“No trouble at all,” I replied. “We were just talking.”
But she seemed eager to leave.
“Mrs. Montgomery is waiting for us.”
That last name immediately caught my attention.
Montgomery.
A well-known name in New York.
As she led the girls toward an elegant black SUV parked nearby, fragments of that night in Seattle began coming back to me.
Camila had always avoided talking about her personal life.
She often received phone calls she refused to answer.
She wore simple clothes, but they were clearly of exceptional quality.
She always seemed to be hiding something.
A few moments later, the SUV doors closed.
Just before it pulled away, one of the little girls turned back toward me and gently placed her hand against the window.
Then the vehicle disappeared into traffic.
I remained standing there for several minutes.
I couldn’t stop thinking about what had just happened.
If their mother really was Camila Montgomery…
Why did she have the exact same tattoo we had chosen together all those years ago?
And why had those three little girls recognized it the instant they saw mine?
Maybe it was nothing more than an incredible coincidence.
Or perhaps that brief encounter in Central Park had just reopened a chapter of my life I believed had been closed forever.
