Two Hearts, One Locket
Chapter 1: May I See Your Birthmark?
The luncheon crowd at Maison Lumière had thinned to the regulars by the time Catherine Marlowe set her menu down. The restaurant sat on a quiet corner two blocks from the foundation's offices, all ivory linen and low lamplight, and at one o'clock on a Thursday the loudest sound was the soft click of cutlery. Catherine had been coming here for twelve years.
Theodore sat across from her, studying the wine list. "The foundation board meets Tuesday," he said, without looking up. "You should have the revised proposal by Monday."
"I will have it by Monday," Catherine said. She ran the Marlowe Foundation.
"And the Whitmore gala?" Theodore asked.
"Confirmed," Catherine said.
Theodore nodded and signaled their waitress.
She approached with practiced ease: young, perhaps twenty-three, dark hair pulled back in a neat twist, an apron tied over a black shirt. Her name tag read NORA.
"Duck confit for the gentleman," Nora said, setting Theodore's plate down. "And the sole meunière for the lady. The kitchen sends its regards, Mrs. Marlowe. You haven't been in since the spring fundraiser."
"You remember," Catherine said, smiling.
"I remember everyone who tips more than ten percent," Nora said, deadpan, and Catherine laughed before she could stop herself.
Theodore glanced up from his plate. "Witty. They train you to flatter the regulars?"
"They train me to remember faces, sir," Nora said. "Flattery is my own idea."
Catherine watched the young woman's hands. She had spent twenty-three years noticing small things.
Then Nora reached across to set down the bread basket, her left sleeve sliding back from her wrist, and Catherine's entire world narrowed to a single point.
There, on the inner left wrist, no larger than a thumbnail, was a heart-shaped birthmark.
Catherine stopped breathing entirely.
It was exact. A small, perfect heart, deep red-brown against the pale skin, tilted slightly, as though it had been stamped there by a careful hand.
"Mrs. Marlowe?" Nora said. "Is everything all right?"
Catherine realized she was staring. She realized, too, that Theodore was watching her.
"Catherine," Theodore said. "You're white as the tablecloth."
"I apologize," Catherine said. "I was looking at your wrist."
Nora drew her arm back automatically, a gesture of practiced self-protection. "The birthmark? People notice it sometimes. It's just a birthmark."
"May I see your birthmark?" Catherine asked.
The words fell into the space between them and lay there, too loud for the quiet room.
Nora blinked. She glanced at Theodore, and her professional smile did not quite hold. "Ma'am?"
"I only want to look at it," Catherine said. She could hear the urgency in her own voice. "Please. Just for a moment."
Theodore set down his knife. "Catherine, you're making the girl uncomfortable."
"Please," Catherine said again, looking only at Nora.
Nora hesitated. Catherine saw the calculation move across her face: the customer was wealthy, a regular, and clearly unwell. Finally, with visible reluctance, she extended her left hand across the table, palm up, wrist exposed.
The birthmark sat there in the lamplight, perfect and unmistakable.
Catherine's handbag rested against her ankle. Inside it was a worn silver locket she had carried for twenty-three years. Inside the locket was a faded photograph of a newborn baby. On the baby's inner left wrist, no larger than a thumbnail, was a heart-shaped birthmark, tilted slightly.
She had placed that locket on the baby herself, in the hospital, hours before the fire.
Catherine went utterly still.
The fork slipped from her fingers and struck her plate with a bright, hard clatter that rang through the quiet room.
"Mrs. Marlowe?" Nora said, alarmed, pulling her wrist back.
"Catherine," Theodore said. His voice had changed. It was flat and watchful, and he was not looking at Nora at all. He was looking at his wife, studying her the way he studied contracts.
Catherine could not look away from Nora's wrist. Her heart was beating so hard she was certain the whole restaurant could hear it.
"Are you all right?" Nora asked. "Should I get you some water?"
"I am fine," Catherine said, but the words came out hollow. "I am perfectly fine."
"You don't look fine," Theodore said.
Catherine picked up her napkin. Her hands were shaking. She pressed it to her lips to hide it, a gesture so unlike her that she saw Theodore's eyes narrow.
"I'm sorry," she said to Nora. "That was rude of me. Forgive me."
"It's nothing," Nora said, her eyes wary. "It happens. Tourists ask to photograph it sometimes."
Catherine nodded, but she was not listening. She was thinking of the locket. She was thinking of the night at Saint Anne's Hospital, twenty-three years ago, when the nursery had caught fire and they had told her there was nothing left to save.
And now a young woman with the same heart-shaped mark on the same wrist was standing beside her table, refilling her water glass with steady hands.
"Nora," Catherine said. Her voice steadied. "How old are you?"