“See what you did?” Jean-Marc shouts, irritated. “You made the baby cry.”

Hands flying to cover her mouth, Elodie looks at me in horror. “I’m sorry!”

“Shhh shhh shhh,” I say, bouncing Holly on one hip, focused on getting her to calm down. She’s electric with fear, that full-body, full-throated screaming that babies have, where all the emotions pour out at once because there are no boundaries to contain them.

Within a minute, she’s sniffling against my shoulder, body shaking with little sobs, and then a long, peaceful rattling sigh indicates that balance has been restored. I kiss her head and rub her soft scalp, smelling apricot and beeswax. She’s deadweight in my arms now, most of her mass held up by my inner elbow, forearm up against her shoulder. Muscles I haven’t used in years spring back to life with memory and I look at the last baby I held regularly.

Jean-Marc’s holding a milk carton upside down and draining it. He looks like a young Charlie. He throws the empty into the trash, then searches the cupboards and finds a red can, shaking the remains of a Pringles tube into his open mouth.

Given that I don’t eat those, Charlie’s going to come home and be pissed that his mini-me has learned all his tricks and one-upped him in draining his inventory.

Elodie’s studying me with narrowed eyes.

“You’re really good with her,” she says, with misplaced suspicion.

“Shhhhh,” I soothe. I’d forgotten how babies change time itself. Minutes and hours telescope into a free-floating mode of being. You can’t be in charge of a baby and have specific goals. You can try, and you can be fooled into thinking you’re succeeding. Like poor Chloe.

All it takes is one freak surprise to make you realize you’re not really in control.

“Where’s Amelie?” I ask.

Holly’s head pops up, as if to ask the same question. She looks around the room as if we’re on the hunt.

“On her way.”

“I really do get all three of you here tonight?”

She shrugs. “It’s winter break. I’m not doing anything until Monday.”

“And you said because I’m doing study abroad next year, you wouldn’t pay for me to go anywhere,” Jean-Marc grouses.

“You poor, suffering child. Would you like an extra serving of porridge to make up for it?” I ask dryly.

“So you get us all!” Elodie squeals, her face stretched into an overly happy expression as she taps Holly’s nose.

Peals of laughter fill the room.

Bzzz.

Fumbling, I reach into my back pocket for the phone. It’s an actual call.

“Nick? Nick? How is everything?” Panic fills my ear. “Is Holly okay?”

“Bop!” Elodie says.

Holly giggles.

“Is that Holly?” Chloe asks, the panic draining out of her voice.

I laugh, a deep sound that surprises even me in its purity. “Yes.”

“Bop!” Elodie, encouraged by her audience’s response, keeps going.

Giggle.

“It sounds – it sounds like you have everything under control,” Chloe says, her voice filled with marvel.

“So far.”

“Is she upset?”

“She’s had her moments.”

“What happened?”

“She got scared.”

“She must be terrified! She’s only ever been watched by me or Jemma. Is – should I talk to her? Can you Facetime?”

Chloe’s words are blipping in and out. “Chloe? I think the connection’s bad.”

“I – but – can you Face—”

Signal out.

“Shit.”

“Daddy! Don’t curse in front of the baby!”

“It’s fine. She can’t really imitate words for another few months.” I chuckle. “I remember when Amelie learned to say merde, though. Your mother said it one too many times around her when she was about fourteen months old and it stuck. Oh, man, was Simone pissed.” I smile at the memory.

Holly smiles back.

Elodie and Jean-Marc share an intrigued look. “Really?”

“Except she said it like mer, so Simone convinced people she was just talking about the sea.” My mind takes me back to a time when both twins were starting to walk and talk, when Elodie had long, crazy hair in a topknot and eyes bigger than her head. “But she said it whenever she was mad.”

Elodie tilts her head as she watches Holly, brow knit. “What about me?” she asks softly.

“What about you?”

“Tell me a story about me as a baby.”

My mind goes blank.

She waits, holding her breath.

“You were the sweetest baby. The easiest of the three.”

Elodie reels back in shock.

“Maman says I’m the most stubborn of her children!”

“I said you were an easy baby. Not an easy child.”

“What went wrong, Dad? When did she become such a pain in the ass?” Jean-Marc asks, crossing his arms, giving Elodie an amused chuckle.

“After I dropped her on her head.”

“DADDY!”

“You were fluent in French before English,” I say slowly, remembering. “Which was strange, because Amelie and Jean-Marc learned English first. You wandered around like a little drunken toddler, mixing English and French all the time. At one point, Simone was worried you had a speech disorder. We finally had you evaluated when you were about two and a half and the specialist said you just had a unique way of learning.”

“That’s medical speak for weird,” Jean-Marc interjects.

Elodie throws a sofa pillow at him. He ducks. It hits the empty Pringles can and sends it flying across the room.

Holly giggles.

We all laugh.

This is going to be a piece of cake.

Chloe

Jack has managed to get me into an Anterdec reserved hotel room, which must be the only available room in the entire city. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at my phone.

No messages of any kind.

I call Nick. Voicemail.

I call Jemma. Voicemail.

I call Room Service. “Yes, Ms. Browne?”

Thank god somebody picks up my calls. This was beginning to feel like a sci-fi movie.

“Could I please have a vodka martini with a twist? No, on second thought, two vodka martinis?”