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would be like to see the swell of her own belly outlined by the narrow coffee-colored cable-knit.
    â€œNo, no, Jenny’s not pregnant yet, though I’ve been wondering that myself. I’m just preparing for the day it happens, Isuppose.” Molly tried to laugh, but the sound got lost in the cold air. She shifted her weight. She wanted to lie down.
    Monica took a gloved hand to her hair, patting the straight blond bob. She looked at the dress Molly had been admiring, then let her gaze fall over the other winter-weather outfits on display. The faceless mannequins stood poised in the window like they owned it, their round, symmetrical stomachs perched on too-tall, too-thin frames like balloons taped to street signs. She turned back to Molly.
    â€œI couldn’t wait for the day it was you.” Monica tilted her head, as if waiting for the words to meet Molly’s consciousness. “I was just thinking that, the whole time I was in there, getting a little something for my niece’s girl. I wished it was you.”
    Molly’s glance fell on a diamond bracelet clasped over the kid leather gloves covering Monica’s wrists. The flashing jewels winked at her in the harsh sunlight.
    â€œIt’s not too late, you know,” she continued, and when Molly looked back at her, she was shocked to see a plea in Monica’s eyes. Molly had never known Monica to beg for anything. This was the woman who’d maneuvered her way to the top of the best architectural firm in the city before she’d turned forty. Monica usually got what she wanted. “I’m sure you and Scott just had a silly misunderstanding. You could patch it up, couldn’t you?”
    Molly shook her head. She had her reasons for walking away from Scott, even if she wasn’t ready to articulate them to the intimidating woman standing in front of her.
    She glanced at the window display again. She really liked that dress.
    â€œMonica . . .”
    â€œNo, don’t tell me.” Monica held up her hand. “I can’t imagine that you two could really be over for good. Just think about it, okay? About coming back to my son?” She reached forward and took hold of Molly’s bare fingers in her own.
    â€œI miss you.” She looked at Molly with a sad smile. “It was nice having a daughter around.”
    Molly nodded. She felt like a tourist who’d gotten lost and couldn’t understand the accent of the person giving her directions. She’d stepped into a country that seemed an awful lot like the place she’d come from, but was still foreign enough to make her homesick. It was an unsettling feeling, being surrounded by everything familiar, but not belonging to any of it. Her eyelid started to twitch.
    â€œWell.” Monica dropped Molly’s hand and sighed. “In the meantime, how about I take you out for a cappuccino? What about that lovely café we used to always go to after our shopping trips? Just for old times’ sake? I drove the Jag in today, the blasted old thing, but it’s parked right around the corner. What do you say?”
    Molly looked down at her shoes. A young man with a scruffy beard passed by very close to them. Monica shifted her purse to the other shoulder, her gaze still on Molly, waiting.
    â€œI—I can’t, Monica. I’m sorry.” Molly’s mouth had gone dry, and the words caught in her throat. She longed for a cappuccino, with extra foam and a design swirled into the top by a trained barista. But coffee would have led to dinner, with wine by the bottle and desserts with French names, and the platinum credit card always, always, being passed to the server without ever a glance at the check’s total.
    Molly thought about the empty rooms waiting for her at home. There was a Chinese take-out menu lying on the kitchen counter. She’d ordered an old Cary Grant–Audrey Hepburn movie, which was resting on a table next to