The Perfect Mother(6)

“I don’t know,” Colette says. “Winnie doesn’t seem depressed to me. It’s probably just the baby blues. Who among us hasn’t experienced that from time to time?”

“Hey, guys.”

They all look up to see Token standing above them, the rise of an infant inside the sling across his chest. He wipes his forehead on the sleeve of his T-shirt. “God, it’s hot.” He steps out of his sneakers and spreads the blanket he’s pulled from his diaper bag on the ground next to Colette’s. “Autumn’s really fighting her morning nap. I’ve been walking for an hour to get her to sleep.” He sits. “Are you guys drinking wine?”

“We are,” says Nell. “Want some?”

“Sure do. Is it any good?”

“Good enough to do the trick.”

Francie’s gaze remains on Scarlett. “We have to do something, right? Maybe we should organize something for her, give her some time to relax, away from the baby.”

“For who?” Token asks.

“Winnie.”

Token pauses, his cup suspended halfway to his mouth. “What’s wrong with Winnie?”

Francie glances at him. “Nothing’s wrong with her. We were just saying maybe she could use a break for a night.”

Yuko frowns. “But wait. Maybe she can’t afford to. As a single mom? With a sitter, drinks, and dinner, it could be a two-hundred-dollar night.”

“I doubt that’s an issue,” Francie says. “Have you noticed the clothes she wears? She doesn’t strike me as someone worried about money. The issue is finding a babysitter.”

“I’ll ask Alma if she can do it,” says Nell.

“Alma?”

Nell’s face brightens. “Oh, I forgot to tell you guys. I finally found someone. She’s starting tomorrow for a few hours, and then full-time when I’m back at work next week. She’s amazing. I’ll offer to pay her for the night. My departing gift to Winnie.” Nell reaches for her phone on the blanket and checks her calendar. “How about the night of July fourth?” She glances up at the group. “Or do you all stay home and recite the Pledge of Allegiance that night?”

“I do,” says Colette. “But I’ll make an exception this year.”

“I’m game,” Token says.

“Me too,” Francie says. “Yuko? Scarlett?”

“Sure,” says Yuko.

Scarlett frowns. “I think my in-laws are coming to see the new house. But I’d hate for you to plan this around me. Who knows how long I’ll be in Brooklyn.”

“I’ll send out an e-mail to all the May Mothers,” Nell says. “We’ll make a night of it. I’ll find someplace fun to go.”

“Good,” Francie says. “Just make sure you convince Winnie to come.”

Nell lays Beatrice on the blanket in front of her. “This will be great. A few hours out. A slice of freedom.” She lifts her cup and downs the last of her wine. “Nothing we’ll regret. Just one drink.”





Chapter Three



July 4



To: May Mothers

From: Your friends at The Village

Date: July 4

Subject: Today’s advice

Your baby: Day 51

This seventh week, your baby should start to master muscle control—kicking, wiggling, and holding her head up, nice and strong. As she grows increasingly physical and in tune with her environment, don’t hold back on doling out kisses, smiles, and a few hip hip hoorays! showing her how proud Mommy is of all the big leaps she’s taking.





8:23 p.m.



The air is heavy with alcohol and heat, the music loud enough to spark an instant headache. It thumps from the speakers, mixing with swells of young laughter. Twentysomethings back in town from college gather at the bar, fingering their parents’ credit cards; by the bocce ball court, to wait their turn to throw a ball down a sandy lane; in a dimly lit side room, dancing close together near a shirtless man spinning records.

Nell squeezes her way through the crowd and spots them on the deck out back. Token is sliding together a few tables, hunting for extra chairs. Francie, wearing a black cotton dress showcasing a shocking display of cleavage, is making the rounds, hugging everyone hello: Yuko; Gemma; Colette, who looks even prettier than usual, her shiny hair loose down her back, her lips stained bright pink. A cloud of other women gather nearby, many of whom Nell doesn’t recognize, who haven’t attended a meeting in a while, whose names she’ll never remember.

“Hi,” Nell says, approaching Token. He wears the standard Token uniform—a faded T-shirt printed with the name of a band Nell has never heard of, shorts, and scuffed Converse sneakers. “This bar is a bit dodgy, no?”

“It sure is.”

“Who picked it?”

“You.”

“Oh, right. It’s a little rowdier than I expected.” She scans the crowd for a waitress, uneasy with how closely Token seems to be examining her. He takes a sip of beer, which leaves a trail of foam on his upper lip. Nell resists the urge to wipe it away with her thumb. “Where’d you get that drink?”

“You have to go to the bar,” Token says, leaning in close. “There’s no table service right now.” Francie is beside them suddenly. Her eyelids glimmer with silver eye shadow.