Chapter 1 - THE BIRTHMARK
“Take your hand off her.”
Thomas Ashford’s voice sliced through the restaurant.
But his wife didn’t move.
Margaret Ashford was standing beside the table, gripping the young waitress by the wrist as if letting go would make the girl disappear.
The room had gone quiet.
Forks stopped halfway to mouths. A wineglass hovered in a man’s hand. Somewhere near the kitchen, a plate hit the floor.
Margaret didn’t hear any of it.
She was staring at the back of the waitress’s right hand.
At the small, heart-shaped birthmark near her thumb.
“Please,” Margaret whispered. “Tell me you were born with this.”
The waitress stared at her.
She looked about twenty-two. Dark brown hair tied in a messy ponytail. Tired blue eyes. A cheap silver name tag pinned to her black uniform.
EMILY.
“Yes,” Emily said slowly. “I’ve had it my whole life.”
Margaret’s knees nearly gave out.
Thomas stood from his chair.
“Margaret.”
She ignored him.
Twenty-two years disappeared in an instant.
She was back in St. Catherine’s Hospital, holding a newborn girl against her chest.
Tiny fingers.
Soft cries.
A nurse laughing because the baby had a perfect little heart on her hand.
Then came the fire.
Smoke.
Alarms.
People screaming.
Margaret being dragged down a hallway while she screamed for her daughter.
And the next morning—
“She died.”
That was what Thomas had told her.
Not a doctor.
Not a nurse.
Thomas.
Margaret looked up at her husband now.
He had gone completely pale.
That frightened her more than anything.
She reached into her handbag.
Her hands shook so badly she nearly dropped the old silver locket.
“Do you have one like this?” she asked Emily.
Emily’s expression changed.
“What?”
“This necklace.”
Emily took one step back.
Then another.
Thomas moved toward them.
“This is ridiculous.”
Margaret snapped around.
“Stay where you are.”
Something in her voice stopped him.
Emily slowly reached under the collar of her uniform.
When she pulled out the necklace, Margaret stopped breathing.
An old silver oval.
A tiny rose carved into the front.
A dent along the lower edge.
The exact same dent.
Margaret opened hers.
Inside was an engraved letter.
M.
Emily opened her own.
Inside was another letter.
E.
Thomas whispered, “No.”
Margaret heard him.
So did Emily.
Emily looked at Thomas.
“You know this necklace?”
“No.”
“You just said no.”
“I said this whole thing is insane.”
Margaret turned on him.
“You told me my baby burned to death.”
“She did.”
“Then explain this.”
“I can’t.”
“Try.”
His jaw tightened.
Emily looked between them.
“My foster mother gave me this when I turned eighteen,” she said. “She told me I had it when I was found.”
Margaret’s eyes filled.
“Found where?”
Emily hesitated.
“A convent outside Providence.”
Margaret swallowed.
“What was it called?”
“Saint Anne’s.”
Thomas knocked his wineglass off the table.
It shattered.
Margaret stared at him.
Twenty-two years ago, Thomas’s older sister, Ruth, had been a nun’s assistant at Saint Anne’s.
Margaret had visited her there twice.
Thomas began reaching for Emily.
“We’re leaving.”
Emily jerked away.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Margaret, get your purse.”
“No.”
His eyes hardened.
“I said we’re leaving.”
“And I said no.”
The restaurant manager hurried over.
“Emily?”
She turned.
He looked nervous.
“There’s a man outside asking for you.”
“What man?”
“He wouldn’t give his name.”
Emily glanced toward the front windows.
A black sedan sat at the curb.
Beside it stood a tall gray-haired man in a dark coat.
He was holding a photograph against the glass.
Margaret saw it from across the room.
Her stomach dropped.
It was a photograph of her.
Twenty-two years younger.
Lying in a hospital bed.
Holding her newborn daughter.
But there was something else in the picture.
Something Margaret had never seen before.
In the background, standing beside the hospital door, was Thomas.
May you like
And in his arms—
was a second baby.
