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The tall man married to the baby of the family raises his glass. “It is a huge, huge honor that a certain foundation has reached out to me to deliver the news.” Turning to me—me!—he continues, “Cherise, you’ve bested both Phillip and me by being nominated for an International Taste Performance Award. Congratulations.”
Suddenly, I can’t feel my face. I can’t hear anything because everyone is screaming. So are all the kids, even if they don’t know why. And then, everyone is hugging me. Chloe is jumping up and down and punching the air, Cara is happy-crying, Diana is still screaming, and Cecily is cackling maniacally because, obviously, her husband had already told her the secret.
The man still has his glass in the air, watching all of our excitement. “Are we going to toast or what?”
Not since our wedding has anyone raised their glasses for my benefit, and I can barely see it happen through my shocked tears. It’s the highest honor in the world for any chef to win the ITP Award, and for a pastry chef to be nominated, it’s completely stunning.
; It’s true; our family has two world-class chefs who have married into it, and yet somehow, I’ve surpassed them. It doesn’t seem possible.
When Bishop gave me time off to write my cookbook a few years ago, I had no idea it would take off the way it did. And now this.
“It could not have happened to anyone better, love of my life,” Bishop says, rubbing my round tummy and kissing my lips. His kiss is still as intense and all-consuming as ever. After five years, he still makes my heart race when he walks into a room. And though this is baby number four, he still makes a point to kiss and talk to my stomach.
“Merry Christmas, little girl,” he says to the baby we’ll be meeting in four months. “Your mommy is a freaking rock star, and she’s only getting brighter by the minute. I can’t want for you to meet her.”
THE END
