Chapter 1 - THE BOTTLE IN HER HANDS
Margaret Whitmore had the bottle against Noah’s lips when Emma caught her.
“No.”
Emma crossed the nursery so fast her bare foot struck the leg of an upholstered chair.
Noah twisted his tiny face away from the nipple and cried harder.
Margaret didn’t stop.
She steadied him with one hand and tried again.
Emma snatched the bottle away.
“What did you give my baby?”
Margaret straightened beside the ivory crib, silver-blonde hair perfectly smooth despite the hour.
“I was feeding my grandson.”
“With what?”
“Food, Emma. Babies require it.”
Emma stared at the unfamiliar bottle.
No label.
Cloudy liquid.
Not one of the bottles she had pumped and dated that afternoon.
Not the formula their pediatrician had left as an optional supplement either.
“Where did this come from?”
Margaret reached for it.
Emma pulled it behind her.
“Give it to me.”
“No.”
Margaret’s expression changed.
For six weeks, since Emma and Ryan had temporarily moved into the Whitmore mansion after a pipe burst in their Charleston townhouse, Margaret had disguised every criticism as help.
Noah cried too much because Emma drank coffee.
Noah slept badly because Emma held him too often.
Emma pumped incorrectly.
Emma dressed him too warmly.
Emma dressed him too lightly.
Margaret always knew.
Margaret had raised Ryan.
Margaret had employed three nannies.
Margaret had chaired the children’s hospital foundation luncheon for twelve years.
Margaret had an answer for everything.
But Emma had never seen this bottle.
“Did you take him out of the crib?” Emma demanded.
“He was hungry.”
“He ate forty minutes ago.”
“He barely ate.”
“You weren’t here.”
Margaret’s eyes hardened.
“I know what a hungry baby looks like.”
Emma felt something inside her go cold.
“How would you know how much he ate?”
Margaret reached again.
Emma stepped back.
“Emma, you’re exhausted. Give me the bottle.”
“No.”
Margaret slapped her.
It happened so quickly Emma didn’t understand the sound until her cheek started burning.
Her body reacted before her mind did.
She turned toward the bed, protecting Noah as he shifted against her chest, and lowered him onto the center of the thick quilt before Margaret could touch either of them again.
Then the nursery door opened.
Ryan stood there barefoot in dark lounge pants and a black shirt.
He took in Emma’s red cheek.
His mother’s raised hand.
The bottle.
“Mom.”
Margaret turned.
“Ryan, she’s hysterical.”
Emma laughed once.
A terrible sound.
“You hit me.”
“I was trying to stop you from frightening the baby.”
Ryan moved between them.
“Back away from her.”
Margaret blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
Noah cried behind Emma.
She picked him up immediately.
Margaret tried to move around Ryan toward the bottle.
Ryan blocked her.
“Stop.”
“Do you have any idea what she’s been doing?”
Emma froze.
Margaret did too.
Ryan frowned.
“What does that mean?”
Margaret stepped backward.
Her hip struck the armchair.
She caught herself against the wooden frame, but something slid from the pocket of her emerald robe.
A small gold envelope.
It landed beside Emma’s foot.
Margaret saw it.
And for the first time that night, she looked frightened.
Emma bent.
Margaret lunged forward.
“Don’t touch that.”
Ryan caught his mother by the shoulders.
“Mom.”
Emma picked up the envelope.
Her name was written on the front.
Not Margaret’s.
Not Ryan’s.
Emma.
Margaret’s voice went low.
“You two just made a terrible mistake.”
Ryan stared at the envelope.
Emma looked at her husband.
“Why is my name on this?”
Margaret said nothing.
May you like
Emma slipped one finger beneath the flap.
And Ryan suddenly said, “Wait.”
