“Oh? Do you, ah, do you know someone by that name? Not an unusual name, really. Fairly common, in fact. Lots of Chloe Brownes out there.” I am babbling. “Someone even told me there’s a porn star with that name. Funny, right?”

I laugh. She doesn’t join in.

“My former husband’s girlfriend was named Chloe Browne.”

She takes a step toward me, and I turn in my chair, shielding Holly. But all Marcy does is inhale deeply.

“I thought I smelled lemon in here, but all I smell now is sour milk. It couldn’t be you.”

Henry has backed up to the wall. I imagine a hostage being held at gunpoint would look more comfortable.

“It was me, Marcy,” I hear myself say, my voice trembling. “But I ended it. I’m so sorry. I thought he was divorcing you, and he told me...”

“Oh you poor thing,” she interrupts. “You believed everything he said, didn’t you? That lying dog. He lied to both of us for years. And look at you now, an unwed mother, trying to hold down a paying job! That tiny-pricked, slobbering snake of a festering twatwaffle!”

“No, no no no!” I am horrified. “You have the wrong idea! This is my baby!” But I do like her abundantly creative mastery of insults.

“Brave, brave girl.” Marcy is undeterred. She takes out her phone. “But don’t you worry, you’re not alone. I’m going to take care of all your expenses, nannies and private school and college. That slimy bastard whoreson of an asshat. My family foundation will take care of everything. Joe and I never had children. You and I will raise his child together. What’s your cell number?”

“Ms. Silverman, Marcy,” I start. “This is not Joe’s baby.”

She looks up from her phone. “Really.” Her eyes narrow. “There were others? You had a DNA test?”

“I adopted. She’s just mine. No paternity test needed.”

She processes this. “You really are a brave girl,” she says finally. “Come to my party tonight. Get a babysitter. We’re both free of him. A new life for both of us.”

“Thank you, Marcy,” I say with real gratitude. “I can’t, but thank you so much.”

I stand, still clutching Holly to my shoulder, and move to hug her. She leans in but suddenly pulls back, and I realize that only someone wearing a hazmat suit would hug me now.

Henry grabs Ryan’s arm and they sidle out of the room. As they exit, Carrie enters. She has folders in one hand and a small tray of dessert samples in the other. She walks by Ryan, then spins on one heel in a classic double take. She bursts into incredulous laughter, then catches my eye and tries to swallow it.

Ryan raises his shield to hide his face.

“Carrie! Why don’t you take Ms. Silverman to the conference room to finish your meeting? I think everything is in really good shape.”

I smile at Marcy, and she smiles right back.

O, the fourth space.

* * *

I’m going back to work full time in one week. One week. And everyone from our pediatrician to the supermarket checkout clerk says I need to get this baby on a schedule.

Actually, I’m not sure what this means. And I have no clue at all how one would accomplish it. How do you motivate an infant? Threaten to take away her cell phone? Or maybe the reward system is better—if you finish your cereal I’ll let you binge-watch Sesame Street?

Anyway, in an effort to establish predictable nap times, on this sunny afternoon, I am taking Holly on a snooze cruise of Back Bay while my mother recovers from her massage at my place. Holly is tucked warmly into her stroller with her binky and stuffed bunny. I am able to study the display windows of all the chic Newbury Street shops, heading for the Public Gardens. There I plan to sit on a bench in a warm place and read a novel while she sleeps.

Like a Beacon Hill nanny, but older.

Except she doesn’t sleep.

She scowls, she spits out her binky, she wrestles with her blankets. She is dissatisfied. She makes threatening sounds.

Determined, I keep walking. Through the Gardens, past the Skating Pond, over to Charles Street. Past the antiques dealers and the cafes. I’m about to give up and head toward the Red Line stop when I realize I’m about two blocks from Nick’s.

Is dropping in cool?

At his house, I could change her diaper, refill my water bottle, warm up for ten minutes.

Okay, let’s be honest. I can do all those things in a coffee shop. I just want to see him.

This is so high school.

I turn onto his street, which climbs steeply uphill. The sidewalks here are antique brick, charming but so uneven that I can barely push the stroller forward. Holly is being rocked wildly from side to side. Finally I resort to walking backwards and dragging the stroller up after me. Here’s a plus: I definitely do not need to work out after this.

Finally the street levels off a bit. I check Holly.

Sound asleep. Go figure.

Well, I’m here now, in front of Nick’s townhouse. After the trip up the hill, I don’t really need to warm up anymore—in fact, I am sweating profusely—but at least I can see Nick. I pull the elastic out of my ponytail and re-tie it as best I can without a brush. Before Holly, I never would have left the house without lipstick. I feel in my jacket pocket, and yes! I find a tube. I pull it out. ChapStick.

And yet, tucked into the pockets of the stroller are diapers, wipes, Balmex, bottles of formula, an extra binky, pajamas, a sweater, sun lotion, and a bottle of baby ibuprofen drops. Enough baby supplies to last a week.

I ring the doorbell, and keep jiggling the stroller. My nose starts to run from the chilly air, and I am wiping it with a tissue when I hear the clicking and scraping of locks being turned from the inside. My heart beats a little faster.

The door swings in, and there stands a woman so perfect in every respect, I wonder if it might be Siri. She is wearing an ivory tweed suit and lots of pearls, and if that sounds boring, trust me, it isn’t. Looks like Chanel. Her dark brown hair is pinned up in a smooth twist.

She’s not smiling.

“Oui?” French Siri says.

“Uh,” I reply.

“Is it the recycle, or the whales?” she asks impatiently. “Where must I sign?”

“Um. Is, um, is Nick here?”

She looks at me closely now. Her glance falls on the stroller and her eyes narrow.

“And you are?”