Charlotte, meanwhile, has topped off her glass. She picks it up and heads out of the room, leaving behind a cloud of Chanel No. 5. Her signature scent.

I cough. Quietly, I hope.

She reappears in the door. “The sooner I can unpack, the less ironing there will be,” she says, and disappears again. My mother is nothing if not considerate.

It’s going to be a very long two weeks.

I reach for my phone and check for texts.

Nothing.

* * *

Day Two with Charlotte.

Holly was hungry at 1:00 a.m., 4:00 a.m., and 6:30. At 7:15 a.m., she finally falls peacefully to sleep. I stagger into the kitchen and start the coffee maker. Which I loaded last night in anticipation of this desperate moment. I drag a counter stool over to the machine and sit watching each life-giving drop fall as if it were an IV drip in intensive care.

It is, actually. Except I’m giving the intensive care instead of getting it.

There’s a distinct smell of Chanel No. 5. I jump.

“Good morning,” Charlotte says. She is wearing a light cotton robe in a lavender animal print. In which jungle, exactly, are there lavender ocelots? Her slippers have tulle pompoms on the toes.

They also have kitten heels. I guess that’s appropriate?

She is wearing crystal drop earrings. And lipstick. Her ash-blonde hair is pulled up in a twist.

I am wearing a grey hoodie from college. My hair has not been washed in three days. I could lubricate machinery with it.

“Is the coffee ready?” she continues. “I didn’t hear the coffee grinder. You did grind the beans fresh, didn’t you, dear? Is there low-fat milk? Organic?”

I don’t answer.

“Chloe? Is there low-fat milk? You know I’m not a breakfast eater, but are there any of those hazelnut biscotti from that bakery in the North End? I need a little extra energy this morning. You woke me up three times last night, turning on lights and banging around in the kitchen. Broken sleep makes it very difficult for the human brain to function.”

I take deep, cleansing breaths. They don’t help. She’s still there.

“Really, Mom?” I start. “Lack of sleep causes problems?”

At that moment, the coffee maker hisses and sends up a cloud of steam. I bite my tongue.

Be nice, Chloe.

She came all the way from Florida to help. She is missing the monthly dinner dance at the club. She is sacrificing her Wednesday golf game. She has left her boyfriend, Howard, in Palm Beach.

Howard is 78. Or so he says. He adores my mother. She refuses to marry him, or even move in with him, so he bought the condo next door to hers. He likes to keep an eye on her.

Maybe he’d like to keep a close eye and visit us.

Now.

“Coffee’s ready,” I announce. “There is milk. There are no biscotti, but there are cinnamon crackers.”

“Oh,” she says. “Oh. Maybe you could get some today. It would be a nice outing for you and the baby.”

It is going to be 95 degrees today, with ninety-eight percent humidity. The word they are using on weather is oppressive.

A trip on the T with a newborn baby to the North End of Boston to buy Italian cookies for my mother, who is supposed to be easing my exhaustion as I adjust to motherhood, is not a “nice outing.” It is a slow, suffocating cattle car to the first circle of hell. And back.

“Well,” I answer, gritting my teeth, “maybe.” Tomorrow. I can stall until tomorrow. My mother is easily distracted. If I dangle a different shiny idea in front of her, she will give me a twenty-four-hour reprieve.

“And now,” she says, in martyred tones, “why don’t you just rest? I’ll take the baby for you.”

The baby has been asleep for half an hour. According to her daily pattern, she will be asleep for another two hours.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Honey?” she adds, as I head to the shower, “In case you’re going to do any hand-washing, I left a few fine unmentionables by your sink.”

I check my phone for texts. Nothing.

Nothing from anyone.

Nothing from Nick.

Nick

“Dude, you got a package,” Charlie announced, tossing it lightly in his arms before handing it off to me. “From some place called Never Liked It Anyway?”

I groan. “Damn.” Work involved fourteen hours of conference calls and team meetings to debate the intellectual property implications of using a logo with a mark that was just close enough to a major sportswear company’s signature logo. Fourteen hours of lawyers and designers and clients going head to head.

I’m about to find out if I own enough beer to make this day go away.

“Is that the strap-on?” Charlie asks.

I huff. “Open it if you want.”

“I don’t exactly want to open it.” Charlie contemplates the seemingly-innocent white box with a broken red heart and piles of money as the logo. “But I gotta admit I’m curious.”

“Right. Like watching presidential primary debates.”

“Exactly.” His face lights up.

I undo my tie, shrug out of my suit jacket, and enjoy the blast of cold that hits me when I open the fridge.

No beer.

“Charlie,” I say in a low growl. “Where’s the beer?”

He smacks his forehead. “I knew I forgot to do something today!”

“What else were you supposed to do in your incredibly jam-packed schedule?” I’m sure he didn’t forget the all-important two o’clock nap.

“I was helping Amelie.” One of the most endearing—and annoying as hell—qualities in Charlie is his Teflon-like ability to let other people’s anger roll off him. Most people absorb whatever people around them radiate.

Charlie doesn’t.

I envy him.

Until I’m the person whose anger—justifiably pointed at him—rolls off his back.

“Let’s go for a walk. I’ll be your pack mule.”

“My what?”

“My bad. I forgot. Let’s go to the store and get some beer. I’ll carry it. You look like you could use a walk, Nick. Your shoulders are around your ears.”

“Wait. You were helping Amelie? With what?”

“Her concert.”

“Which concert?”

“The one Simone’s coming home for.”