Free A Promise of Fireflies by Susan Haught Page B

above half-moon spectacles.
    “Do you know where I can find him?”
    “Sure,” he answered with a fair amount of smugness. “Take this street to the end and hang a left. You’ll find him way in the back under six feet of frozen dirt.”
    “Oh.” Ryleigh blinked. “I’m sorry,” she said, wondering if all New Yorkers were this flippant. “May I ask when he died?”
    “Alfred, are you giving my customers a hard time again?” The squeaky voice belonged to a round-faced man who had shuffled to the counter, his smile so wide his eyes had all but disappeared. “I’m Casey O’Neil. You must not be from around here if you don’t know about Ambrose. And yes, he worked here for many years.”
    “Pleased to meet you, Casey. I’m Ryleigh Collins,” she said with an inward cringe. Should she have used an alias? Detectives and sleuths did, but that option died with her opening her big mouth. She extended her hand. “My mother knew Ambrose.”
    He took her hand in both of his. “Hmmm. Been five years now since he passed.” Casey scrutinized her closely.
    “It’s not him,” Ryleigh mumbled, reclaiming her hands. Casey threw Alfred a quizzical look. “This letter,” she said, digging in her satchel, “is from him. But it’s not the same man. I’m sure of it.” She pointed to the envelope. “The postmark is only four years old.”
    “I’m sorry, Miss Collins,” Casey said, his eyes fully visible. “But it seems you’re quite correct.”
    Alfred removed his spectacles and placed them atop his shiny head. “Sorry I was rude.”
    Casey rolled his skimpy eyes. “You’re always rude, Alfred.”
    “Thank you both for your help.” Ryleigh faked a smile. “You don’t know another Ambrose around here by chance?”
    “It’s not a common name.” Casey’s face contorted in concentration. “I’m the only pharmacist in the village, so if this Ambrose needed meds of any kind, he’d have to come to me.” He wrinkled his chin. “Unless he goes to the Springs or Albany.” Casey’s eyes disappeared once again into his smile. “Good luck, Miss Collins. I hope you find your mother’s friend.”
    “I do too,” she said with a shy smile. “And it’s Mrs.” …at least for another day or two . She made her way back through the store, the little bell escorting her outside.
    She leaned against the building and made a quick Google search for him. Nothing. Just as Evan had said. The sun had burned through the clouds, warming the afternoon air. The weather had turned for the better, but her day hadn’t. Disheartened, she strolled along the sidewalk, pausing at a wide storefront. Bing Crosby’s smooth version of“White Christmas” crooned from overhead speakers. Smoke chuffed from a toy train as it circled a quaint village and gingerbread houses lined one end.
    “Best gingerbread in New York.” The old man had startled her, but his crooked smile was warm and friendly. The aroma of fresh gingerbread wafted through the doorway as he stepped inside the bakery.
    Her gaze returned to the window and in the center of the tiny village, skaters whirled in dizzying circles on an icy pond. And then her eyes settled on the crèche and baby Jesus. Where had the time gone when Evan would have stood on tiptoe, wide-eyed at wonders just like these? When had life pulled the plug on the simplicity of everyday things? And the unity of family? Of her family?
    She cinched her scarf and kept walking.
    Uncertain what to do next, Ryleigh crossed the street to the coffee shop hoping to clear her head and come up with Plan B. With no address or phone number for the second Ambrose on her list, she was lost as to how to find him. But Ballston Spa surely had a newspaper. Or a library. Both were worth looking into.
    Within a minute Ryleigh was sitting in the Koffee Kettle warming her hands on a steaming caramel latte. A small, fat candle flickered in its nest of Christmas holly as she watched the locals pass by.
    A young barista