Page 9 of Promise

My heart fills with love, like the slow slosh of the first pour of liquid into an empty cup.

Stone clears his throat. “Gives me time to find the girl. Talk to her.”

The case worker gives Stone a skeptical glance.

“I’m happy to keep her a few days,” I acknowledge, drawing the child service worker’s gaze back toward me. She gives me a grateful smile. She’s just as overworked as I am. And I briefly wonder if she overworks herself to drown loneliness, like I do. Helping others compensates for being alone.

She already knows about my extensive background. The formal education and hours of experience in my line of work are on file with the state. I’m clearly qualified to take care of a baby.

Emotionally, however, this is a lot to process.

An hour ago, I was preparing for book club, ready to buy myself a new self-soothing plaything after a rough day at the hospital, and now . . .

I gaze down at the sleeping baby once more. Her little lips pursed, occasionally quivering. A natural instinct to suckle. Her eyelids flutter again, a sign she is dreaming. She doesn’t have eyelashes yet, but her cheeks are pink cherries.

She’s perfect. And apparently, mine. For now.

Again, I glance at my mother. Her dark eyes are damp with both love and concern. She’ll support any decision I make.

Within twenty minutes of my stunned call to her, she was here, baby formula and diapers in hand, plus infant hand-me-downs from my niece, Ruby James.

Which reminds me, this baby needs a name. Something precious like her. Something unique.

“I think I’ll call her … Mirabelle.”

Wonderous miracle.

4

[Trinity]

It’s been four days, maybe five, since Mirabelle came to me. The days and nights are running together because I have not been sleeping.

While Stone sorted out the background of Marissa Olsen and the mysterious nanny, Mirabelle remained with me. Then, child protective services returned, wanting to know how I’d like to proceed with Mirabelle.

The answer was instant. Adoption, please.

Baby Girl was going to become Mirabelle Mary Rivers.

I hadn’t kept my maiden name when I married Dart. I’d been proud to be his wife, excited about the idea. The new name felt like a fresh start, which was silly, really, because I wasn’t any different than I’d been before I married him.

But I was certainly different after the divorce.

And while I introduced myself to everyone as Trinity Haven, legally, my name remained Trinity Rivers.

In the NICU, babies are often put on intense schedules for feeding and sleeping, the two necessities for growing stronger when a baby is premature, as Mirabelle had been. She’d been born a month earlier than her due date, but she hadn’t needed the intensive care unit for long. Her development showed no signs of distress or delay.

Just a normal five-week-old at this point.

Because of her schedule, Mirabelle needed to eat every three hours around the clock, and I woke up from her small cry just after ten.

After lifting her sleepy form out of the bassinet that belonged to my brother Clint when his daughter was an infant, I carry Mirabelle down the dark staircase and along the hallway leading toward the kitchen.

Then . . . I stop right before my toes cross into the room at the back of the house.

A cold chill runs down my spine.

Certain I am imagining things, I take a hesitant step backward, not even turning around to retrace the distance. As if I can reverse time. My second step is a slightly longer stride, setting my foot quietly behind me, so as not to disturb what I really hope I imagined. Or rather, who.