Page 6 of Silver Fox's Secret Triplets
The introductions went smoothly enough. Sammy warmed to her immediately, chattering about his toy trucks, while Elena remained reserved but polite. Chrissy studied Lauren with the intense scrutiny she reserved for new people, her little face serious as she decided whether this stranger could be trusted with her carefully ordered world.
We settled in the living room while I went through the routine—nap times, snack preferences, emergency contacts. Lauren listened attentively, occasionally asking questions about allergies or favorite activities. The normalcy of it felt strange after so many months of handling everything alone.
"So," Lauren said when I finished, her voice taking on the careful tone people used when they wanted to ask personal questions without seeming intrusive. "You've been in Maine this whole time?"
"Bar Harbor." I folded the paper with the pediatrician's number and placed it on the coffee table. "It's quiet there. Good for them."
"And their father?"
The question arrived quietly, without fanfare, but it wasn't unexpected. I had been waiting for it—from Lauren, from my parents, from everyone who would eventually learn about the triplets' existence. The prepared answers I had rehearsed felt inadequate now, sitting in this room where I had once believed my biggest problem was convincing my father to let me study abroad.
"That's not important," I said.
Lauren's expression shifted, concern replacing curiosity. "Ivy, you know you can talk to me, right? Whatever happened?—"
"I said it's not important." The sharpness in my voice surprised both of us. I forced a smile, the practiced expression I had perfected during three years of deflecting questions from well-meaning neighbors and acquaintances. "Some things are better left in the past."
The uncomfortable, heavy silence stretched between us. Lauren nodded slowly, understanding that this particular door had been closed and would not be opened again. She turned her attention back to the children, asking Chrissy about the book she was clutching, and the moment passed.
But the damage had been done. The easy familiarity we had shared in high school felt strained now, marked by the realization that I had become someone she didn't recognize. The girl who had shared every secret with her best friend had learned to keep the ones that could destroy everything.
I left them in the living room and retreated to the kitchen to gather my purse and keys. My hands shook as I checked my phone for the address of my new job—a temporary position at a company I hadn't bothered to research. The agency had called yesterday afternoon while I was sitting in the hospital waiting room, watching my mother sleep off the effects of her latest treatment. I had accepted the position without asking questionsbecause I needed work immediately, needed the distraction and the income and the excuse to leave this house every day.
My father found me there, standing by the kitchen island with my back to the doorway. I didn't hear him approach, but I felt his presence—the way the air seemed to thicken when William Whitmore entered a room with an agenda.
"We need to talk." The talk he intended to have would not be happening now, and hopefully not soon, either. When he got called away on a work emergency three days ago, I reveled in the reprieve. There was no way I was opening that box today before I started my new job.
I turned to face him, noting the rigid set of his shoulders beneath his expensive suit jacket. His gray hair was perfectly styled, his tie knotted with military precision, his expression that of a man accustomed to getting answers to his questions.
"I'm going to be late for work," I said.
"This conversation is three years overdue." He moved closer, his voice dropping to the tone he used in business negotiations when he wanted to intimidate his opponents. "You disappeared without explanation, kept my grandchildren from me, lied to your mother and me for years. I think I deserve some answers."
"You deserve?" The words came out sharper than I intended. "I don't owe you anything."
His jaw tightened. "You owe me the truth. Who is their father, Ivy? Was it that boy from college? The one who called here looking for you after you left?"
"No." Shame danced in my chest and flushed my cheeks. He was taking a stab and missing, but when he saw them I saw the recognition on his face. Maybe he was just in denial.
"Then who? Someone from Maine? Someone you met after you ran away from your responsibilities here?"
Each question felt calculated to corner me, to force me into revealing information I had protected for three years. Iremained silent, watching his frustration build as he realized his interrogation tactics weren't working on me anymore.
"You've embarrassed this family," he said finally. "Sneaking around, having children out of wedlock, lying about where you were and what you were doing. Your mother has been beside herself with worry, and you?—"
"Don't." The word came out low and dangerous. "Don't you dare blame me for Mom's condition."
"I'm not talking about her cancer. I'm talking about the stress you've put her through, the sleepless nights wondering what happened to her daughter, whether you were safe, whether you were?—"
"I was twenty when I left." My voice rose despite my efforts to keep it level. "Twenty and scared and completely unprepared for what was happening to me. I did what I thought was best."
"Best for who? Certainly not for your family."
The accusation hit its mark, settling into the guilt I had carried for four years. He was right, in part. I had made my choices based on fear and shame, not rational consideration of who might be hurt by my silence. But admitting that would open doors I couldn't afford to unlock.
He was violently angry when I let it slip at nineteen years old that I didn't think dating a man Duncan's age would be horrible. When I let it slip after my cousin’s wedding, on a night I had a few underage drinks, that Duncan was a good-looking man. Dad threatened to send me away to a college out of state just to "protect my innocence". I knew what telling him I was pregnant would do to this entire family. I kept my secret for a reason.
My mother appeared in the doorway, her silk robe tied loosely around her diminished frame. The chemotherapy had stolen twenty pounds from her already small body, leaving her looking fragile and ethereal. Her blonde hair, once her pride,was hidden beneath a soft pink scarf that matched the shadows under her eyes.
