A Mom For His Daughter. Jean C. Gordon

a ways down the street and walked to the restaurant.

      “Good evening,” said a waitress who looked familiar, but he couldn’t place. “Find a seat and I’ll be right with you.”

      “Marc,” his mother called from the booth where he’d already spotted them.

      The waitress smiled and handed him a menu.

      “Thanks,” he said, finally recognizing her as someone who’d been a few years behind him in high school. Marc walked to the booth and slid into the seat across from his parents.

      “So,” his mother said, “what’s the big news that merits you treating us to a meal you’re not cooking? Did you get the revitalization grant for La Table Frais?”

      “Terry,” his dad cautioned. “Let the man catch a breath and look at the menu.”

      “All right. You know, you could have brought Stella.” His mother glanced around the restaurant at the numerous families with children.

      “I know, but I thought it would be nice to have an adult dinner with you.”

      His father tapped the menu on the table in front of him. “I’m going to have the fish fry special.”

      “Me, too,” Marc said.

      “Guys, did you even look at the other specials?” his mother asked.

      “Why would I, when I came in knowing what I want?” his father answered.

      Marc laughed. This was an ongoing dialogue between his parents that went back as far as he could remember.

      The waitress came and took their orders, and they had their food in front of them in no time.

      Marc pressed the side of his fork through the tip of his battered fried fillet. It was time for his announcement. The prospect took him back to high school, the day he told his parents he wanted to study culinary arts in college and not farm management, that he didn’t want to be part of John Delacroix and Sons. Dad had mellowed a lot since then. But what he had to say tonight would hit Mom harder.

      Marc cleared his throat. “I met a woman, a friend of Claire’s, one of her coworkers.”

      “Oh.” His mother’s eyes brightened.

      Bad start. “A business meeting. Fiona Bryce. She’s the new farm-to-table liaison.”

      His father nodded. “I read about that program and her hiring in the Times of Ti. She’s a Cornell grad, like Claire.”

      “Yes, a couple years behind Claire,” Marc said. One of the things he’d found in his online search about Fiona. “Claire suggested Fiona and I talk about how she can work with me, setting up connections with local food producers.”

      “Do it,” his father encouraged. “The Cornell people know what they’re doing.”

      His father’s words frustrated him. It wasn’t that Dad wasn’t proud of him graduating from the Culinary Institute or his youngest sister from the University at Albany, but he was inordinately proud of Claire and Marc’s younger brother, Paul, being Cornell graduates. His father had wanted to go to Cornell, but for financial and family reasons had settled for a two-year degree in dairy production and management from a state college.

      “I already have a contract.” Fiona had wasted no time emailing it to him. “My partners are reviewing it. But there’s something else I want to tell you about Fiona.”

      Both of his parents stopped eating and looked at him, his mother’s brow creased with concern.

      Had it been something in his voice? “It’s nothing bad.” At least I hope it’s not. “I mean, it’s good. I wanted to tell you first because it affects the whole family.”

      His mother made a show of wiping her hands on her napkin and placing it back on her lap. “You’re interested in this woman enough to want to tell us? You just met her.”

      “No, not in the way you’re thinking.” Although his thoughts had gone in that direction, too—until Fiona’s claim to Stella had turned his world upside down. Marc gripped the table edge as if that would give him the extra boost of strength he needed. “Fiona is Stella’s biological aunt.”

      The tension in his muscles went into overtime while he waited for their reaction.

      “Is that what she told you?” his mother asked.

      “Told and showed me. Stella’s birth mother, Fiona’s sister, is dead. Fiona had a copy of Stella’s original birth certificate and the Ticonderoga Birthing Center’s record of Stella’s birth, among other things. I talked with Autumn. She delivered Stella, and the birthing center released her to Precious in His Sight when Fiona’s sister returned with her a few weeks later to give her up for adoption.”

      “You can’t let this woman take Stella from us.”

      Red spots flashed in front of his eyes. “Fiona says she simply wants to be an aunt to Stella.”

      “And you believe her? What do you know about the woman?”

      “Terry.” His father placed his hand over his mother’s, the note of warning in his voice loud and clear.

      Well, to Marc, at least. He wasn’t so sure about his mother.

      “It was a sealed adoption,” Marc said. “I talked with the lawyer who handled it. Fiona has no legal grounds to contest it.”

      “I see,” his father said.

      “But what do you know about her?” his mother repeated.

      Marc bit his tongue. Should he have prepared a dossier? “She’s Claire’s friend, and I haven’t found anything in my searching that shows she’s anything other than what she says. And now we can know more about Stella’s medical history if we ever need to, and answer her questions when she’s older and starts asking.” He faced his father. “You know I’d protect Stella with my life.”

      His father nodded, understanding showing in his eyes.

      “You can’t mean to just bring her into your...our family,” his mother said.

      Marc sensed a tone of almost fear in her voice. Mom was always so open and giving. When he was growing up, their house had been a haven to any of their friends needing one.

      “Stella isn’t ready to be told who Fiona is,” he said. “We’ll be working on that in the Bridges program.”

      “This Fiona is going to be part of that?” his mother asked.

      “Yes, we talked with Connor about it Wednesday evening.”

      “You’ve known since Wednesday?” His mother pressed her lips together.

      He wasn’t about to admit that he’d known in his gut for a week, since Fiona had told him on the phone. “All three of us are going to the Bridges meeting tomorrow, and I plan to invite Fiona to Sunday dinner at the house.”

      He hadn’t actually planned to, not until this minute. But something inside him wanted to crack his mother’s uncharacteristically stony facade, to open her up to the family accepting Fiona.

      Because, he realized suddenly, he wanted to accept her.