Francie says good-bye and walks in the opposite direction, dropping the package of pink paper napkins she was going to buy in a bin full of plastic salad tongs, eventually finding her way to the checkout lines, weaving between people trying to navigate heavy trolleys overloaded with long cardboard boxes. Out on the steaming sidewalk, she spots a bus idling at the stop across the street and runs for it.
She takes a seat in the back, her head pressed to the window, tamping down the shame. Why on earth did she do that? Scarlett is so put together, so confident—a house in Westchester. Buying new furniture. Yet another mother with an easy baby and a seemingly ideal life. And here she is, sobbing in IKEA with a baby she can’t control and a husband who won’t agree to buy a new air conditioner for the living room, or a new stroller, even after the brake on the one his aunt bought for them stopped working two days ago. Francie was having visions: losing control of the stroller, Will inside it, seeing it careen down the hill, too fast for her to catch it, and into the street. When Lowell called her from the office yesterday afternoon to check in, she worked herself into a panic, demanding he stop at Target on the way home from work and buy a new stroller immediately. He refused.
The motion of the bus helps to settle Will, and she roots inside her bag for the warm bottle of Diet Coke from this morning and drains it, wondering if she should consider what Lowell suggested last night. They were lying in bed, Will between them, when Lowell told Francie she should go see her doctor. “It was my mom’s idea,” he said. “I called her today. She thinks there might be something you can take for how anxious you are, and how much you cry now.”
“I don’t need a pill,” Francie said. “I need them to find Midas. I need to help that baby get back with his mother.”
A man takes the empty seat beside her and she moves closer to the window. She doesn’t want to think anymore—not about Lowell, or Scarlett, or her mother-in-law’s judgment. Taking her phone from her bag, she checks the weather—it’s going to reach the high nineties for the next few days—before opening Facebook. Her gaze snags on the post at the top of the page—the standing invitation to view “A Night Out,” the album Yuko created for the Jolly Llama get-together. Francie still hasn’t had the stomach to look, but she clicks on it now, eager for any distraction, and scrolls through the photos people have added. Yuko and Gemma standing at the rail of the deck at the Jolly Llama. Nell and Colette clinking glasses. Francie’s breath catches when she comes across a photo of Winnie. She’s sitting at the table, her chin resting on her hand. There’s another of her, watching the crowd, the sun setting behind her, a strange, almost dreamy expression on her face.
And then Francie sees it, in the background: the splash of bright crimson.
She spreads the photo larger with her fingers. The red baseball cap.
It’s the guy Winnie was talking to. He’s standing by himself, holding a drink. He’s in another photo too, his face clear in the background. And he’s not just standing there. He’s staring at them, watching them, looking directly at Winnie.
“Excuse me,” she says to the man beside her fifteen minutes later when the bus pulls up to her stop. She steps over his legs and hurries from the bus and toward her building, flush with anticipation. The front door is slightly ajar. Francie has asked Lowell at least four times to fix the latch, which hasn’t been catching. It’s not safe. Inside, the mail is stacked on the wobbly wooden table in the small foyer, and she sees a credit card bill and a large envelope with her name written across it in green block letters. She tucks the credit card bill into her diaper bag, knowing she has to figure out a way to pay for the $100 in baby clothes she ordered from Carter’s before Lowell found out he didn’t get the renovation job, and ignores the other envelope—the handwriting vaguely resembles her mother’s, and she doesn’t want to deal with that now, assuming it’s the stupid christening dress her mom insisted on sending. She sprints up the three flights of stairs, finally locating her laptop under the recipes she printed earlier this morning. Toeing Will’s bouncy chair, she opens Facebook and goes to Yuko’s photo album.
Yes.
It’s him. The guy Winnie was talking to. Francie examines every photo, seeing if she can spot him in the background. As she does, she can’t help but study the photos of Winnie one more time. The faraway look in her eyes. The way she’s captured in one photo looking down at her phone. It’s strange, but Francie tries not to think about it. She tries to stay focused on the good news.
She now has a plan.
Chapter Fourteen
Day Eight
To: May Mothers
From: Your friends at The Village
Date: July 12
Subject: Today’s advice
Your baby: Day 59
Chances are, you still have a few extra pounds to lose. Don’t let that remaining baby weight get you down. Instead, get up! Grab your stroller (and maybe a few members of your mommy group) and take a brisk walk around the park. Choose vegetables and fruit for snacks. Chew your food slowly. Stay away from carbs. You’ll be zipping up those old jeans in no time at all.
Colette sits at the kitchen island, Charlie’s hands on her swollen breasts. “Charlie, come on,” she says, nudging him away. “Not now. You know I have to work.”
“I do know that,” he murmurs. “But the baby just fell asleep in the stroller, and you were up late working again. You’ve earned your state-mandated fifteen-minute coffee break.” He glides his hands down her stomach, finding his way into her cotton pajama bottoms, cupping her inner thighs. “Don’t make me report a secret employee of the mayor for violating labor laws.”
She squirms out of his grip. “Please, Charlie, stop. I need to finish this chapter.”
He stands up, sighing. “Baby, you’re killing me. It’s been three months.”
“I know.”
“We’ve gotta turn this around.”
She swivels toward him, trying to mask her irritation. “Charlie, I know. But this minute? I’m working. I don’t come into your office when you’re writing and try to seduce you.”
He laughs. “You know what, sweetheart? If you ever feel even slightly inclined to come into my office and seduce me while I’m writing, you should act on it. Immediately. Even if I’m on the phone with my editor. Even if my parents are there. Even if I happen, for whatever reason, to be hosting a meeting with the pope. I will stop the discussion, and I will pleasure you right then and there, in a wholly spectacular fashion.”
Colette smiles. “That’s good to know.”
He nods toward his office down the hall. “You wanna give it a shot? See if I’m telling the truth?”
“Is the pope in there?”
“No.”
“Then I’m not interested.” She stretches her legs and places her toes on top of his. “I’m sorry. I need to focus. I just used the thesaurus for the word went. It’s not going well.” He extracts his feet, walking to the refrigerator for the bottle of breast milk she prepared earlier. “You leaving?” she asks him.
“Yes.”
“Where you taking her?”
“Running.”
“I’ll take her when I get back. This meeting should be quick.”
Charlie nods.
“Take the yellow sun hat,” Colette says. “The others are too big for her.”
“Yep. Know that.”
“You have the sunscreen?”
“Yep.”
“It’s supposed to get even hotter today.”
“Yep.” Charlie closes the fridge, keeping his back to her. “I know how to take care of my daughter.”
“Are you annoyed with me?”
“Yep.”
He turns, exasperated. “This is frustrating.”
“Are you going to divorce me?”
He can’t help but snicker. “Yes, Colette. I am.”
“Will you leave me the espresso machine?”
Charlie drops the bottle on the counter and walks over to her. “Nope.”
“The French press, at least?”
“Talk to my lawyer.”
“You love me?”