Free A Promise of Fireflies by Susan Haught Page A

seen her talking to herself, or to an empty car. She rummaged in her purse for the address to O’Neil’s Pharmacy in Ballston Spa, touched the navigation screen, and waited for Barnabas to wake up. “Okay, big guy. Here we go. First stop, O’Neil’s.” Ryleigh held her breath until the route appeared on the screen.
    The burly voice directed her to the route, but her body refused her brain’s command to move. What was she thinking? How’d she get to the other side of the continent searching for someone she knew nothing about? She’d rarely been out of Hidden Falls, let alone Arizona, and she was definitely no Sherlock Holmes—she detested pipes. And magnifying glasses (which were much too similar to peepholes) gave her the creeps.
    Nothing, excluding the sun (the same one that shone over Arizona) was familiar. The air hung heavier, the sky a murkier blue. Strangers bustled about. Maids knocked on doors. Travelers loaded luggage into cars with unfamiliar license plates. Everyone had a purpose. They knew what they were doing or where they were going. She knew neither. A rapacious urge to flee tingled down her arms and skirted her middle. Keep it simple, they’d said. Find Ambrose and come home . She eased the gas pedal. The voice boldly told her to stay on the route around the lake.
    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