and to my niece, Jessica Nagy, for her help with the Spanish phrases—I thank you both for your efforts. I take full responsibility for any discrepancies that may have occurred.
Some of the locations used in this story are very real, but I’ve taken liberties to create the necessary elements of the world where my characters live and love. You may be familiar with these locations, but perhaps not the buildings, businesses, streets, etc., within their boundaries because they are products of my imagination. It’s the best of both worlds!
And I raise my glass to these incredible individuals:
To my editor, Michelle Kowalski, who took her red pen to my love affair with the comma and turned my words around. To Anne Pisacano, beta reader/critique partner and traveling buddy extraordinaire, and my proofreaders, Arlene Hittle and Karen Phylow, who found the discrepancies, dots and dashes I missed.
To Elizabeth Mackey—you took my flimsy ideas and turned them into an extraordinary cover. You’re a brilliant graphic designer and I can’t wait to see what you have in store for future projects.
To the members of Northern Arizona RWA—what can I say? You opened your arms to a terrified newbie and with your warm welcome, guidance, and unfailing encouragement, I left my comfort zone and got ‘er done. You guys ROCK! And to the members of the Women’s Fiction Writers Association—you’re my tribe—I love you guys.
To EMT Laurie Lindell, a huge applause for walking me through the symptoms, stages, and recovery for hypothermia. Sorry, Laurie, some rubbing of cold flesh did occur. For once in her life, Ryleigh chose not to follow the rules.
To Shawn Haught, attorney extraordinaire (and one crazy relative I’ll claim any old day) for your expertise on copyright laws, even though it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. Sigh.
To Alice Crosbie for sharing her stories of Ballston Spa, NY. It didn’t take long to know I wanted to set part of my story in this quaint village. And to the Ballston Spa Town Historian for sending me the details of your visit in the Village Cemetery. The cemetery scenes came to life because of your assistance.
And to D’Elen McClain. My mentor. My confidante. My “person”. Without you, the fireflies in my world would never have taken wing to shine their light. I believe people come into our lives at precisely the right time and I’m grateful you entered mine and took me under your wing. I love you, you crazy blond. Your next slice of Starbucks’ lemon loaf is on me.
To songwriters everywhere—you are indeed, modern day poets. Your words offer both comfort and inspiration on a daily basis.
And finally to you, cherished reader—you’ll forever be a part of my treasure chest. I hope you enjoyed Ryleigh’s journey as much as I did writing it, and remember always—
Love is Ageless--and has the power to change lives...one step, one touch, one kiss at a time
.
~ Susan
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A Companion book of poetry from the journals of Ryleigh and Ryan
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