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Epilogue
Raquel
One year later
“You’re fluent in Arabic, French, and… Turkish? Impressive.” I flip through the résumé of the bright young man in the horn-rimmed glasses sitting across from me.
He looks like he weighs one hundred pounds soaking wet, and I briefly consider offering him my order of Extra Matzah soup with half a Turkey Rachel sandwich. But I’m a hungry pregnant lady.
Patton’s having coffee, and Amir, our interviewee is drinking tea.
“I’ve picked up a little Spanish, but not much.” He seems apologetic, but Patton’s quick to reassure him.
“The ones you’ve listed are most important. We’ve been heavily recruiting in the UAE.”
Narrowing my eyes, I smirk at him. My husband is finally getting his wish. I’m about to take off for six months of maternity leave, and Amir Al-Tamimi from Michigan applied to be my temporary replacement.
Patton’s like a kid finally getting the new toy he’s wanted for years.
“I’m so sorry.” Amir looks at his watch. “I’ve got a class starting in twenty minutes.”
“It’s perfectly fine.” I reach across the table to shake his hand. “We plan to go over our top applicants and make a decision this weekend. If that’s you, are you available to start Monday?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He does a little nod, shaking my hand.
“Great. I’m hoping I can run our new hire through the basics before I leave.”
“Thank you.” He turns to my husband, who has risen from his seat. They shake and he offers another thank you before heading to the door.
As soon as he’s gone, I take a big bite of soup. It’s so good on a cool day with the chicken broth and the spicy matzo balls, I lean back and groan.
“He’s the one.” Patton signals the waitress as soon as Amir’s out the door. “Imagine. We’ll actually have someone in the office who can tell me what they’re saying when they stop speaking French.”
“Or English.” I take another bite of soup while he orders a tuna salad sandwich on rye. “Which they all speak.”
“He doesn’t have a beard.”
“He’s American, Patton. He was born in Dearborn.” Lifting his résumé, I frown. “His math scores aren’t as high as Kate’s.”
“We’re hiring Amir. Kate doesn’t speak Arabic.” Turning to me in the booth, he puts a hand on my distended belly and leans forward to speak to it. “I’m sorry, Peaches. Your pretty mamma doesn’t have to be so gender biased.”
“Patton Fletcher!” My voice goes higher. “You have got to be kidding me.”
He glances up and his brown eyes sparkle with mischief. It makes my stomach tingle, and I reach out to grab his chin, pulling him closer for a quick kiss on the mouth. “You’re going to send me into premature labor.”
“I forbid it.” He kisses me back, turning as the waitress puts his food in front of him. “We’ve got our last trip to Savannah all planned out, and Peaches has to wait.”
“You’re not calling her Peaches. That’s a dog’s name.”
“She’s my little Georgia peach, just like her mamma.”
“And if she comes out frowning with dark hair and dark eyes like her sexy daddy?”
“We’ll shove her back in and let her cook a little longer.” I cough a laugh, and he pats me on the back. “Smaller bites, Rocky.”
“If you don’t stop saying crazy things…”
“Let’s get this straight.” He
