The Perfect Mother(71)

The pastor shakes his head. “All due respect, Miss Faith, but I’ve known Hector and Shelly Quimby for nearly forty years. I baptized their children, and their grandchildren. And I will swear on my grandfather’s Bible that there is no way that good, warmhearted, Christian man had anything to do with the abduction or murder of any baby.”

“And what can you tell me about Winnie Ross?” Patricia says, squinting at the pastor. “Her family has owned that house for decades. Did you know any of them?”

The man wipes his mouth with a cotton handkerchief. “No, ma’am, I can’t say I did. As far as I know, not one member of the Ross family has ever darkened the door of any local church.”

Francie turns away from the television, feeling unsteady. Token checked her skull, running his fingers through her hair, softly pressing every inch of her head. There was no sign of a bump and yet her head is pounding. She takes in his apartment, which is small and neat. The linen love seat on which she sits flanks a vintage mahogany coffee table, and small framed photographs of city street life hang over a dining table, set with a vase of fresh-cut spray roses. She stands and tiptoes toward the bookshelf, her knee throbbing, and examines a few framed photos of Autumn and Token, Autumn and some woman. The bathroom is just off the living room, and she peeks inside, finding bottles of face cleanser and hair gel lined neatly on a windowsill overlooking a light shaft.

She hears his footsteps shuffling toward her from the bedroom, and she closes the bathroom door. “It was under the changing table,” he says, holding up the small tube of Neosporin. “Because where else would it be?” He ushers Francie back toward the couch. “Sit. Let me put some of this on your knee.”

“I can do it,” she says, taking the tube.

He sits on the chair across from her. “Where were you running to so quick?”

“You know. Getting some exercise.” She points down at the soft pooch of her belly. “They say the baby weight melts off with breastfeeding. They lie.”

“With your camera bag?”

“Yeah. Trying to start that portrait business. Never know when you’re going to run into a potential client.”

He nods and glances at the television set. “I don’t know why I have this horrible woman on. She’s having a field day with the news of Hector’s death.”

“Hector?”

“Yeah. Hector Quimby. The guy—”

“I know who you’re talking about,” Francie says. “But you said that like you know him.”

Token looks at her. “Did I?”

Francie shifts her gaze. The ice pack stings her knee. “This is a nice apartment,” she manages to say, and then sees, through the French doors to the bedroom, three guitars resting on stands. “You play the guitar?”

He shrugs. “Not as much as I used to.”

“Um-hmmm.” She sips her coffee. “So, tell me about Lou.”

An alarm beeps in the kitchen. “Be right back.” He returns wearing pot holders and carrying a loaf cake, which he sets on a trivet on the table.

“I went out for a walk, forgetting this was in the oven. Thank god I remembered before I burned down the entire block.” He cuts into the cake with a long, thin knife. “To be honest, I’m a shitty baker. But whatever. I’m trying.”

“Just a small piece,” she says. “Trying to cut down on carbs and sugar.”

Token extends a piece to her on a napkin, and they eat in silence for a few moments. Francie notices how his leg twitches, the way he keeps clearing his throat, his eyes flitting to the television screen behind her.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Francie says. “You never got to tell your birth story.”

“My birth story, huh? Didn’t expect I’d get a turn.”

“Why not?”

“I wasn’t the one who did the work.”

“You mean the mom?”

“Yeah.” Token laughs and crumbles the napkin in his hands. “The mom.”

“Did you adopt?”

“Adopt? No.”

“Then how’d you get the baby?”

“How’d I get her.” He squints at Francie. “Well, you see, Francie, when two people love each other—”

“No, I mean—”

Token laughs. “I’m kidding. Lucille had her.”

“Lucille?” She struggles to swallow the cake. “Wait. Lou is Lucille?”

“Yeah. My wife.”

“But you’re gay.”

He sits back in his chair and raises his eyebrows. “I am?”

She chuckles nervously. “You’re not?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, how come I never heard you talk about a wife? And the mom group thing. It’s not really something—”

He’s nodding. “I had a feeling you all thought that. Nope. Straight as can be, and no adoption. We had her the old-fashioned way. Scheduled C-section.” He smirks. “That was the plan, at least. Autumn had her own idea. Came a few weeks early, and on the one night I was out of town, playing a gig. Pretty sure Lou’s still annoyed at both Autumn and me about that. It was not an easy birth.”

“You guys doing okay?”