Chapter 2 - identical eyes
"Bring them inside," Mabel said immediately, brushing past Spencer’s frozen form before he could issue an order. Her maternal instincts bypassed every security protocol Spencer had spent millions establishing. She reached down, wrapping her warm hands around the girl’s shoulders, gently steering her past the threshold into the radiant heat of the foyer. "Come in, darling. Right this way. Get out of that wind."
Spencer slammed the heavy door shut against the howling storm, turning the deadbolt with a sharp, metallic snap. He turned around, his pulse hammering against his ribs in an unfamiliar, violent rhythm.
"Mabel, don't let anyone touch anything until Daniel gets here," Spencer commanded, his voice tight.
"This child is turning blue, Spencer," Mabel replied without looking at him, leading the girl into the formal living room near the roaring stone fireplace. "Your security can wait ten minutes."
Charlee stood on the Persian rug, water pooling around her worn sneakers. She refused to let go of the bundle. Her small knuckles were white, her shoulders hunched protectively over the newborn.
"You can let me take him, sweet girl," Mabel murmured softly, kneeling on the floor beside her with a thick, warm fleece throw. "I’ll make sure he’s warm. Look at me. You're safe here."
Charlee looked up at Spencer first. She examined his tall, imposing figure, his muscular shoulders, the dark tattoos visible at his wrists, and the grim, guarded set of his jaw. She seemed to be looking for permission, or perhaps searching for a lie. Slowly, she stepped toward the coffee table and allowed Mabel to support the baby's weight as they unwrapped the torn plastic.
"He didn't cry once on the bus," Charlee whispered, her breath hitching. "I had two dollars. The driver let me ride to the gate."
Spencer stepped closer. The baby was dressed in soft cream-colored footie pajamas beneath the blanket. The infant was tiny, perhaps only a week or two old, his breathing shallow but steady. As Mabel gently lifted the wet wool away, a folded white envelope taped securely to the underside of the blanket tore free and fell face-down onto the glass tabletop.
Spencer did not touch the child. He reached for the envelope.
The paper was heavy linen stock, embossed with a watermark he had not seen in nearly four years: St. Jude Reproductive Health Institute. But it was not the logo that made his hand tighten until the paper crinkled.
Across the front, written in elegant, looping blue ink that he would recognize anywhere on earth, were five words:
spencer's legacy - forgive me.
The handwriting belonged to Dr. Pamela Ortiz. His former fiancée.
A faint whimper broke the silence. On the velvet sofa, the newborn stirred against the dry towels Mabel had wrapped around him. The tiny fists stretched out, batting weakly at the warm air. Slowly, the baby’s eyelids fluttered, parting to reveal eyes that were not the hazy, slate-blue of a standard newborn.
They were piercing, unmistakable gray-blue. Ringed with a distinctive dark slate band around the iris.
The exact, mirror image of Spencer Warren’s eyes.
May you like
Spencer froze. The room seemed to recede, the crackle of the fireplace fading into a distant roar. He stared down at the infant’s face, looking at the sharp cleft in the tiny chin, the dark hair, the gaze that stared up into the chandelier light with absolute clarity.
Charlee reached out a trembling, dirty finger and touched the edge of the baby's blanket. "I told you," she whispered softly. "He looks just like you."
