And then I remember the baby.

Chloe is a mother.

Dating? I don’t understand the language of dating.

But I speak fluent Parenthood.

Those first few days with a baby are like being handed an octopus and a hand grenade without the pin at the same time you’re blindfolded on roller blades. And deprived of any sleep.

Poor Chloe.

My laugh echoes through my office as I remember the first few hours of managing twin newborns.

And yet.

And yet… she hasn’t reached out.

Bzzz.

I grab my phone like it’s a life preserver.

It’s Jean-Marc, with a text:

Maman says the divorce decree puts you in charge of paying 100% for my study-abroad fees, Dad. The coordinator said you still owe $500 for next year’s Geneva semester. Sorry, dude.

Right.

Fluent in parenting.

Lately, my fluency involves currency more than anything.

Opening my laptop, I navigate the NYU bursar’s office page and take care of Jean-Marc’s bill, deeply torn, wondering why Chloe hasn’t sent a text.

A simple text.

I know those first few days are hard, but… nothing?

Not one word.

Chapter 13

Chloe

Day One with Charlotte. The countdown begins.

The doorbell rings. Jemma goes to answer it.

“Your grandmother is here,” I inform the baby. “Don’t spit up, poop, cry, or draw too much attention to yourself. I’m just sayin’.”

She studies me intently. She poops.

Sigh.

“You are not off to a good start,” I tell her, reaching for the baby wipes. One of her eyes is crossed and she doesn’t focus. She fusses as if I’ve inconvenienced her with this diaper change.

I can hear my mother’s voice. She is telling Jemma about the flight.

“Air travel is just not what it used to be,” Charlotte’s saying. “Have you seen what people wear on airplanes? Sweat pants! In first class!”

“Shocking,” Jem murmurs. “Awful.”

“Even the stewardesses are wearing flats!” Charlotte is outraged.

“Um, I don’t think they’re called stewardesses anymore,” Jemma says, but Charlotte doesn’t even hear her.

“I need a martini,” my mother announces. “Grey Goose. Two olives.”

Silence.

“Please,” she adds, like a toddler who has been coached, but who uses the word only as a last resort.

There is a slight pause, and I hear the freezer open. Even feisty Jemma knows that Charlotte must be served. It’s just easier that way.

“And where is my granddaughter?”

“Right here,” I answer.

Holly, once again clean and sweet smelling, is dressed for the occasion in a tiny white Jacadi bubble suit that Charlotte sent last month from Paris. It has pale blue piping and a ruffled collar, and it probably cost about as much as my last new dress. The difference is that Holly will wear hers maybe twice before she grows out of it.

But she looks undeniably adorable.

Charlotte holds out her arms, and I carefully transfer Holly into them. For a long, quiet moment, the two of them inspect each other.

“Miss Holliday Browne,” my mother says softly. “I am very pleased to meet you. I am your grandmother. You may call me Mimi.”

Jem gives me the side-eye. “How appropriate,” she says sweetly.

There are three martini glasses on the counter. I take one. I’m going to need it.

My mother appears to notice me for the first time.

“Chloe, you look tired.”

“Well,” I smile, perhaps too brightly, “new baby. Not much sleep for the past week. I’m so glad you’re here to help, Mom.”

“My bags are by the door,” she says. “You can put them in my room.”

Right. Will do.

“Okay, then,” Jemma begins, standing up. “I can see I’m leaving Chloe and Holly in good hands, so I’ll just be getting home to Henry. Thank you for the martini. The T is so much more endurable after a cocktail.”

“Oh Jem,” I say, with some urgency, “Oh Jem. Why don’t you stay a little while longer? Wouldn’t you like another drink? After all, it’s Friday… isn’t it? Don’t go yet.”

She continues gathering her things. I follow her to the door, alternately pleading, bribing, and threatening.

“Jemma, let’s call Henry and he can meet us here. We’ll get takeout from the tapas place you love. Just stay for dinner, Jem, and I’ll come over when Henry’s parents visit! I’ll take them to a museum for an entire afternoon!”

She looks at me sympathetically, but keeps buttoning her coat.

“Chloe, it will be fine,” she says firmly. “Charlotte is here to help. Get some rest. Take a nap.”

“Ha,” I reply bitterly. “They’ll be napping. I’ll be doing their laundry. You know how it always goes.”

“First thing in the morning, send Charlotte off to shop on Newbury Street,” she advises. “You won’t see her for the rest of the day. Especially now that she has Holly to shop for, too.”

Charlotte calls from the kitchen.

“Chloe? I need to lie down before you make dinner. Come take the baby.”

“See?” I hiss at Jemma.

“And I need to unpack,” Charlotte continues. “A few of my things are going to need to be ironed. Where shall I put them?”

I hear Holly start to fuss, tentatively.

Jemma waves her fingers and slips out the door.

“Chloe?” my mother calls. “She’s crying.”

Right.

When I walk back into the kitchen, Holly is quietly sucking on my mother’s manicured pinky finger.

Charlotte’s martini glass is in front of her on the counter, about two-thirds empty. She looks at me innocently. Way too innocently. I narrow my eyes.

“Mom. You wouldn’t,” I start. “You wouldn’t give vodka to a tiny baby…?”

My mother removes her finger from the baby’s mouth, stands, and hands Holly over to me. The baby looks surprised, then her little face wrinkles up in outrage. She turns bright red. She’s too little to make much noise, but she’s giving it her all. With my spare hand, I get a bottle of infant formula out of the fridge.