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“Everything okay over there?” Colette calls to Scarlett, who is standing among the cluster of strollers in the shade, babies asleep inside. Scarlett ties the corners of a thin cotton blanket over the handles of her stroller and returns to the circle.

  “I thought the baby was awake,” she says, reclaiming her spot next to Francie and taking a bottle of hand sanitizer from her bag. “It was a long night, so please, nobody go near him. What did I miss?”

  “The world is ending, apparently,” Francie says, sucking the chocolate off a pretzel, the one indulgence she has come to allow herself.

  “True,” Nell says. “But I have just the antidote.” She holds up the bottle of wine she’d taken from her diaper bag.

  “You brought wine?” Colette smiles, twisting her hair into a bun as Nell unscrews the cap.

  “Not just any wine. The best vinho verde twelve dollars can buy at nine thirty in the morning.” She pours two inches into a small plastic cup from the stack in her diaper bag, and extends it to Colette. “Drink fast. It’s kind of warm.”

  “Not me,” Yuko says, circling the blanket, bouncing her daughter at her chest. “Yoga later.”

  “Me neither,” says Francie. “I’m nursing.”

  “Oh, horseshit,” says Nell. “We’re all nursing.” She raises her hand to clarify. “Unless you’re not. Unless you go home and draw the curtains and secretly administer formula. That’s fine too. Either way, a little wine isn’t going to hurt.”

  “That’s not what the books say,” Francie says.

  Nell rolls her eyes. “Francie, stop reading the propaganda. It’s fine. In England, most of my friends drank a little bit, right through their pregnancy.”

  Colette offers Francie a reassuring nod. “Have a drink if you want. It’s not going to hurt Will.”

  “Really?” Francie looks at Nell. “Okay, fine. But just a little.”

  “Me too. To celebrate,” Scarlett says, reaching for the next cup. “Did I mention this? We’re about to close on a house. In Westchester.”

  Francie groans. “You too? Why is everyone moving to the suburbs all of a sudden?”

  “I’d rather move farther upstate, to be honest, but Professor Husband just got tenure at Columbia and needs to be close.” Scarlett glances around the group. “No offense, I know a lot of people love it, but I can’t imagine raising a kid in this city. Since the baby, all I see is how filthy it is here. I want him to know clean air and trees.”

  “Not me,” says Nell. “I want my baby raised in squalor.”

  Francie sips her wine. “I wish we could afford to move to Westchester.”

  “Winnie?” Nell asks. “Wine?”

  Winnie is staring off into the distance, watching a young couple throwing a Frisbee back and forth on the long meadow, a border collie running dizzily between them. She doesn’t seem to hear Nell. “Winnie, love. Come back to us.”

  “Sorry,” Winnie says, smiling at Nell and then glancing down at Midas, who is beginning to stir awake in the crook of her legs, his hands tucked against his ears. “What did you say?”

  Nell extends a cup across the circle. “Do you want a little wine?”

  Winnie lifts Midas to her chest and peers at Nell, her mouth buried in his black hair. “No. I shouldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Alcohol doesn’t always agree with me.”

  “What’s wrong with you people?” Nell tips a stream of wine into her cup and rescrews the top. A large tattoo of a hummingbird—wispy and pastel—emerges from under the sleeve of her black T-shirt. She takes a sip. “God, that’s bloody awful. Oh, listen to this. I went out without the baby yesterday, to get a coffee. A woman looked at my stomach, congratulated me, and asked me when I was due.”

  “That’s obnoxious,” Yuko says. “What did you tell her?”

  Nell laughs. “November.”

  Francie looks at Winnie, who is again staring out across the lawn, a stiffness to her face. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “This heat’s just getting to me.”

  “Speaking of which, can we discuss another meeting place?” Yuko asks, laying her son on the blanket and hunting inside her bag for a clean diaper. “It’s only going to get hotter. The babies will melt out here.”

  “We could go to the library,” Francie suggests. “They have an empty room in the back we could reserve.”

  “Well, that sounds dreadful,” Nell says.

  “Have any of you been to that new beer garden, near the big playground?” Colette asks. “Charlie and I went the other day, and there were a few mom groups there with their babies. Maybe we should do that once in a while. We could meet for lunch.”

  “And sangrias,” says Nell, her eyes lighting up. “Or better yet, why don’t we do something like that at night? Go out without the babies.”

  “Without the babies?” Francie asks.

  “Yeah. I’m going back to work next week. I’m dying to have a little fun while I still can.”

  “I don’t think so,” Francie says.

  “Why not?”

  “The baby’s just seven weeks old.”

  “So?”

  “So isn’t that a little young to leave him? Plus, he’s impossible in the evenings. We are, apparently, at the height of cluster feeding.”

  “Have your husband take care of him,” Scarlett says. “It’s important for them to bond during these early months.”

  “My husband?” Francie asks, her brow furrowed.

  “Yes,” Nell says. “You know, Lowell? The man whose ejaculate conceived one-half of your baby?”

  Francie winces. “Nell. Gross.” She looks at Winnie. “Would you go?”

  Winnie folds Midas into the Moby Wrap at her chest and collects his blanket. “I’m not sure.”

  “Oh, come on,” Colette says. “It’ll be good for us to have a break from the babies.”

  Winnie stands, her petal pink sundress cascading to her ankles. “I don’t have a babysitter for Midas yet.”

  “What about your—”

  “Shit,” Winnie says, glancing at the thin silver watch on her wrist. “It’s later than I thought. I have to run.”

  “Where are you going?” Francie asks.

  Winnie puts on a pair of large sunglasses and a wide-brimmed cotton sun hat that shades her face and shoulders. “You know, a million errands. See you next time.”

  Everyone on the blanket watches Winnie walk across the lawn and up the hill, her black hair loose around her shoulders, her dress fluttering at her heels.

  When she disappears under the arch, Francie sighs. “I feel bad for her.”

  Nell laughs. “You feel bad for Winnie? Why, because she’s so gorgeous? Or wait, it’s how thin she is.”

  “She’s a single mom.”

  Colette swallows her wine. “What? How do you know that?”

  “She told me.”

  “You’re kidding. When?”

  “A few days ago. I stopped at the Spot for the air-conditioning and a scone. Will had a fit while I was standing in line. I was mortified, and then Winnie appeared. Midas was asleep in the stroller, and she took Will and held him to her chest. He calmed down right away.”

  Nell’s eyes narrow. “I knew those boobs were magic. Just looking at them has calmed me down a few times.”

  “We hung out for a little while. It was nice. She’s so quiet, right? But she told me she’s single.”

  “She just offered that?” Nell asks.

  “Yeah, sort of.”

  “Who’s the dad?”

  “I didn’t ask. I’ve noticed she doesn’t wear a wedding ring, but asking outright? It felt intrusive.” Francie’s expression turns wistful. “She also told me I’m doing a great job with Will. It was sweet. We don’t say that to each other enough. Will can be so difficult.” Francie breaks a pretzel in half. “I feel like I’m failing at this most of the time. It’s nice to hear that maybe I’m not.”

  “Oh, Francie, don’t be s
illy,” Colette says. “Will’s great. You’re doing fine. None of us know what we’re doing.”

  “Isn’t it strange we didn’t know that about her?” asks Yuko. “That she’s single?”

  “Not really.” Nell sets her wine beside her and pulls down the stretched collar of her T-shirt. She lifts her daughter, Beatrice, to her breast and begins to feed her. “All we talk about are things related to the babies.”

  “Having a husband?” Francie says. “That’s kind of related to the babies. God, can you imagine? Doing this alone? How lonely.”

  “I’d die,” Colette says. “If Charlie didn’t take some of the night feedings, make sure we have diapers, I’d lose my mind.”

  “Me too, but—” Scarlett starts to speak but then stops herself.

  “What?” Colette asks.

  “No, nothing.”

  “No, Scarlett, what?” Francie is staring at her. “What were you going to say?”

  Scarlett pauses for a moment. “Okay, fine. I’m worried there’s something else going on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t want to betray anything she’s told me, but we’ve taken a few walks together. We’re neighbors, and we seem to travel the same route when we’re trying to get the babies to nap. I wouldn’t tell you this if I didn’t think I needed to, but she’s depressed.”

  “She told you that?” Colette asks.

  “She’s hinted at it. She’s overwhelmed. Doesn’t have anyone helping her. She also told me that Midas is a very colicky baby. He can cry for hours.”

  “Colicky?” Francie asks in disbelief. “Will is colicky. Midas seems so easy.”

  “A friend of mine in London was diagnosed with severe postpartum depression,” Nell says. “She felt too ashamed about the thoughts she was having to tell anyone, until her husband forced her to get help.”

  “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.

  “Where’s Winnie?”

  “Hi, Francie. I’m brilliant, thanks for asking.”

  “Sorry,” Francie says. “Hi and all that. But is she coming?”

  “Yes. She should be here soon,” Nell says, skeptical that Winnie will actually show up. Two e-mails and a phone call, and Winnie still declined to come, saying only that she was unavailable. And then, late last night, Nell got the text, saying she’d changed her mind.

  I want to join you, Winnie wrote. Can Alma still babysit?

  “I’m assuming she’s getting Midas settled with Alma,” Nell tells Francie.

  “Okay, good. I’ll keep an eye out for her.”

  “And I’ll go get a drink.” Nell makes her way back inside, toward the bar. She orders a gin and tonic, thinking back to the argument she’d had last week with Sebastian. She’d stood in their bathroom, brushing her teeth, and told Sebastian she’d gone against his wishes and offered Alma the job.

  �
�Nell.” There was irritation in his voice.

  “What?” She watched him in the mirror.

  “We talked about this. I really wish you hadn’t done that.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why.” He paused. “She’s illegal.”

  She spat into the sink. “You mean undocumented.”

  “It’s not worth the risk.”

  “To what? Our burgeoning political careers?” Nell rinsed her mouth and stepped past him, walking to the kitchen to turn on the kettle. “I’m pretty sure my career in politics ended in Michael Markham’s backyard when I was fifteen.”

  “You know that’s not what I mean. You know you have to be careful—”

  She feels a tap on her shoulder as Colette scoots beside her, signaling for the bartender. “You look great,” Colette says, glancing down at Nell’s shoulder. “And have I told you how much I love that gorgeous tattoo?”

  “Wanna know something?” Nell leans in and lifts the bottom of her shirt. “These are maternity pants. The baby is two months old, and I’m still wearing maternity pants.”

  Colette laughs. “The grand reward of pregnancy: discovering wide elastic waistbands.” She looks beyond Nell. “Oh, good. She’s here.”

  Nell turns and sees Winnie standing alone near the entrance. She’s wearing a fitted yellow dress, which shows off the smooth shine of her neck and breastbones, and a surprisingly flat stomach for a woman who gave birth seven weeks earlier. She seems to be inspecting the crowd around her.

  “She looks . . . worried,” Nell says. “Right?”

  “You think?” Colette is watching her. “Well, who can blame her? It’s got to be hard leaving the baby with a stranger for the first time. I still haven’t done it.”

  Nell waves to get Winnie’s attention before taking her drink and following Colette back to their table outside, past a group of young men that reek of weed.

  “Hi,” Winnie says, forcing her way through the throng on the deck, a drink in her hand.

  “Everything go okay?” Nell asks.

  “Yes. Midas was already asleep when Alma arrived.”

  “Don’t worry about a thing,” Nell says. “She’s a real pro.”

  They take their seats and clink glasses—“To May Mothers!” Francie yells over the music—and pledge not to speak of the babies.