The Perfect Mother(80)
“Charlie, no. Please. I thought—you have the—”
“I didn’t go.”
“Why?”
He stands and walks down the hall toward his office. “I knew how upset you would be if I left the baby. I didn’t want to do that to you.”
She follows him, reaching for his arm, but he pulls away. “Not now, Colette. I need some time.”
“Charlie. I’m sorry. Listen, there’s some things—”
But he’s already closed the door.
Chapter Eighteen
Day Eleven
To: May Mothers
From: Your friends at The Village
Date: July 15
Subject: Today’s advice
Your baby: Day 62
We’ve all had a few particularly frazzled days, even moments of feeling sad and overwhelmed. Those feelings should be lifting by now as you and your little one settle into a routine. But if you—or someone you love—are beginning to wonder if what you’re feeling is more than the baby blues, don’t let embarrassment or pride keep you from talking to your doctor. Getting help for yourself can sometimes be the best thing you can do for your baby.
Francie strolls slowly through the narrow fiction aisle in the bookstore at the back of the Spot, Charlie’s debut novel in her hands, trying to convince herself that everything is going to be fine, that Nell will get through this. Francie had no idea about any of the things the newscasters were saying about Nell. She wasn’t even aware of the scandal—the presidential candidate who dropped out of the race after having an affair with a twenty-two-year-old State Department intern. Francie was sixteen when it happened, and her mom wasn’t the type to expose her family to political sex scandals (or anything to do with a Democratic politician, good or bad).
And then there is Token. The way he roughly led her out of his apartment two days ago without offering any explanation of his arrest, raising only more questions.
The worst, however, is what happened this morning. Francie walks to the front of the store to pay for Charlie’s book, feeling another wave of queasiness as she envisions the moment. Barbara was sitting on the sofa, watching television, waiting for Francie, who had offered to make Barbara the runny egg sandwich she ate every morning. Francie was doing her best to tune out her mother-in-law, who was going on about gossip from back home. How her friend’s niece just had her fourth child, a darling little girl. How there was a new nail salon that opened in town, where Barbara had gotten her nails done for the trip. How it was staffed by four women who were probably in the country illegally. Orientals.
Francie heard Colette’s name just as the toaster popped. She turned to look at the TV, seeing Colette on the screen, jogging down the sidewalk near her apartment building, red-faced and breathless. “Leave me alone,” Colette said, hurrying past the cameras, her arms shielding her face. “I have no comment.”
“Colette Yates is the daughter of Rosemary Carpenter, the well-known women’s rights activist,” the reporter said. “She’s also romantically involved with the novelist Charlie Ambrose, with whom she had a child two months ago.” Colette was one of the women with Winnie at the bar that night, the reporter went on to say, and while a source reported that Colette was close to Mayor Shepherd, he wouldn’t comment on the story. And then suddenly they were talking about her—Francie. They even had a photo of her, one from the night at the Jolly Llama, her face pressed against Nell’s.
The reporter added that Francie was a stay-at-home mother, and the moment that Lowell walked into the kitchen, Francie heard Barbara’s gasp. “Her husband, Lowell Givens, is one of the principal owners of Givens and Light Architects, a young Brooklyn firm.”
“This is awful,” Barbara said, ignoring Francie, looking straight at Lowell. “What is this going to mean for your business?”
Francie hands the money to the clerk, knowing she shouldn’t be buying Charlie’s book, that she should have waited to get it from the library. But the library doesn’t open until noon, and her apartment is so small, and she needed to get out, away from Barbara and the look on her face. The judgment. The disappointment.
Francie takes her change and turns to look for a table. And then she sees her, on the sidewalk outside.
She wears sunglasses and a long, shapeless jacket, and her hair is tucked under a baseball cap, but Francie knows it’s her.
“Winnie!”
The word escapes Francie more loudly than she expected, silencing the crowd waiting for their coffee. Francie careens through them, running out the door, out onto the sidewalk. “Winnie! Wait, Winnie!”
Pressing Will against her chest, she jogs awkwardly after Winnie, who is walking quickly up the hill. “Winnie, wait, please!” She doesn’t understand why Winnie isn’t stopping. Will begins to whine as Francie breaks into a run after her, reaching her just before she arrives at her building. Winnie is scrambling inside her bag for her keys. “Winnie, please. I need to talk to you. I’ve been so worried.” Francie tries to catch her breath. “Have you gotten my messages? I’m so sorry we—”
A car screeches to a halt, the two front tires veering onto the sidewalk a few feet away. A short, overweight man wearing a fedora and plaid shorts jumps from the driver’s seat, grabbing for the bulky camera around his neck. “Gwendolyn! Look this way. How are you? Gwendolyn!”