Her mother released a frustrated sigh. “That would have done no good.”
“Why?”
“She chartered a private flight—on our account—and has been living large at our bungalow in Fiji. That was another fun surprise we learned today.”
“That’s terrible!”
“That’s a Libra!” her mother shot back.
Georgie shared a glance with Jordan. “How did you even know I was pregnant?”
Her mother crossed her arms. “A Belgian duchess.”
This debacle was turning into a soap opera.
“Where did you find a Belgian duchess at a spiritual retreat in India?” she asked.
“She joined our party a few days ago and had smuggled in a cell phone. She was there to appease her daughter and wasn’t at all interested in finding her Sankalpa. She and I bonded instantly, thanks to my knowledge of fashion and time spent on the French Riviera,” her mother added, throwing that tidbit to their audience, who nodded approvingly.
“Mom, that still doesn’t answer how a Belgian duchess knew I was pregnant!”
Her mother lifted her chin. “Yes, that part. Well, she and I would look through her pictures from her shopping trips in Milan as well as her favorite food blog images.”
“Wait…weren’t you supposed to be discovering your innermost desire and honing your chi?” Georgie threw back.
“Your mother veered slightly from the enlightened path,” Howard, Wandering River, whoever chimed.
Lorraine ran her hands through her disheveled hair. “You can only chant and look inside yourself for so long before all you want is Gustavo, delivering a dry martini after a day of shopping and three sets on the tennis court.”
“The path is long and winds near the deer and the caterpillar,” her stepfather offered with a sage nod.
“Is he okay?” Jordan asked, but her mother waved him off.
“Yes, I mean, the sex with Wandering River is out of this world, but that’s not important now. We’re not discussing Howard—”
“Wandering River,” the man corrected.
“Wandering River’s innermost desire,” Lorraine finished.
“My innermost desire is being present in the moment, like I am right now. I am presently here, as are you,” the man replied, clasping his hands behind his back.
“That’s mine, too,” Bobby called with a wide grin only to have her mother raise a hand and silence the man like a stern headmistress.
Georgie glanced around the ballroom to find a flurry of attendees holding up their phones and recording this train wreck of a mother-daughter reunion. These people were getting a heck of a lot more out of this night than just an auction and some square dancing.
“What is important,” her mother continued, “is that the Belgian duchess follows a Belgian waffle blogger, who posts her pictures on the CityBeat site.”
Georgie’s jaw dropped as it all came together in a perfect blog-a-licious cluster.
“Does the duchess follow the Belgian Waffle Princess blog?” she asked.
“She does. And she’s not even a real princess. She’s from Sheboygan, Wisconsin, of all places. But she can knock out an amazing waffle montage. I’ll give her that. But there’s more. She posted a picture sent to her by her sister, who lives in Denver,” her mother finished, confirming what Georgie had feared.
The policeman’s wife’s sister was a breakfast blogger from Sheboygan.
The Belgian Waffle Princess must have posted that picture she’d taken with the police officer.
Her mother’s frown deepened. “What were you doing in your sailor suit that day? Did you enter a pregnancy beauty pageant? If so, I would have insisted on altering the costume to something more flattering. But your work pinning the hat was spot-on.”
Outed by a waffle blogger and on display as Denver’s worst pregnant daughter, Georgie shook her head as the room went topsy-turvy. This insanity is why she hadn’t wanted to share the news with her mother. She stared out at the sea of sparkly cowgirls and leather-vested cowboys, then met her husband’s gaze.
“Is this happening, or are we trapped in a pregnancy delusion?”
Before he could answer, her mother cut in.
“This is no delusion, Georgiana. This is a mother confronting an ungrateful daughter.”
Jordan took a step forward and hardened his features. “Go easy, Lorraine. We understand that you’re upset, but I will not stand here and allow anyone to accuse my wife of being ungrateful. Georgie has been trying to get ahold of you for weeks.”
Howard pressed his hands into a prayer position. “Well done, harnessing the tiger within, Jordan.”
This was too damn much!
Georgie stared up at the ceiling, shaking her head before meeting her mother’s eye. “This is why I didn’t know how or when to tell you.”
“It’s not that hard, pumpkin. Three words. I am pregnant.”
“It’s not that easy. Not with you, Mom,” she bit back.
“Georgie,” her husband whispered.
“I’m fine. If she wants to do this here and now, we do it.” She lifted her chin, mirroring her mother. “I didn’t know how to tell you about the baby because I was afraid that you’d go overboard.”
Her mother scoffed. “Overboard like what? Fly in a couture baby’s clothing designer from Paris to create a complete line of signature baby outfits? Rent out the botanic gardens and invite every spiritual energist in the state to commune with nature, then chart your baby’s astrological life course?”
Georgie released a humorless bark of a laugh. “Yes, that’s exactly what I was worried about!”
“Georgiana, worry is an emotion as helpful as the dew on a blade of grass,” Howard replied.
“Is this how he talks all the time?” she asked as her mother huffed her frustration.
“Ignore him. Now, who here is a grandparent?” her mother asked, again turning to the audience like a talk show host.
Hands shot up throughout the ballroom.
“And how did you find out you were going to become a grandparent?” her mother pressed.
“My daughter told me over brunch at the country club,” a voice called from the back of the room.
“My son and daughter-in-law broke the news by putting a message in a specially made fortune cookie,” offered another woman.
“A fortune cookie, Georgiana!” her mother repeated theatrically.
Somebody needed to get this drama llama a microphone.
“And my daughter and son-in-law invited the whole family to Hawaii and told us at a pineapple farm,” a man offered.
“Pineapple,” her mother repeated, then gasped and stared at the can that had come to rest near the edge of the stage. “The day that I snuck away to call you—the day I felt the need to see my baby’s face. That wasn’t urine in the glass that you drank. It was pineapple juice. You can’t stand the stuff. I watched you projectile vomit an entire pineapple fruit cup onto a row of pageant judges.”
Georgie looked on, her heart in her throat, as a bitter realization swept over her mother.
“It’s a pregnancy craving,” she offered, but her mother shook her head.
“On the day that we arrived in India. We called to find you in the bathroom. That box in your hand, it was…” she trailed off as it all came together.