She had lived next door for six years and had never once considered privacy a virtue.
That night, it saved me.
“Reid, why are there babies on the porch?”
“They’re Callan’s.”
Her eyes widened.
“All three?”
I held up the note.
“He left them.”
“Left them where?”
“Here.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know.”
Mrs. Fenwick snatched the receipt from my hand.
She read it twice.
Then she pressed one palm against her chest.
“Oh, that foolish man.”
Elowen had brought the triplets to visit twice during the summer.
Mrs. Fenwick had spent both visits leaning over their stroller, praising their eyelashes and demanding to know which girl was which.
Elowen had explained their names and birth weights with the seriousness of a military briefing.
Now Mrs. Fenwick knelt beside the car seats.
“You cannot raise three babies alone.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know the first thing about babies.”
“I know.”
“You once tried to warm soup in a metal bowl inside the microwave.”
“That happened one time.”
“It happened twice.”
The smallest baby began moving her hands.
One tiny fist opened and closed, searching.
I lowered myself onto the porch boards.
Her fingers closed around my index finger.
The grip was warm and surprisingly strong for a six-month-old child.
I stopped breathing.
“That one is Maisie,” Mrs. Fenwick said quietly. “Elowen said the smallest would always be Maisie.”
“Maisie.”
