There was nothing like the pig-headedness of her husband’s parents for emboldening Queenie. Sitting at her table, listening to the shuffle and squeak of Enzo and Mamelle finding their way to bed in the apartment beneath her, she vowed with a simple prayer to the Mother of Mercy to keep going for however long it takes, amen.
“What are you doing?” her husband asked, surprising her as he appeared from the bedroom in his nightshirt, looking like a troubled archangel in blue cotton, buttons unfastened at the throat, hair adorably rumpled. It was after one in the morning.
“Did I wake you?”
“I’ve been up.”
Cosmo’s eyes shone with nervous energy. “Where were you?”
“Talking with your parents about doing something in the neighborhood for young girls in trouble and—” She saw that she didn’t have his attention and stopped.
“Can you make a hot drink?” He took a seat at the table. “I need to tell you about something.”
