She had been speaking about flowers minutes earlier. Now she was standing in the middle of Rittenhouse Square watching the man she was supposed to marry chase after a woman she had never met.
“I need to talk to her,” I said.
Noelle glanced from me to Rachel, then to the stroller. Her eyes lingered on the children, especially on the little girl who was still looking at me with my own gray eyes.
“What children are those?” she asked.
Rachel flinched.
The question struck the air between us like a bell.
I stepped closer, slow enough not to frighten her. “Rachel, tell me what this is.”
She swallowed. “Not in front of them.”
I looked at the children. Two girls and one boy, maybe three and a half years old, though I had no practice guessing children’s ages.
One girl wore yellow rain boots despite the dry weather and held a cloth rabbit by one ear. The boy had a solemn expression and a pretzel crumb on his chin.
