by Aimee Molloy
“And mine is due in one.”
“I know, baby.” His jaw is clenched. “But you know what’s riding on mine.”
“I have to get ready.” She closes the door, then showers slowly, scouring her body with a new salt scrub she bought on a whim at the grocery store yesterday, trying to rinse away her frustration, the exhaustion. When she re-emerges from the bedroom in a clean blouse and skirt twenty minutes later, Charlie is in his office with the door closed. She steals into the nursery, the darkened room echoing with the cetacean calls of the Womb Noises CD, the air filled with the scent of her daughter. Colette can’t resist the urge to lean into the crib, to touch Poppy’s cheek and brush aside the threadlike hairs—as orange as pumpkin pie—from her forehead. A face so much like Colette’s mother’s.
Deciding not to disturb Charlie, she quietly leaves the apartment, walking toward the subway, where she stays at the end of the platform, away from the newsstand, wanting a few hours’ reprieve from the latest headlines about Midas. Once on the train, she closes her eyes, thinking how ridiculous this argument with Charlie is. He’s at the height of his career. A huge advance for his debut novel, gushing reviews anointing him one of the most promising new voices in decades, in the midst of finishing his second, highly anticipated book.
And here she is.
On her way to sit at the mayor’s office, to wait around for Teb, writing a book he’s going to say he wrote himself, earning him a fortune in royalties, too afraid to attempt another book of her own. Her first book, a biography of Victoria Woodhull, the first woman to run for president, was published six years earlier. Colette spent years researching it and was infinitely proud of the work. But its sales were dismal, and while she wrote two subsequent book proposals, no publisher was interested. Too gun-shy to try again, on her agent’s advice she began to accept ghostwriting work. Just for a little while, her agent said. Just until a better idea for the next book strikes. That was four years ago.
Her phone dings with a new text message as she climbs the subway stairs at her stop near City Hall, distracting her from the thoughts. It’s Charlie.
I’ve been thinking about something, he wrote.
What’s that?
Global warming. What a bummer, huh? She waits. Also, how about a romantic dinner at home tonight? After the baby’s asleep.
Sounds nice.
I’ll even let you cook.
Colette stops at the coffee cart at the entrance to City Hall Park. “A large black iced coffee,” she says to the man inside. “And a glazed doughnut, please.”
How generous, she types.
I think so too. What are you going to make?
A soufflé.
Awesome. What kind?
The invisible kind.
But you made that yesterday.
She has another ten minutes before she’s scheduled to meet Teb, and she decides to take her coffee to a bench in the park, near a butterfly bush blooming with purple flowers. It would all be so much easier if she could tell Charlie the truth. She wants to stop working. She wants to focus on Poppy. She pulls the doughnut apart, envisioning the life she wants: being only a mother right now. Making sure Poppy is okay. That she’s loved, healthy, getting the things she needs.
She casts the idea away. She can’t tell Charlie that.
She can’t be that.
Colette Yates, the daughter of Rosemary Carpenter, the Rosemary Carpenter, who made a career writing about the plight of motherhood, the inherent sexism in domestic partnerships, the need for women to avoid dependence on a man. She was going to choose to be a stay-at-home mom?
Colette finishes the doughnut and opens her e-mail, knowing she has to gather herself and prepare for her meeting with Teb. There’s a new message from Aaron Neeley, with notes on the chapters they’re meant to discuss today.
You’re not really getting this part—the emotional toll Margeaux’s death had on the mayor. The timeline here is all screwed up. Go back and dig up the Esquire profile. That writer got it right.
Colette raises her face to the sky, feeling the sun’s warmth on her skin, and hears the chime of an incoming text. She tries not to think about Aaron’s message, or the hour she’ll have to spend talking about this book, or the image of Winnie sitting alone in her apartment, Midas’s crib empty, surrounded by reminders of his absence. All she wants to think about, at least for another five minutes, is the sun on her face, dinner with Charlie, the pediatrician’s appointment tomorrow, where she’ll hear everything is fine. Poppy is normal. Her fears are unfounded.
She reaches for her phone to see what Charlie has written. But the message isn’t from Charlie.
It’s from Francie.
Colette tries to appear composed as she greets Allison.
“Go on in and get settled,” Allison says. “He’s finishing up another meeting.”
Inside Teb’s office, she sits at the large round table and opens her laptop.
They found him. That’s all Francie’s text said.
She types the address of the New York Post website, bracing herself for devastating news. The article is on the home page.
Suspect in Midas Ross Abduction Found in Pennsylvania
Colette exhales, resting her forehead on her palm. Francie didn’t mean Midas. She meant Bodhi Mogaro.
A 24-year-old Yemeni man believed to be linked to the abduction of Midas Ross was arrested early this morning in Tobyhanna, Pennsylvania, two hours west of New York City.
The police pulled him over for trespassing after his parked car was spotted on the grounds of the Tobyhanna Army Depot, which houses surveillance equipment used by the Department of Defense. The police confirm they have been searching for Mogaro for two days, after eyewitnesses spotted him around Gwendolyn Ross’s residence on the night of July 4, at the time of her son’s abduction. A bag containing nearly $25,000 in cash was discovered in the trunk of Mogaro’s car, a 2015 Ford Focus, rented from JFK early in the morning on July 5.
$25,000 in cash.
Colette reads the sentence again. Why would he have that money?
The Department of Homeland Security has become involved, investigating why Mogaro may have been trying to break into the Army Depot, while also trying to determine if any military personnel may have been working in collusion with Mogaro. Mogaro’s wife, a professor of economics at Wayne State University, did not respond to several requests for comment.
Colette’s phone beeps again. It’s Nell. What does this mean?
“Colette.” Allison is standing in the door. “Sorry to interrupt your writing, but the mayor’s running a few minutes late.”
Colette nods. “Okay,” she says, barely getting the word out. “Thanks.”
“And I should let you know. The copy machine broke.” Allison lowers her voice. “The repairman won’t be here for another hour, if you need to use the room. I can make a sign. Nobody will disturb you.”
Colette glances down at the article. “Good timing,” she says. “I was just about to see if the bathroom is empty.”
Allison’s smile is wide. “Give me a minute.”
Colette takes her bag from under the chair and walks to the credenza beside the mayor’s desk. The file is still there, heavier in her hands than it was two days earlier. Allison flashes a thumbs-up from her desk as Colette walks to the copy room, clicking the lock into place behind her. As she lifts the file from her bag, something falls from it, landing at her feet. A flash drive. She sets it on the copy machine and pages quickly through the papers inside the file, scanning for Bodhi Mogaro’s name. In her haste she slices the crease of her thumb and forefinger, leaving a painful wisp of a paper cut, and a trail of her blood on the top page.
“Shit,” she whispers, rubbing the blood across the words “Membership list: May Mothers.”
She flips through copies of the questionnaire she had to fill out when signing up for May Mothers through the Village website. She sees Nell’s profile. Yuko’s. Scarlett’s. Francie’s. How did the p
olice get access to these?
She sees hers.
She takes it from the stack, looking at the photo she included, from the trip to Sanibel Island she and Charlie took before Poppy was born. The night he proposed, the anniversary of their first date, the first night they’d spent together, waking up the next morning in his Brooklyn Heights apartment, watching the first plane hit the tower. “I will be with you forever,” she said that day on the Florida beach, her hair thick with sand and salt water, holding the ring in her hand. “But you know me, Charlie. Marriage isn’t my thing.” She barely recognizes herself in the photo. Just two years earlier, but she appears so young.
Then it occurs to her: Teb will see this. He’ll discover that she knows Winnie. He’ll know—if he doesn’t know already—that she was there that night. He’ll want to know why she didn’t tell him.
She looks at the shredder next to the copy machine, and without a second thought, she feeds the paper into the slit on top. In one rapid motion, slivers emerge from the other end of the machine.
She returns to the folder, flipping through the papers. Photos of the back deck of the Jolly Llama. Photos of Winnie’s house. Her kitchen. A lab report Colette can’t make sense of. She stops at a transcript of an interview, several pages long.
Hoyt: Can you spell your name for me?
Meraud Spool: M-E-R-A-U-D S-P-O-O-L
Hoyt: And you’re a friend of Ms. Ross?
Spool: A former friend. We haven’t spoken in years, but we were close when we were young.
Hoyt: I know we want to get to the incident with Daniel you witnessed, but before we get to that, tell me about your relationship with Ms. Ross.
Spool: We met at the Bluebird auditions. We had a lot in common, and we clicked right away. When my mom and I moved here for the show, Mrs. Ross invited us to stay with them while the apartment we bought was being renovated. We would spend our weekends at their country home, upstate. Winnie and I shared a room. She felt like my sister.
Hoyt: Okay.
Spool: So, anyway, we both got cast. Winnie, obviously, got the lead.
[Laughter]
Hoyt: How did you feel about that?
Spool: How did I feel? To be perfectly honest, it stung. For all the girls, not just me. She wasn’t the best dancer. But she was the most beautiful.
Hoyt: Did she get along well with the other girls?
Spool: No, not really. She was awkward.
Hoyt: Awkward?
Spool: Yeah, like she never really knew how to just be herself. She was always shape-shifting, trying to be what she thought others wanted her to be. Trying to portray whatever image it was that served the situation. But she got more confident after she met Daniel.
Hoyt: And where did they meet?
Spool: I have no idea, to be honest. Skinny. Acne. It shocked all the other girls that they were dating, but not me, not after I saw the two of them together. They made so much sense. He was a lot like her. Studious. Artsy. They really loved each other. [Laughter] I mean, the way we do when we’re seventeen. Kid love. Although, at thirty-nine, with three kids and twelve years of marriage, I’m starting to think that that, in fact, is what real love is. This? This is work. Am I talking too much? I’m not sure I’m answering your questions.
Hoyt: You’re doing fine.
Spool: Well, anyway, the show was doing great. Winnie had Daniel. She had me. And then her mom died. And—
Hoyt: Yes?
Spool: And then things, well— Look, you guys contacted me to ask if you could interview me, and I’m happy to help. I have three sons. I seriously can’t imagine what she’s going through. But I’m afraid to say the wrong thing.
Hoyt: Try not to worry about that. We’re just gathering facts.
Spool: She went crazy. I mean, who wouldn’t? Losing your mom so young. It was horrible. This freak accident, which nobody could explain. Her brakes go out, just as she’s driving down a hill? It was so strange. On top of that, the guy was back. Archie Andersen.
Colette pauses. Yesterday, Francie mentioned in an e-mail that Winnie had a stalker, wondering if he had any contact with Winnie since her Bluebird days.
Spool: He’d disappeared for several months, after the restraining order was issued, but then he showed up at her mom’s funeral, making a huge scene, wailing at the front of the church. It was a lot for her.
Hoyt: Are you all right?
Spool: It’s just so sad. Winnie and her mom were so close. Like, the kind of relationship every young girl wants to have with her mother. And then, poof, she was gone. Winnie started to have panic attacks. Terrible crying fits. It reminded me of my stepmom, actually.
Hoyt: Your stepmom?
Spool: She had just given birth to my half sister at the time. She’s, let’s say, a number of years younger than my dad. She went nuts afterward. Crying. Unable to sleep. She was eventually hospitalized for a while. Postpartum psychosis.
Hoyt: And how did that remind you of Winnie?
Spool: Well, Winnie, she— She wasn’t herself. And then the incident happened.
Hoyt: Tell me about that.
Someone is knocking on the copy room door. Colette thrusts the papers back into the folder and hastily shoves it in her bag, along with the flash drive. “Hang on,” she says into the thin crack of light between the door and frame. “Last boob, nearly done.” She pulls out her manual pump, unbuttons her shirt to below her bra and opens the door.
It’s Aaron Neeley. “Everything okay?” He lowers his eyes to her bra.
Colette fumbles to rebutton her shirt, her face hot with embarrassment. “Yes, fine.”
“We’re waiting for you.”
“Okay, great.” She returns the pump to her bag. “All set.”
Allison shoots Colette an apologetic look as she follows Aaron back to Teb’s office. He’s sitting in his chair, reading a printout of the manuscript, his feet propped on his desk, revealing red-and-white polka-dot socks. Aaron gestures at one of the empty chairs in front of the desk. “Give me a second,” Teb says.
Colette keeps her bag on her lap and glances at Aaron, and then at the wall behind Teb, which showcases a rotating collection of framed photographs of him posing with various celebrities. A few new ones have been added. Teb with Bette Midler. With a young man recently signed to the New York Mets. With former secretary of state Lachlan Raine, who, it was announced earlier this morning, is likely to be nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize for the work his foundation is doing in Syria.
“Cool, huh?” Teb is watching her.
“Very.”
“Met Raine two weeks ago, at my thing at Cipriani’s. He’s raising millions for my campaign, but man, is that guy crazy. No joke, there wasn’t a waitress he didn’t hit on.”
Colette tries to keep her voice breezy. “I’m shocked.”
Teb chuckles. “Yeah, right.” He puts down the final sheet of paper. “Okay, C. I have to be honest. I think we’re going in the wrong direction in a few places.”
She tucks her hair behind her ears, willing herself to appear indifferent. “I understand.” Aaron is looking on with a mixture of boredom and weariness. “Can you be more specific?”
Teb leans back in his chair and studies the ceiling. “The first book. Who did that reviewer compare my writing to?” he asks Aaron.
“‘Prose like Hemingway. Wit like Sedaris,’” Aaron says.
Colette scoffs. “To be honest, Teb, that was a little much.”
“Fine, but this one? It’s not going to wow anyone.” He looks at Aaron. “Right?”
Aaron blows out a long puff of air. “Yes, sir, I have to agree. I get that we’re asking you to write quickly, Colette, but we can’t settle for something mediocre. Not with the expectations the mayor set with his first book.”
“Okay.” She nods. “Let’s go through it.”
For the next hour, she tries to focus on what they’re asking of her, but she’s distracted by the weight of the folder in her bag—what if Teb has already gone
through it? What if he’s seen her membership form? By the muted television in the corner, set to NY1. Colette can’t keep her eyes away, and eventually she sees a photo of Bodhi Mogaro flash across the screen, the photo the police must have provided to the press—the same photo she has at home, in the folder under the couch. Yemeni man in custody for trespassing, possible connection to Midas Ross abduction. She feels a flood of relief when Allison knocks gently on the door, peeking her head inside.
“Mayor, your next appointment is here. They’re waiting in 6B. I’ve set you up with lunch.”
“Great, thanks, Allison.” Teb straightens the papers and hands them across the table to Aaron before reaching to check his phone. “This was helpful, right? This will get us all back on track?”
“Absolutely,” says Aaron.
Colette gathers her computer and notebook, sliding them inside her bag next to the folder. She walks into the lobby, where one of the young assistants from the press office is leading a public tour, pointing out the art on the walls, guiding the crowd to the large bay window offering a view of the Brooklyn Bridge. Colette snakes through them to the bathroom, waiting just inside the door, watching the hall to Teb’s office. When she sees Teb and Aaron heading to their next meeting, she walks toward Allison, who’s on the phone at her desk. “I think I dropped my wallet in there,” Colette whispers.
Allison waves her inside. She pretends to inspect the floor around the chair she’d occupied, and then beside Teb’s desk, guiding the folder back into its place.
She waves good-bye to Allison, pressing the button at the elevator. Two women scoot inside just before the doors close, coffees and lighters in their hands.
“They say he’s from Yemen. A Muslim,” one says to the other, in the raspy voice of a longtime smoker. “That can’t be good.”
The other woman shakes her head. “What I want to know is, where’s the mother? Why isn’t she giving any interviews? Only a woman with something to hide would refuse to speak to the press.”
The women both look at Colette. She smiles and pushes the button for the lobby, her heart thudding, her bag pressed against her chest, the flash drive still inside.
