I Hid Your Triplets, Why Did They Crash Your Engagement novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Dinner for Four

Rafe turns up at her duplex with groceries and the kids make him stay for nuggets; as he sees their beds, Daphne rings the bell with wine.

My mother was waiting on the porch of our duplex with her coat on and her purse in her lap.

Rafe's question had followed me home. Did you ever get my letters? I had not answered it. I had no letters to get.

"Before you say anything," she said, "I am sixty-one years old and I would do it again."

I carried Ivy past her and set her on the couch.

Rory and Teddy followed, still arguing over who had gotten the best look at Rafe's shoes.

"Mom. You took them to a ballroom."

"They asked me to."

"They're five."

"They're five, and Ivy wrote the plan on a napkin."

My mother pulled a crumpled napkin from her purse and held it out.

"Read it."

The napkin said, in purple marker and a lot of backwards letters:

Step 1. Find Dad.

Step 2. Get his spit.

Step 3. Tell everybody.

"It was a month ago," Ivy said from the couch.

"At the new hospital wing. He cut the ribbon and drank from a cup."

"And I took it out of the trash," Rory said.

"Grandma's friend works in a lab," Teddy added.

"She said it is not allowed. But she did it anyway, because of the napkin."

I sat down on the coffee table in front of them.

"How did you know it was him?"

Ivy went to my bedroom without being told.

She came back with the photograph I kept in my sock drawer.

In it, Rafe stood on a dock with his sleeves rolled up, squinting at the sun with his grey eyes.

"He has our face," she said. "And you keep him with your socks."

I did not have an answer for that.

Teddy patted my knee. "You're not in trouble, Mommy. It was only a very big surprise."

At ten to eight the doorbell rang.

My mother and I looked at each other.

"The lab report has the address on it," she said. "Ours, since I paid for it."

I opened the door a few inches.

Rafe stood on the porch in his tuxedo with the tie gone and two paper grocery bags in his arms.

A box of chicken nuggets stuck out of the top of one.

In the other I could see apple slices, three juice boxes and a stuffed rabbit with the tag still on.

"I didn't know what they eat," he said. "I asked the girl at the store. She said nuggets."

"Rafe, it's not a good night."

"I know."

"You can't just come to my house."

"I know that too." He held the bags a little higher.

"I'll leave these on the step if you tell me to. But I would like to see them eat something, just once. Then I'll go."

Behind me, three small feet pounded across the floor.

"Is it him?" Rory shouted. "Is it Dad?"

I closed my eyes.

Rafe heard it. I watched the word reach him and settle, and his hand tightened on the grocery bag.

"Let him in, Mommy," Teddy said. "He brought juice."

So I stepped back, and Rafe Hartwell walked into my house for the first time.

He ate chicken nuggets at our kitchen table, on the booster seat Ivy insisted he use.

His knees came up nearly to his ears.

He answered every question they threw at him.

Yes, he had a dog, a retriever who was very fat and very loved.

No, he did not know how to whistle with two fingers.

Yes, he was the man on the hotel posters, and yes, he owned the elevators.

"All of them?" Rory asked.

"All the ones in my hotels."

"Can I ride in one?"

"Rory," I said.

"Anytime," Rafe said, and Rory turned to me with his fists in the air.

When Teddy dropped his nugget, Rafe picked it up and put it on his own plate without being asked.

I did not want to notice that.

After dinner he stood in the doorway of the kids' room and looked at the three beds.

Each had its own blanket and a wooden letter above the pillow.

He didn't touch anything.

"Which one came first?" he asked quietly.

"Rory. By four minutes." My voice was steadier than I felt. "Ivy, then Teddy."

"Rory, Ivy, Teddy." He said the names once more under his breath. "Who picked them?"

"I did."

He nodded, and his jaw worked once.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He took it out and glanced at the screen, and I saw fourteen missed calls, all from the same name.

Daphne.

He turned the phone face down against his leg.

Then the doorbell rang again, twice, fast.

I opened the front door.

Daphne stood on my porch in her white party dress and a wool coat, a bottle of wine in each hand.

Her mascara had run in two black tracks down her face.

"Mags," she said. "Please. Let me in."

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