Epilogue
Bethany
One Year Later
“Honey, I’m home!” My sexy husband strolls into our kitchen and gives me a kiss on my neck. He tenderly rubs my extended stomach where our baby is nestled. She’s due in four months and we can’t wait to meet her.
“Sit down after your long commute. I’ve almost got dinner ready,” I say then turn back to the stove. Marinara sauce bubbles in a pan and the spaghetti boils in a 5-quart pot. I’ve progressed way beyond microwave cooking under the careful tutelage of my 5-star chef husband.
My husband doesn’t reply to my snarky remark. Nick’s commute is a mere 15 steps up the stairway from his dream job. We decided to live in the apartment over the restaurant until it starts making enough money to afford a house. As long as I’m with Nick, I don’t mind.
His Cold Spring restaurant, “Spark” opened eight months ago and just earned a Michelin 5-star rating. He’s thrilled and I’m thrilled for him. The place is packed every night, gets rave reviews, and is the perfect outlet for his culinary creativity. He’s constantly trying new recipes out on me, which is contributing to my recent weight gain, although I’m blaming the baby.
“Smells great, Sweetie. I can’t wait to savor the flavor,” he says as he settles at a barstool at the island, watching me cook.
Smiling at his catchphrase directed towards me, I turn back to the stove to check if the pasta is done. When I start to pull the pot off the stove to drain, Nick jumps up, “Let me get that, Sweetheart. You dish up the sauce.” He’s become so protective and overly helpful ever since I became pregnant. There are no complaints on my part when he wants to clean the bathroom, rub my feet, or drain the pasta.
I pull the lightly toasted French bread from the oven and join Nick at the table. We clink our glasses, his filled with red wine and mine with water. He smiles at me, then begins eating.
“Delicioso,” he says after a few minutes, bringing his fingers up to his mouth and kissing them like Chef Henri would do.
Giggling, I say with a straight face, “None of the ingredients in this meal had any contact with the floor.”
My husband laughs. “You know, you melted my frozen heart when that Cornish Game hen landed at my boots.”
Remembering one of my cooking class fiascoes, I grin. “Really? You weren’t appalled at my horrible culinary skills?”
He gives me a sassy wink. “Hands down you were the worst cook in the class. But I couldn’t resist you with your gorgeous brunette hair and that confident, sassy attitude. I was a goner after that first class.”
“Me, too,” I say. “I could hardly focus on the recipes while in your presence. The rugged, mountain man chef look made me tingle all over.”
Nick slowly rubs the sexy stubble on his cheeks. “Does this look still make you tingle?”
“What do you think?” I say with a smirk as I fan my face.
He shrugs as if the answer is obvious. I throw a piece of French bread at him.
We stare at each other over the table. He still makes my stomach flip-flop and my heart race every time I’m near him. After being married for eight months, he’s become my best friend, too. We share everything. He even helped me refinish that armoire—fondly known as the Hulk—and it now sits proudly in our bedroom. I thank Mandy every time I see her for dragging me off to that cooking class.
“Mom called and asked if she can stay a few weeks after we have the baby. She wants to help.”
“Of course she can. I’ll need the help.”
Francine and I have slowly become friends. When she found out that she’s going to be a grandmother, she started treating me like a cherished daughter. I’m amazed and thankful for the transformation.
“I think she misses Henri,” Nick adds as he waggles his eyebrows.
That development isn’t surprising. Francine had Valentine’s dinner with Henri, and they’ve gone out several times since then. We may never know why Nick’s mom initially avoided the Frenchman. Maybe she was afraid she’d fall for him?
I smack my husband’s arm. “No meddling in your mother’s love life.”
He shakes his head and laughs, making no promise either way.
“I talked to the Food Network execs today. I told them this season is my last season of Cooking with Passion . They offered to have me as a guest judge occasionally on Chopped and I agreed. But I don’t want to be gone much after the baby is born.”
Smiling, I nod my head in agreement. Nick and I discussed all his ventures and obligations many times during the last few months. With the success of “Spark”, Nick wants to give up some of his responsibilities, so he can focus on his passions—being the head chef at his restaurant, being my husband, and being a new dad.
After finishing my pasta, I shift in my chair in order to get more comfortable. The baby is pressing on my bladder and I feel like a bloated whale. Her due date can’t come fast enough. “Any more suggestions for names? We can’t call her Baby DeLuca forever.”
Nick looks up while twirling pasta on his fork. “I’ve been testing out baby names on Henri. He made a great suggestion today.”
Scrunching my brows together, I wait for his response, figuring it’ll be a French name that I won’t be able to pronounce. He keeps me in suspense for several seconds, so I kick him under the table.
He grins. “Isabelle Amanda.”
I test the name on my lips. Isabelle Amanda DeLuca. It really is a beautiful name. “I like it. The best we’ve come up with so far. Why Amanda?”
He smiles. “Amanda brought us together. I think she should get credit.”
Laughing, I reply, “I agree Mr. DeLuca. She’ll be one proud godmother.”
***
Did I mention that my mom loves Nick’s name even more than she loved Zach’s? When I told her I was marrying Nick, she said, “Bethany Bacon Hunt and Nicholas Giovani DeLuca, I know it’s a match made in heaven.” Right, Mom. I couldn’t agree more.
THE END