Page 2 of Silver Fox's Secret Triplets
I wondered if he ever thought about me.
Boston looked exactly as I'd left it, the narrow streets lined with brick townhouses, the gas lamps that glowed even in daylight, the sense that time moved differently here than in the rest of the world. I parked in front of the house I'd grown up in—four stories of perfectly maintained Federal architecture, complete with a garden my mother tended obsessively and shutters painted the exact shade of green she'd special-ordered from a company in Connecticut.
The triplets woke as I turned off the engine. My heart hammered against my ribs as I unbuckled them one by one, lifting them from their car seats and setting them on thesidewalk. They clustered around my legs, uncertain and clingy in the way that meant they sensed my anxiety.
"Mama, where are we?" Chrissy tugged on my jeans, her blue eyes wide with curiosity.
"We're going to visit Grandma and Grandpa," I told her, though the words felt foreign in my mouth. They'd never met their grandparents. In their world, family consisted of me and Chelsea and the other children at the playground we visited on sunny afternoons.
I carried Elena while Sammy and Chrissy walked beside me up the front steps. The brass knocker gleamed in the afternoon sun, polished to perfection by the housekeeper my mother employed twice a week. I hesitated before ringing the bell, my finger hovering over the button.
Once I pressed it, there would be no going back.
The door opened before I could change my mind. My father stood in the doorway, and for a moment, neither of us moved. He looked older than his forty-eight years, his dark hair now laced with gray, lines carved deep around his eyes.
Then his gaze dropped to the children pressed against my legs.
The color drained from his face.
"Jesus Christ." The words came out in a whisper, but they cut through the afternoon air between us. His eyes moved from one child to the next, taking in their dark hair, their blue eyes, the unmistakable resemblance that I'd prayed he wouldn't notice.
But he noticed. I could see it in the way his jaw tightened, in the way his hands clenched at his sides.
"Bill? Who's at the door?" My mother's voice drifted from somewhere inside the house.
My father didn't answer. He kept staring at the children, his face cycling through shock, understanding, and finally, a cold fury that made my stomach clench.
"How old are they?" His voice was deadly quiet.
"Three." The word barely made it past my lips.
He did the math in seconds. I watched him count backward from the present to the night I'd left, watched him reach the inevitable conclusion that made his face go white with rage.
"Three years old." He repeated it slowly, as if testing the words. "Three years, Ivy?"
My mother appeared behind him, and the moment she saw me, her face crumpled. She looked frailer than in the photos she'd sent, her cheekbones sharp beneath pale skin, but her eyes were the same clear blue I remembered.
"Oh, sweetheart." She stepped forward, her hands reaching for me, but then she noticed the children and stopped short.
The suffocating silence stretched between us. Elena squirmed in my arms, babbling "Mama, Mama" in her clear voice. The sound seemed to snap my father out of his shock.
"Inside." His voice carried the authority I remembered from childhood, the tone that brooked no argument. "Now. We're not having this conversation on the front step."
He stepped back, and I guided the children into the foyer I hadn't seen since the night I'd left. The Persian rug still covered the marble floor, and my mother's collection of antique vases still lined the mahogany table. Everything smelled faintly of the lavender sachets she kept in every closet.
But the familiar surroundings felt alien now, tainted by the tension crackling between my parents and me.
Chrissy and Sammy stared up at the crystal chandelier hanging above us, their mouths open in wonder. Elena squirmed to be put down, and when I set her on her feet, she immediately toddled toward the staircase.
"No, baby." I scooped her up before she could start climbing. "These aren't for little hands."
My mother watched this interaction with an expression I couldn't read. When she finally spoke, her voice was carefully controlled, but I heard the tremor underneath.
"They're beautiful." Her eyes lingered on Elena's dark curls, on Sammy's solemn blue gaze, on Chrissy's animated chatter. "They look…"
She didn't finish the sentence, but I knew what she was thinking. They looked familiar. They had features that didn't come from me alone.
"We need to talk." My father's voice cut through the moment. "But first, let's get them settled. They look tired."
