When in Doubt, Add Butter

by Beth Harbison

  And as crazy as it might sound, that fact alone—believing in something that seemed impossible yet also seemed true—made me feel a whole lot better.

  Chapter 26

  An invitation arrived both by e-mail and in the mail for me to attend a gathering at Filigree, one of D.C.’s oldest and poshest restaurants, hosted by Lex and the mysterious Terry. There was to be some sort of grand announcement, it said.

  Well, there was no way I could possibly miss that.

  But I almost did. Traffic was a mess, parking was worse, and everyone on the road and sidewalk seemed to be in a foul mood.

  By the time I found a parking place in Georgetown and got into Filigree, Lex was standing on a platform under a spotlight, talking into a microphone. “… so very pleased to announce that Filigree and Simon’s Department Store will be partnering.” He smiled at a tall blond several feet away. I wasn’t sure if it was a man or a woman, as the person’s hair was medium length, and his or her facial features were fine from the side, but the figure left no clue.

  Terry, obviously.

  Just like Pat from that SNL sketch that went on way too long.

  “Filigree Café will be opening in both Simon’s locations in the early spring,” he finished triumphantly.

  Everyone burst into applause, and Lex beamed.

  This really was a huge deal. Filigree had been an institution in D.C. for nearly a century. Presidents had dined there. Royalty had proposed there. A political mistress had even died there, though the gruesome details of the murder were usually ignored in favor of the more romantic notion that she now haunted the place.

  An unusually good-looking waiter stopped before me and offered me a mini crab cake.

  I took four.

  When I wasn’t experiencing morning sickness, I was experiencing a completely piggish appetite. Hopefully things evened out. What I told myself was that I needed to get as much nourishment in, as often as I could, since I never knew when I’d feel ill.

  It was the famine theory of eating.

  “Gemma!” Lex swooped over me just as I popped a second crab cake into my mouth.

  I hadn’t quite finished the first.

  “Hey, Lex.” I put my hand in front of my mouth. “Wow, these are really good.”

  “Aren’t they, though? Not as good as your cooking, though.”

  Not true. “Aw, thanks, Lex.”

  “Have you talked to Willa? I was hoping she might make it out tonight.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think she’s ready yet. But she really wanted to. She’s dying to know what the announcement is. In fact, I should call her and tell her—she’s probably waiting on the edge of her seat.” I started to reach for my phone, but Lex laid a hand on my forearm.

  “Not yet,” he said. “I have someone I want you to meet.”

  Suddenly, illogically, I had a fear that he was trying to set me up with someone. Paul came to mind, and I felt a pang of longing like I’d never felt before. A tender warmth spread in my chest and, inexplicably, I almost felt like crying.

  Was this love?

  Real love?

  I wanted to call Paul. To run to him. To spend the night in his arms and never, ever leave.

  Maybe it was the hormones talking. They’d done a lot of chattering lately, heaven knew. Telling me I was depressed when everything was fine, telling me I wanted sex when I needed to work, telling me I was hungry when I’d just eaten almost an entire box of Cap’n Crunch, and telling me I was sick when they were just swimming around in my stomach after a long, dull night of inactivity.

  No, my hormones definitely couldn’t be believed.

  But my heart? That was another story. These feelings I had for Paul were different. I wanted him.

  And I definitely didn’t want anyone else.

  Fortunately, it turned out Lex wasn’t trying to set me up with anyone. “Terry!” He looked over my head and waved. “Come over here! This is her!”

  The moment had finally come! I was finally going to meet Terry and figure out the mystery.

  It was solved the moment he spoke. “So this is the famous Gemma,” he said, his voice surprisingly deep and rich. Kind of like the shock of hearing Jim Nabors sing for the first time.

  Even without that, though, the face, though definitely androgynous, tipped toward masculine up close.

  I put my hand out. “Nice to meet you.”

  “I know I was cagy with you, but I didn’t want to let the cat out of the bag until it was official.”

  His excitement was contagious. “Yeah? What’s going on?” I was sure we were all about to witness some sort of commitment ceremony or something, but I was wrong.

  “Terry is the owner of Filigree,” Lex said pointedly. “As of, what, two months ago?”

  “Three.” Terry nodded. “It’s very exciting.”

  Lex clapped his hands together. “I’ll say! Tell her what you plan to do.”

  “We’d like to make the menu a little more modern,” Terry said to me. He reached for a menu off a local table.

  I couldn’t help noticing that the logo for Filigree was a peacock feather.

  A slight tremor of premonition ran through me. My recent drama had begun with a peacock.… Was that all about to reach some big, horrible crescendo?

  “If you look,” Terry said, “you’ll see that there’s room for perhaps twenty percent more fare and the menu would still be specialized and seasonal.”

  I took a quick look. It was true, the menu was, arguably, a little limited. “I see what you mean.”

  “We don’t want it to look like a Chinese food menu, of course,” he went on. “And we cannot get rid of any of the few remaining Filigree iconic specialties, but as you can see, it’s all rather … heavy.”

  Prime rib, shrimp Louie, sautéed filet of sole. Yes, it was old-fashioned and a little heavy. Looked delicious to me right now, but I could see what he was getting at. “But you’re not looking to lighten these dishes up, right?”

  “Oh no, no, no. Those must stay or the public will object.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “This is where you come in,” Lex said excitedly.

  “Me?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I told Terry that if there was anyone in the world who could beef up the menu, pardon the pun, and add dishes that were in keeping with the spirit of the original, it would be you.”

  “He was quite adamant about that, actually,” Terry said with a smile. “I’ve been wanting to meet you for weeks.”

  Likewise. “So you want the menu rewritten?”

  “Yes,” Lex said. “Reconceived. We want you to be the executive chef, primarily in charge of concept and execution, what do you think?”

  “Executive chef,” I breathed. It was an incredible offer. A dream come true. “But, honestly, I’m not sure I’m qualified,” I admitted. “You must have the crème de la crème in this town begging for the job.”

  Terry gave a shrug. “I’ve spoken with several people already,” he said. “Naturally, everyone wants to make it their own, but no one offered to do so in a way that respected the Filigree history in the way I wanted. Of course, we will have to speak more in depth about this, but Lex feels quite sure you’re the person for the job.”

  “I do,” Lex confirmed.

  Terry regarded me. “And I have a good feeling about it, too. If you’re interested.”

  “I am definitely interested.” This was incredible. A few weeks ago, I was afraid I was going to end up in whatever the modern-day equivalent of debtors’ prison was. Now, with the potential jobs for the Russian Embassy and this, it looked like things might actually be all right.

  I had been right about the peacock feather bringing a premonition, but it was a wonderful one.

  I didn’t realize I had unconsciously put my hand to my stomach until I caught Lex’s scrutinizing eye looking at me.

  He cocked his head. “Is there something you haven’t told me?”

  “Yes.”

&nbs
p; “Care to elaborate?”

  “There isn’t time now,” I said. “Suffice it to say, I’m pregnant.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence. Then he smiled broadly, his face going red with excitement. “I see we need to have a nice long chat. Soon.”

  “Yes. I’d like that.”

  “Is this for real?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “My goodness, we are going to have one hell of a trip to the baby department at Simon’s. And this time, I’m not taking no for an answer, missy. We’re going to outfit your nursery so completely that it’s going to look like Martha Stewart herself is going to sleep in the crib.”

  I laughed.

  “Okay.” He clapped his hands together. “Meanwhile, you haven’t heard the most exciting part about Filigree’s news. And I’m starting to think this might be quite timely.”

  It was like Bob Barker was telling me there was still more in the “Showcase Showdown.” A new car. A boat. A cruise around the world. Financial security. An IRA. “What is it?”

  “Simon’s is going to be producing and selling, exclusively—”

  “At least at first,” Terry interjected. “Then we go national.”

  “Yes, that’s right, after a brief, exclusive period, we will go national.”

  “With what?” I asked.

  “The Filigree D.C. Cookbook.” Lex beamed. “Can you even imagine a better time to do a project like that?” He looked me up and down. It was clear he knew what was going on, and it was also clear this was going to drive me crazy for some time to come. He was going to be like the doting old aunt, always asking after the pregnancy.

  And I loved him for it.

  “You want me to write a cookbook?” I asked him. Then looked to Terry. “Are you sure?”

  “Unless you’re not interested,” Terry said. “I realize we’ll have to discuss terms, but I’m sure we can reach an agreement.”

  “I’m sure of it,” Lex repeated. “What do you say?”

  I almost couldn’t breathe with the excitement of it all. “I say I’m on board with whatever you want. Absolutely all of it. I’m just afraid at midnight you’re going to change your mind and this delicious pumpkin is going to turn back into a coach.”

  Both Terry and Lex laughed heartily at that.

  “Not going to happen,” Lex said, stopping a waiter whose platter held Filigree’s signature chocolate truffles. He took three off the tray and handed one to each of us.

  “To our new alliance,” he said, raising his chocolate in the air like a flute of champagne.

  “To us,” Terry agreed.

  “Amen,” I said.

  And we touched our chocolates together to toast what wasn’t just a new job for me, but also, quite possibly, my salvation.

  * * *

  For the next few weeks, I continued to disprove the “morning” part of morning sickness repeatedly—as well as the notion that it ebbed by the end of the first trimester—but thankfully, I never had a problem with it while cooking food. On Tuesday, I made Paul an unfortunate meal that tasted delicious to me, but which didn’t quite translate to unpregnant mouths.

  “I just don’t know that mint goes with pesto and pineapple,” he said when he took a bite. I had just popped them out of the oven, and presented them proudly.

  “Are you sure?” I said, and took a bite myself. “I think that’s delicious!”

  He looked at me like I was crazy, and then said, “Please. Have some more.”

  “Don’t mind if I—” There was a sudden cramp in my stomach.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, quick as a whip. He lay a hand on my back and arm, and looked concerned.

  “Nothing. It’s gone.” I shook my head as if trying to forget a nasty memory. “I have no idea where that came from.”

  “What was it?”

  “Just a cramp— Oh!” I bent over as another one gripped me.

  “Come here,” Paul said, guiding me strongly to one of the chairs in the living room.

  I breathed deeply. “I think the cramps are gone,” I assured him. Then: “Ouch.”

  Somehow, I had stopped expecting them. Maybe because I had spent most of my life not being pregnant and not thinking about pregnancy. It’s like that first morning you look in the mirror after a dramatic haircut. It kind of takes a second before you remember.

  Only, you know, this was way worse.

  Paul must have seen that in my face. “I don’t like this. We should get you to an emergency room.”

  “I don’t…” That was foolish. This was no time for stoicism. “You may be right. Let me just rest for a minute.”

  “Something else is going on.” It was a statement, not a question. He was putting the pieces together, whether he realized it or not.

  And this was my chance.

  “Yes.” I took a breath and closed my eyes, concentrating on my abdomen for a moment. There was no pain. But I felt like all my insides had turned to Jell-O. Which incidentally, sounded just awful right now. “I’m pregnant.”

  He said, “Should I ask—?”

  “You’re the only one I’ve”—I dropped my voice—“slept with in months.” I couldn’t meet his eyes.

  When he said nothing, however, I had to. He was looking at me. I couldn’t read his expression.

  Finally, he spoke. “That’s … wow. I just … I don’t know what to say.”

  “Yeah. Believe me, I was … shocked, too. To say the least.”

  “Do you—” He stopped, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. “Are you planning to keep it?”

  Interesting that he regarded this as my choice, even now that he knew how intrinsically involved he was in it. I took the tension in his jaw to mean he was wrestling with that.

  I bit my lower lip. “I am. I’m sorry, I know I should have talked to you about this, or found you, or”—I shook my head—“I don’t know, done something, or maybe everything, differently before this was some big fait accompli that I’m telling you about like this, but…”

  He nodded and looked down at his lap.

  “Look,” I said, “I’m not asking for anything from you. I mean, we haven’t really even dated. You’re a one-night stand, and so am—”

  He looked up with raised eyebrows. “That’s not exactly true, though, is it?”

  I met his eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to define this. Any of it.”

  “If you think about it,” he said with a slight and unexpected smile, “we have known each other for a while.”

  I smiled back. I couldn’t help it. “Yeah … but we don’t know enough about each other to…”

  To what? Become a family? Interesting how you could commit the act with just about anyone—have sex, make love, do the deed, whatever you wanted to call it—it meant as much or as little as you wanted it to until the sex became decidedly unsexy and became, instead, a medical condition.

  And then a person.

  “Right,” he said. “We don’t know each other that well. But I like you.”

  My face grew hot. “Well, I like you, too.” Such a small thing in the face of such a big reality.

  “I really do. And there’s no way I’m not going to be part of that kid’s life.” He still looked shocked, but I could tell he was adjusting. “So here we are. Wherever here is.”

  Questions came to me now. The kinds of questions a person should ask a potential mate long, long before they reached this point. “Did you ever envision yourself, like, even having kids?”

  He furrowed his brow in earnest. “Absolutely.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I wasn’t desperate for it. Just kind of figured it’d land in my lap if it was meant to be. The whole thing, wife, kids … kind of a lot of pressure to put on fate, I know.”

  “No, I”—I ignored the skip in my heartbeat—“I have always said the same thing.”

  We made eye contact.

  His eyes dropped to my belly. “Kind of hard to imagine at a time like this, tho
ugh, right?”

  I sucked air in through my teeth. “Yes. Seriously. I mean, how freaked are you, really?”

  He furrowed his brow again, this time in thought. “Strangely, not that much.”

  I wanted to believe it, but it was hard. “Really?”

  “Really.” He nodded. “I don’t know why, but really.”

  I shifted my position, and another pain stabbed through my abdomen.

  He didn’t have to be told; he saw it. And he didn’t hesitate. “We need to go to the ER now. If there’s any possibility this is something more than food poisoning or a virus, we need to get you checked out.”

  Now, I was never one to make a big deal out of things unless the need to do so was overwhelming. But in this case, I agreed—I didn’t want to take a chance.

  This baby felt like a second chance in so many ways; I had to protect it at all costs.

  * * *

  The emergency room was surprisingly busy for a Tuesday night, but as soon as they learned I was pregnant, they took me straight back to triage.

  It was strange having Paul there with me as they went through the series of questions that were normally routine and done alone. Health history and so on. The answers were so different now than the last time I’d been to the doctor.

  What would they be next time?

  Would I still be pregnant?

  Or would I have to answer the medical questionnaire differently from now on when it came to the questions of live births and miscarriages?

  I knew these were maudlin thoughts, of no use whatsoever to anyone, and certainly not to me in that position, but they still plagued me. The longer I sat there, wondering what was happening and how the night would end, the more nervous I became.

  Part of me wanted to run away, to not get tests or diagnoses, or anything, as if Not Knowing would protect me. Logic and intelligence have no power over fear, and the impulse to basically put my head in the sand was so overwhelming that a couple of times I looked at Paul and actually began to suggest we leave, but I knew—of course I knew—that I couldn’t really protect myself or the baby by remaining ignorant of what was really happening.