The Perfect Mother(24)

“You hate me?” he asks, throwing a notebook onto his desk. His smile is wide and radiant—the smile now gracing billboards across the nation as part of the “True Heroes” ad campaign for Ralph Lauren—no signs of the difficult meeting he’s come from.

“No, of course not, Mayor.”

He grimaces. “How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that? It sounds too weird, coming from you.”

“Sorry. No, I don’t hate you, Teb Marcus Amedeo Shepherd.”

“Whoa. No need to go crazy.” He flips through the folders Aaron left and then places them on the credenza beside his desk. “I have some bad news.”

Her heart seizes. “About Midas?”

“Midas?”

She shakes her head. “Midas Ross. That baby in the news. Aaron said you were with Ghosh. I thought you were going to say—”

“I was wondering if this was going to get to you. That baby’s the same age as Poppy.” He turns his back to her and pours himself a cup of coffee. “What kind of monster would take a baby?”

“Do you have any—”

He waves his hand, dismissing the question. “No, the bad news is not about him. It’s about you and me.” He turns toward her, and she braces herself. “I have to cancel on you. I didn’t get a chance to read what you sent yesterday, and now I have another meeting.”

The tension in her chest dissolves with relief. She doesn’t have to spend the next hour talking about this awful book. She can get out of here, try to make sense of what she’s just read.

“Teb—” She makes sure the word comes out annoyed.

“I know,” he says. “I’m an asshole. I’m sorry. Can you come by tomorrow?”

She begins to pack up her laptop and notebook. “Sure.”

“No. Wait. I’m out on Long Island all day for a fund raiser. The day after?”

She nods. “Whatever you need.”

“Thanks, C.” He sits behind his desk, scrolling through his cell phone. “How’s my baby?”

“Adorable.”

“Yeah? She giving her mother any trouble? Because if she is, I’ll have a talk with her.”

“I’m not sure even you are convincing enough, but feel free to tell her she better start sleeping through the night.”

He keeps his eyes on his phone and reaches out his hand. “Let me see.” He looks up. “I need to see a recent photo.”

Her phone is in her bag. Teb stands up, and she turns her back to him. She cautiously unzips her purse just as Aaron appears at the door.

“Excuse me, sir, but they’re waiting for you. They don’t have much longer.”

“Okay, I gotcha.” Teb takes a long drink of coffee and then sets the mug back on the credenza, next to the folders. “Text some to me,” he says, reaching to touch her arm on the way out.

Colette says good-bye to Allison, and once outside, she walks quickly through the crowds, through air perfumed with the earthy scent of charred pretzel oil, and toward the subway. Inside the train, she takes an empty seat at the back of the chilly car. Ten minutes later, as the train emerges from the tunnel on to the Brooklyn Bridge, she watches the stream of pedestrians trudging down the pathway under the hot July sun. She takes out her phone, the tears stinging as she types.

Are you guys free tomorrow morning to come to my place? I have something I need to tell you.





Chapter Six



Night Two



I don’t know what to do.

I’m trying to keep in mind the thing the doula told me: Deep breathing initiates the parasympathetic nervous system, the rest-and-relax state. But it’s not working. My chest is too stiff, and I can’t get enough oxygen. I need to get out of here, breathe some fresh air, but the journalists are outside, circling, waiting to ask me questions. That guy from the Post, Elliott What’s-his-name, with his shlubby clothes and cheap haircut and oily skin, making his mother so proud to see his name in print. He’s there all the time, talking to the neighbors. Where were you that night? What do you think happened? What can you tell me about the mother?

I pace. Up and down the hall, instinctively avoiding the creaky sixth floorboard in front of the nursery. I keep the curtains closed. I don’t want anyone to know I’m here. I don’t want one more visit from a detective, asking if I can talk, wondering if there’s anything else I can add.

I have nothing to add. How can I, when I remember so little—when the details of that night come and go, like a rapid blur of static events.

I remember reading Nell’s e-mail, suggesting a night out, a few hours away from the babies.

I remember thinking no, of course I won’t go to that. But then I kept re-reading the e-mail, considering it. Nell was so persistent. Everyone come, and especially Winnie. We won’t take no for an answer.

Fine, I hastily decided. I won’t give no for an answer. I’ll give yes for an answer! And why not? I deserved a night out as much as anyone. I deserved to have fun. Why did I always have to be the one person staying home, obsessing about a baby, when every other mother in the world seems to have no problem going out, celebrating a holiday, having a drink or two? They’re somehow able to effortlessly navigate this new world. So calm. So confident. So fucking perfect.