Pack your bags. You’re fired

The black Mercedes Maybach pulled to the curb outside Central Park's Conservatory Water, its tinted windows reflecting the bright, crisp autumn foliage.

Daniel sat in the front passenger seat, while Elise sat in the back between two oversized car seats. The twins were bundled in matching cream-colored wool coats with tiny bear ears on the hoods. Maisie was furiously chewing on the ear of her stuffed giraffe, while Rosie pressed her palm flat against the window, mesmerized by a passing golden retriever.

"We have forty-five minutes, sir," the driver, Frank, noted quietly. "The conference call with the Singapore maritime authority starts at two."

"Understood," Daniel said, unbuckling his seatbelt.

He hadn't set foot in Central Park in over a year. The park belonged to Rebecca; it was where they had walked during her pregnancy, where she had demanded hot street pretzels at nine in the morning, where she had laughed at the remote-controlled sailboats bobbing across the pond.

"Are you sure about this, Mr. Carter?" Elise asked from the backseat, her voice gentle. "We can stay in the garden terrace if it's too much."

"They need fresh air," Daniel replied, opening his door. "And the agency reports said they haven't left the penthouse grounds in three months."

The double stroller clicked into place on the paved stone path.

Daniel took the handle on the left; Elise took the handle on the right. It was an awkward, uncoordinated dance at first—Daniel’s long, hurried strides forcing the stroller to veer slightly until Elise gently bumped her hip against his to correct the trajectory.

"Slow down, captain of industry," she murmured, a trace of amusement dancing in her voice. "This isn't a race to close a shipping lane."

Daniel glanced down at her, surprised by the insolence, but found himself easing his pace.

The air was sharp and sweet, smelling of roasted chestnuts and fallen oak leaves. Other families were out—mothers pushing jogging strollers, grandparents tossing breadcrumbs to pigeons, children chasing soap bubbles through the crisp afternoon breeze.

Suddenly, Rosie let out an ear-splitting shriek.

Daniel’s instincts flared; his body went rigid as he dropped to one knee beside the carriage, his hands hovering frantically over his daughter. "What is it? What happened? Is she choking?"

"Look at her face, Mr. Carter," Elise laughed softly, crouching down beside him.

Rosie wasn't crying. Her chubby hands were waving frantically toward a street performer fifteen yards away. A tall man dressed in a silver clown suit was blowing massive, iridescent soap bubbles using a rope loop. One shimmering orb, the size of a beach ball, was drifting lazily toward their stroller.

Maisie dropped her giraffe and reached both hands into the air, her mouth shaped into a perfect, round 'O' of wonder.

The bubble drifted lower, floating within inches of Rosie’s nose.

Pop.

A tiny splash of moisture hit Rosie’s cheek. The baby blinked once in utter shock—and then erupted into a fit of belly laughs so pure, so violent, that she kicked both legs out of the stroller blanket. Maisie joined in immediately, clapping her mittened hands together, squealing at the sky as if demanding more magic from the air.

Daniel remained frozen on the cold asphalt.

He watched the sunlight hit Rosie’s cheeks, highlighting the tiny dimple on her left side that was an exact, carbon copy of Rebecca’s. He looked at Maisie, whose dark eyes sparkled with unbridled mischief.

"They have her laugh," Daniel whispered, the realization hitting him with the force of a physical blow.

Elise was watching him, her expression soft, devoid of pity, full only of understanding. "They have yours, too, sir. When you said you were with the bananas... Maisie made the exact same face you made."

Daniel looked down at his daughter’s mitten, which had suddenly latched onto his index finger. He closed his hand around hers, feeling the fragile, miraculous warmth of her pulse.

"Cancel the Singapore call," Daniel said, not taking his eyes off his daughters.

Frank, standing ten paces back, pulled his phone from his ear. "Sir?"