Make Me a Mommy: A Mother's Day Secret Baby Romance

by Liz K. Lorde

  “You do have a point—the night I showed up to find you watching romantic comedy re-runs with wine stains all over your shirt I thought I was going to have to stage an intervention,” she laughs.

  “Ha ha, very funny… go ahead and laugh now,” I say with a smile, “but the next time you go through some messy break up, I’ll be the one laughing.”

  “You’re over thinking this. Look at it this way,” she says. “After what Palmer did to you, you should go there and watch him go down in flames. This isn’t something you should miss. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Maybe she has a point.

  Palmer screwed me over, and it would be kind of satisfying to see him get what he deserves.

  Because he does deserve this, that’s for sure.

  And although I’m not the kind of person who seeks revenge, it might be the closure I need. Like when you see someone’s corpse one final time and the realization sets in that they are no longer the person you loved, and you know that person is really gone, and everything is different.

  Whew.

  Maybe I do need to see that Palmer is gone from my life, instead of running from him.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say, and Kate smiles.

  Palmer

  I’m more nervous than I’ve ever been in my entire life. The restaurant is packed.

  The invitations were a success, judging by the sheer number of people who have showed up so far—friends, acquaintances, colleagues, and what seems to be nearly every restaurant critic in the city… even Percy Whitman.

  It’s exactly what I hoped for.

  I shake hands. I smile. And I make my rounds.

  As I walk around the restaurant, I pick up pieces of conversation. I get a personal peek into the lives of all these people.

  I hear one man say, “It’s been weeks, but I think I’ve made up my mind. I want her back.”

  The other man considers this, chewing the last bites of his crostini. “Did she get a haircut?” he asks.

  “I think so, yes. Why?”

  “Forget about her then,” the man says. “I hate to break it to you, but you’re out of luck. She doesn’t want you back.”

  I continue walking, unable to hear the rest of that conversation, but it gives me some comfort to hear that not everyone’s life is perfect.

  I walk past a group of women holding wine flutes filled with champagne. They are all wearing short, pearl necklaces, and I wonder if it’s in honor of The Pearl on Park. I overhear their conversation as well.

  One woman says, “Can you believe the bouncer at the door asked for my ID?”

  “You didn’t bring it?” another woman responds.

  “I totally forgot it, so I look the bouncer in the eyes and I tell him I’m 30. But he just stares back at me and insists that he still needs my ID. So I turn to him and say that I’ve just told him I’m 30. What woman lies about that?”

  The women laugh at this, but one remains fairly quiet.

  The woman telling the story turns to her and says, “Why are you so quiet, Heather?”

  And in a nonchalant sort of way, Heather turns to them and says, “Oh, I’m fine. I’m just saving my personality for when everyone else gets here.”

  They all have a good laugh at that, and I have to admit, despite my nerves about the whole evening, even I’m amused.

  I hear another group of women talking. They’re eating the blue cheese and pear tartlets that I’ve prepared especially for this evening… and they’re not just eating one, they seem to be eating them by the handful.

  I love seeing that. People enjoying the food, and relaxing enough to have a good time.

  One woman says, “Every psycho I’ve ever dated was an Aries.”

  The other woman replies, “Every psycho I’ve ever dated believed in astrology. But my new boyfriend Tom, well, whenever he travels internationally, he texts me the minute he gets WiFi.”

  The first woman puts one hand over her chest. “That’s so sweet. That’s all I want… to be someone’s first thought when they have WiFi.”

  I move on and smile. But my smile fades when I see Nicole’s table.

  It’s still empty.

  What if she doesn’t show up?

  If she doesn’t show up, this will all have been for nothing.

  Just then, I feel a strong hand clap me on the shoulder. “I must tell you,” the man says, “These Prosciutto-wrapped asparagus might be some of the best I’ve ever eaten. And that’s saying something because I’ve eaten my way around the world.”

  “That means a lot,” I say. “Thank you.”

  But as much as it does make me feel good to see people enjoying my cuisine, it doesn’t fix the fact that Nicole isn’t here.

  Brit walks out from the kitchen and whispers into my ear, “We need to get started,” she says. “It’s time for the main course.”

  “Let’s give it a few minutes,” I say, hoping to buy a little more time. I don’t want to start without Nicole.

  “Fine, a few more minutes,” Brit says. “But that’s it. We can’t keep stalling.”

  As she walks off, my heart’s on fire. Maybe this was a stupid idea. I mean, if Nicole has refused to take any of my calls or even text me back, what makes me think she’ll show up to this dinner?

  I can feel my optimism fading faster than a phone battery on 20 percent.

  Yes, this was definitely stupid. I never should’ve—

  My thoughts are interrupted when I see who just walked through the front door.

  She’s gorgeous. Drop-dead gorgeous with her hair framing her face like a halo.

  Everyone seems to turn in their seats when she enters.

  It’s Nicole.

  She came.

  Nicole

  As soon as I walk through the doors of the Pearl, I’m taken by surprise. This doesn’t look like a restaurant’s final night.

  Every critic in the city is here. There’s Francis Ball, the food critic of the New York Times for the last decade or so. There’s also Rachel Smith, a celebrity chef with over a dozen #1 cookbooks under her belt. I also spot Joe March, the obnoxious chef who tells it like it is and, in doing so, has won a Pulitzer for keeping every chef in the world on their toes.

  Even Percy Whitman is here. Why is he here if he hates Palmer so much? Maybe he’s here for the same reason I am… to watch him go down in a ball of flames.

  But sitting here now, that’s not the impression I get. It doesn’t feel like Palmer’s going down at all. In fact, it feels like the opposite is true; it feels like he’s on top.

  This room is filled with the most impressive culinary group of people ever gathered in a single room.

  I get the sense that something big is coming.

  A waiter comes by and offers me a glass of champagne. I thank him and take a sip. I recognize the variety right away.

  It’s Champagne Collet Brut Art Deco. One of my favorites. Did Palmer know that?

  I take another sip and am overcome with the flavors of raspberry and apricot, and even candied lemon peel. Everything about it is perfect.

  “Can I have your attention please, everyone,” Palmer says, and my eyes dart to the front of the dining room.

  “First, I want to thank each and every one of you for being here tonight—even my most outspoken critics.”

  Palmer looks directly at Percy as he says this and I hear some low murmurs in the crowd.

  He continues, “I have a very special evening planned tonight.”

  “This should be good,” Kate whispers into my ear. She promised to join me tonight, and I’m glad she came. If she didn’t, I’m not sure I would’ve been able to muster the courage to come here alone.

  “I’m excited to present a dish to you this evening that I’ve worked long and hard on,” Palmer says to the crowd. He then lifts the silver lid off of a dish and everyone’s necks are craning to get a good look at it.

  “Tonight, I present to you a Bodacious Bucatini Bolognese with heirloom tomatoes,”
he says, and the entire dining room erupts in applause. I hear whispers from the table next to me. “I didn’t know he had a dish like this,” one woman says.

  And my heart sinks. It’s sinking faster than the Titanic.

  I’ve been tricked. Again.

  If I weren’t already so emotionally spent, I’d cry. But I can’t even cry right now because that emotion has turned into anger.

  I’m angry and shocked.

  He adapted my grandmother’s secret recipe and he invited me here tonight to rub it in my face and use it as his own.

  My face is hotter than a campfire. “I told you,” I say to Kate. “I never should’ve come here tonight. This was a huge mistake.”

  Kate doesn’t say anything, but instead tenderly places her hand on top of mine.

  Waiters are bringing this dish to every table and diners are smiling. Critics are taking notes and their faces tell me just how impressed they are.

  I’m astonished as I look around the dining room.

  I’ve never felt so bad in my life. There’s this blackness in the pit of my stomach. It’s like I don’t want to die, but I don’t exactly want to live, and I feel lonely… but I don’t want to talk to anyone. I just want to crawl into my bed and hide away from the world.

  I feel lost. I’m disgusted with myself. My limbs feel heavy, like they’re weighed down with lead anchors. It feels like I’m on a bus and I’m ringing to signal the driver to stop because all I want to do is get off this ride, but the bus just keeps going, and all I can do is watch the world move by through the windows.

  I think I’ve hit an all-time low.

  Great. Just when I thought I wasn’t going to cry, I feel hot tears well up behind my eyelids and they’re threatening to spill over.

  I beg my body to not betray me like this. I can’t cry. Not now. Not in front of this crowd.

  I gather my purse and turn to Kate. “I’m sorry, but I have to leave.”

  But just as I’m about to stand up, Palmer makes another announcement.

  And it’s so surprising that I’m frozen to my seat.

  Palmer

  There are murmurs building louder through the crowd and my heart is beating so fast, I feel as if I might die right here, in front of the world’s most powerful culinary critics.

  That would be embarrassing.

  I tell myself to breathe. Just breathe. Everything is going to be OK.

  I hear a song play in my head:

  “Everything’s gonna be alright, everything’s gonna be okay.”

  Right. It’s now or never.

  This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.

  “I’m glad you are all enjoying this dish, but I have a confession to make,” I say to the room, and every table goes silent. I’m talking silent enough to hear a fly land on a napkin. Every single set of eyes is now fixed on me.

  “I invited you here tonight to help me surprise Chef Nicole,” I say, and everyone is turning in their seats, looking for her. She seems genuinely surprised.

  “You see… one night she cooked this most amazing dish for me. It transported me to another time and place. The place of her ancestors. It was authentic, and so full of depth of flavor and love and creativity… and it told a story.

  “More than that, it showed her genius as a fellow chef. I was planning to surprise her with this new dish tonight.”

  There are now murmurs rumbling through the room again, but I continue on.

  “This new dish was supposed to be a blend of my style and hers… a collaboration, if you will.”

  My eye’s lock on Nicole’s and I can’t decipher what she’s thinking. But she still seems to be in a state of shock.

  “I did this as a way to say that I love her—I love this woman—and sometimes different things come together, combine, and become something beautiful.”

  Now Nicole’s holding one hand to her mouth and she’s crying. Even from this distance, I can see the tears streaking down her cheeks.

  The entire room is clapping.

  “Bravo—congratulations!” I hear the crowd shout. But I raise my hand to silence them.

  “Please don’t clap for me,” I say. “Clap for Nicole. Congratulate her instead, because she’s the only reason I managed to do something like this. She has elevated the way I approach cooking and my own cuisine.”

  The crowd grows louder. The clapping has now reached a fevered pitch and everyone is on their feet, turning to Nicole.

  I watch as the major food critics approach her table. Rachel Smith reaches her first.

  “It’s an honor,” she says to Nicole. “I’d like to talk to you about a potential book deal. I think we could create a bestselling cook book together.”

  Nicole is speechless. She’s beaming from ear to ear. Then Francis Ball and Joe March approach her, showering her with accolades, and I can tell this all feels so surreal to her.

  It’s as if she’s trying to pinch herself, to make sure this isn’t just a dream.

  I walk to her table and reach my hand out toward her. She takes my hand in hers and I pull her to her feet. As soon as she’s standing, I pull her into my arms, and embrace her in a tight hug.

  God, it feels so good to hold her again.

  It’s been so long without her. Too long. And I never want that to happen again.

  I don’t think I could be without her.

  I look directly into her eyes. “I love you,” I say.

  “I love you, too,” she says, her lips curling into a smile.

  There’s a new sparkle in her eyes, and I realize that I’m happy. Truly happy. I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life.

  You know the feeling you get when you come home and your dog is excited to see you? He’s so excited that his tail is wagging so hard it’s knocking things off the coffee table and he’s running up to you and licking you and making all sorts of excited puppy noises and so you pet him and smile and feel content?

  Well, it’s like that. The rest of the world dissolves and takes a backseat to Nicole… to my happiness.

  Nicole drags one hand to my cheek, tenderly cupping it. “I have a secret for you too,” she says.

  “And what’s that?”

  “I went behind your back and saw your doctor.”

  “You did what?” I say, looking into her eyes.

  Why would she do that? I told her about that in strict confidence. She knows I didn’t want to get a second opinion.

  “Before you get mad,” she says, “you’re an idiot.”

  “What?”

  “You’re an idiot because you were worried for nothing,” she smiles. “The scans were wrong. You’re not gonna die.”

  “Well, aren’t you full of surprises,” I say.

  She brings her lips to mine, and as soon as I taste her sweet lips, an electric current travels down my spine.

  “I want you, Palmer,” she says. “I want you… now.”

  Nicole

  I’ve never been this happy in my entire life.

  And I’m more than just happy—I’m also in-love.

  For the first time in my life, I’m ready to share everything I have with another person. It doesn’t matter what—a recipe, my heart, my body… everything I have now belongs to Palmer, as well.

  I can’t even hear anyone anymore. The whole place may be completely packed, and everyone may be cheering for us, but I just don’t care. I’m looking into his deep blue eyes, and everything I care about seems to live in that gaze of his.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he whispers, grabbing my hand and offering me one of his heart-melting smiles.

  “Where to?” I ask him, even though I don’t care about the where; I just want to be alone with him.

  “Have you ever ridden a bike before?” he asks me, that devious grin of his on his lips. I shake my head, biting down on my lip as I remember that roaring bike he drove to my restaurant that one night, but he doesn’t give me the opportunity to hesitate. “Come,” he tells me.

  Wit
h his hand on mine, he drags me out of the dining room and into the kitchen.

  “Brit, The Pearl on Park is yours for the night,” he tells one of the women in there. He grabs two helmets and his jacket, all of them sitting on a counter at the end of the room, and then guides me toward a corridor that leads to a service door. We’re in the building hall now, and we make our way toward the elevator at the end of it.

  He presses the button on the wall, and a fraction of a second later the doors swing open to allow us in.

  “I love you,” I tell him, my heart beating so fast it feels as if it’s about to explode. “I love you so much.”

  “So do I,” he tells me, and then he’s on me. He pushes me back against the elevator door, crushing his mouth against mine, and I surrender to the most intense kiss of my life. My heart melts as I feel the tip of his tongue running between the crevice between my lips, and I allow my hands to rest on his waist.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I shouldn’t have doubted –”

  “Shh,” he silences me, placing one finger over my lips. “No need for that,” he continues, and that’s when the doors slide open once more. We walk out into the lobby, and a few seconds later we’re on the street, the coldness of the night making my skin prickle.

  “Here,” he says, handing me his leather jacket. I try to protest, but he just forces me to wear it. Then, gently, he places one of the helmets over my head.

  “Ready?” he asks me, leading the way toward a bike parked around the corner. He swings one leg over it, and then fishes a key out of his pocket and revs up the engine, its roar cutting through the night.

  Hesitantly, I climb on the back of the bike, and a few moments later we’re already cruising down the streets, my arms wrapped around his chest.

  Right now, I hear nothing but the roar of the engine and the thumping of my own heart. I keep my arms tight around him, and not because I’m afraid of falling, but because I don’t want to let go.

  We drive toward his apartment building, and the moment he parks his bike, it takes us only a few minutes to get inside his apartment. The moment I hear the door closing behind me, I simply push myself up against him and go on tiptoes, my lips looking for his.

  “I need you,” I tell him, the words tumbling out from my lips like honey and silk.