Francie glances in their direction and laughs softly. “First-time moms.” She takes Amelia from the Moby Wrap. “My back is killing me. Who wants her?”
“Me,” Colette says, reaching for the baby. She sinks her lips into Amelia’s dark curls. “Tell me one thing more delicious than new baby smell.”
“This cake.” Francie looks at Nell. “Are you going to read the whole thing right now?”
Nell places Colette’s manuscript on the blanket beside her. “No, tomorrow. I’m taking the train to DC.” She pulls back her hair, which now reaches her shoulders and is back to its natural color. “We’re hosting a summit on paid leave.” It’s been months since Nell quit her job at the Simon French Corporation to become the executive director of Women for Equality. “Listen to this,” she says, and Winnie tries her best to pay attention, but she’s having trouble concentrating, her awareness pulled toward the mothers under the willow tree. The woman in the red sundress has risen from the blanket and is walking toward a nearby cluster of strollers.
“Did you guys see that article yesterday?” she calls to her group, peeking inside a stroller. “It says that swaddling is now thought to cause SIDS.”
“That’s absurd. The book I’m reading says the exact opposite.”
Winnie turns back to Francie, who is reaching to cut another slice of cake, but she stops, the knife suspended in her hands, as a commotion breaks out behind them. A woman is in the middle of the lawn, shouting a child’s name.
“Lola!” The woman spins in a circle, her hands cupped at her mouth.
A man jogs up to her. “I can’t find her.”
“Lola!” the woman yells through the wind.
“She was just here, a minute ago.”
Winnie’s eyes go to Midas. He’s near the picnic tables, scraping the dirt with both hands.
“Lola!”
“What’s happening?” Colette asks, looking in the couple’s direction.
“There,” Nell says, pointing up the hill. “There’s a girl over there.” Winnie spots the young girl in the distance, running toward the wooded path, away from the couple yelling for her.
Colette gets to her feet. “We have to go get her.”
“Yes, quickly. Go.” Francie drops the cake knife and reaches for Amelia. “Give me the baby.”
“Lola!”
Winnie feels a rush of motion as a small brown-and-white spaniel charges by their blanket, a cracked tennis ball in its mouth. The couple falls to their knees, catching the dog, who jumps between them, clawing playfully at their chins and chests. “That is the last time we’re letting you run free,” the man says, clipping a leash to its collar.
Colette sits back down, her face flushed. Her laugh is forced. “I think my heart just stopped.”
They’re silent, and then Nell reaches for a gift-wrapped package on the blanket. “Here.” She tosses it toward Francie. “Open something.”
Francie unwraps her present from Colette—an expensive set of copper mixing bowls—and Winnie tries to still the tremor in her hand. As she sets her cup on the grass, she notices the figure in the distance.
It’s a woman, standing on the shaded path just beyond the circle of mothers. She’s wearing sunglasses, a black top, and a wide-brimmed hat. She’s alternating glances between the mothers under the willow tree and the spot where Midas plays.
“To be honest, I’m more nervous about moving than I expected,” Francie is saying, reaching for another gift. “I hope you’ll come visit.”
“Don’t worry, we will,” Colette says. “Won’t we, guys?”
“Yes,” Winnie says. She can’t make out the woman’s features, but it’s the same thick brown hair under the hat. The same sharp cut of her jaw.
It’s not her. It can’t be.
Francie sets aside the baby quilt, embroidered with Amelia’s name, that Winnie bought for her and takes a baby bottle from her diaper bag. “Is that formula?” Nell asks.
“I told you. I’m doing it differently this time. No more perfect mother.” Francie laughs, and the sound of it is sharp in Winnie’s ears.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” the woman in the red sundress says. She climbs the path, away from the willow tree, her dress fluttering to her hips in the wind. “Someone keep an eye on her?” she yells behind her, but none of the women in her group seem to hear. Someone is telling a story. They pass around a bag of pretzels.
The woman in the hat is watching.
“Midas,” Winnie calls, but he doesn’t look up. The woman begins to walk toward the willow tree. Toward Midas.
“Midas!” Winnie stands. Her baseball hat flies from her head and her bare feet cut against the sharp twigs as she rushes to the tree, yanking Midas by the arm. At the sound of Midas’s wail, the crowd under the willow tree looks in Winnie’s direction, just as the woman reaches them. She takes off her sunglasses, and Winnie sees it’s not a black shirt she’s wearing, but a baby wrap.
“Hi,” the woman says. “Are you the May Mothers?”
“Yes.”
Midas is grabbing his shoulder.
“Oh, good. I wasn’t sure if this was the right group.” She throws her hat to the ground and shrugs a backpack from her shoulders, and then peels a baby from the carrier. “I’m Greta.”
“Greta! You made it.” The women shift, making room for her. “Finally.”
“Hurts, Mama.” Midas’s face is streaked with dusty tears. Winnie crouches down and presses him to her. The women under the willow tree stop talking and look at her as Midas’s cry grows shrill. “Too tight, Mama. Hurts.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers to him. “I’m so sorry.”
“Winnie.” She hears someone calling her name. “Winnie.”
Winnie, you really must come. We insist.
Winnie, tell your birth story.
I don’t understand, Winnie. Did anyone see you leave the bar?
“Winnie, it’s okay.” She turns around. Daniel is standing next to her.
“You’re here,” she says.
“Of course I’m here.” He picks up Midas, and then smiles. “Come on. Come sit down. It’s okay.”
She reaches for his hand. Slipping her fingers between his, she allows him to lead her back to the circle as the women under the willow tree watch, hugging their babies to their chests, their eyes clouded with concern, their blankets billowing around them in the warm summer wind.