Although the mother standing before me isn’t the one that came bearing gifts for my boobs, it’s Carlotta Sawyer, the one who saw fit to abandon me as an infant at the Honey Hollow Fire Department—and believe you me, my life has been better because of it. Carlotta and I share the same caramel blonde hair, hazel eyes, and quirky disposition to see right through to the other side of the earthly veil.
The fireman who found me way back when ended up adopting me. Joseph and Miranda Lemon, the very best parents on the planet, raised me. And they gave me a couple of sisters to boot—one a year older than me, Lainey, and one a year younger, Meg. We’re all in our late twenties now.
A loud bang goes off to our right and we look to see a woman with short curly hair opening and closing a clapperboard, the black and white contraption they snap between takes in the movies—or on dicey shows like this.
But the caustic noise doesn’t seem to bother my sweet little babe at all. Lyla Nell is sound asleep in a faux fur-lined carrier snug against my chest as I steal a moment to take in my surroundings.
The studio we’re situated in is a bit smaller than I had envisioned it to be. It’s still plenty spacious, but for some reason, I had envisioned a football field. The audience sits in two tiers with three different sections practically ensconcing the set from every side. It’s dark in their direction due to the fact all of the spotlights shine down over the stage, with its pale wood floors and its orange sofa and matching wingback chairs placed strategically. There’s a small coffee table in front of the sofa to give it a homey appeal, but I’ve watched the show enough to know that it’s mostly there for the guests to flip once they get overheated. Not that I expect Noah or Everett to get overheated. But me? I’m about ready to flip a table right now.
I make a face. “You know, I never would have agreed to a live paternity reveal if Noah’s wily father hadn’t bilked my mother out of her B&B.”
It’s true for the most part. Wiley Fox is Noah’s father’s actual moniker. It’s almost as if his mother suspected something nefarious were afoot with her little one once she took a look at him, but I digress. As soon as Wiley strolled back into town—seemingly from the grave—he’s been taking advantage of my mother one way or another.
Once he saw that my sweet yet sassy mother was gifted at putting pen to paper, he opened a publishing company and took over half her profits. Then he convinced her that in order to grow the publishing company he needed a serious cash infusion, which she happily gave him after selling her precious B&B. I don’t know what she was thinking. It’s as if his dark hair, green eyes, and dimples possessed her. Not that I don’t completely understand. Noah is basically Wiley’s doppelgänger, and I’ve felt possessed by him on occasion, too.
Speaking of the bewitched.
“Lottie Lemon!” Mom rushes over wearing her very best navy pantsuit as her creamy vanilla waves bounce over her shoulders.
My mother is a looker no matter her age. She has a gleam of mischief in her eyes, a smile forever on her lips, and overall she has a face that never seems to age.
“What are you doing over here?” She straightens the collar of the dress I’ve shoved myself into, a red and blue plaid maternity number. I’ve paired it with a floral printed scarf that I thought was a good idea this morning, but now I’m not so sure. I think it’s weighing me down, and Lord knows I don’t need any help in that department.
Yes, my body is a long way from the T-shirt and jeans I had grown accustomed to. Suffice it to say, I was both shocked and disappointed to see that I still look very much with child weeks after having said child. Both Keelie and Lainey assured me it took them months to get anywhere close to where they were before the procreation party started. Keelie said it was nine months up, nine months down. But as soon as I’m even remotely able, I’m ditching my maternity duds for something far more comfortable. But then let’s face it, there’s nothing more comfortable than these tents I’ve been wearing.
Mom clucks her tongue. “Both Noah and Everett are already in hair and makeup—not that those stubborn men have allowed a single stitch of cosmetics to touch their faces.” She frowns hard at the thought of the most handsome men I know refusing to wear lipstick. “But don’t you worry. They’re still as good looking as can be.” Her lips twist to the side. “As evidenced by the dozens of women all clawing to get their hands on them. Oh, Lottie, give me that sweet little nugget,” she says as she carefully removes the carrier from my body and straps it onto hers, and lucky for us both Lyla Nell slept through the entire exchange. “There we go.” Mom drops a kiss over the baby’s head before covering her with a blanket. “I’m going to keep her with me at all times.”
“Okay, but make sure she stays warm. And if it gets too loud, I packed a pair of baby earmuffs, the kind they wear to help land 747s. I don’t want anything happening to her hearing because of this mess. And oh, I pumped and made up three bottles in case she gets hungry.”
Last week Keelie and Lainey came over and helped me assemble this horror of an apparatus that I hooked up to my udders, as Carlotta indelicately called my boobs. And well, I think Carlotta was onto something because I very much felt like I
