Sun God Seeks…Surrogate? (Accidentally Yours #3)(3)
Author: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

What about my dad? We didn’t talk about him much, but I knew he’d studied at the same university as my mother and hadn’t been ready for fatherhood. So that left us two girls and a few random cousins out West.

Mind you, I didn’t complain about taking care of my mom because she was the sort of person worthy of any sacrifice—kind, generous, always finding the silver lining in everything—but that didn’t mean our situation wasn’t hard. Her condition was a medical mystery with only one real symptom: She suffered from a crippling exhaustion. She barely stayed awake long enough to get in one meal a day. And not one of the dozen or so specialists I made her see knew what caused it.

Regardless, I wasn’t giving up. Even if the cards seemed stacked against us.

Case in point, this morning I’d received a call from her doctor. I wanted to get her on a new European immune-boosting drug, but found out her insurance wouldn’t cover the eighty-thousand-dollar-per-year prescription. Now she’d been turned down as a candidate for FDA trials.

“Miss? May I have some more water, please?”

I glanced up from the polished cement floor I’d been staring at while deep in contemplation. Table nine.

“Right away,” I replied, with an apologetic smile. I trotted back to the drink station and promptly returned to fill glasses and clear away empty plates. All the while, my mind wasn’t far from that one nagging question: What the hell was I going to do?

You’ll figure this out, Penelope. You always do. You just need some sleep so you can think clearly.

I squared my shoulders and made my rounds, remaining cheerful for my customers. After all, they weren’t at the famous Carmine’s spending their hard-earned money to watch me sulk. No, they deserved all the joy they could have. Life is short.

I displayed a bottle of Chianti for uncorking to my regular at table five, and my mind drifted back to the bizarre incident at that café before my shift. Had it been real? Sure felt that way. Or maybe the sleep deprivation finally had me by the big toe.

But what if it was real? You wouldn’t be the first woman on the planet to be a surrogate mother.

Then an image of the crazy redhead popped into my mind. “My womb is not for rent! Okay?” I slapped my hand over my mouth. “Sorry, Mr. Z., I have a little brain baggage today.”

Mr. Z., who, thankfully, dined alone, smiled graciously and nodded at the bottle. I reached into the pocket of my black slacks for my corkscrew, but instead of finding the slim, plastic covered tube, I felt paper.

“Oh. Jeez. So sorry. I must’ve left my corkscrew in the kitchen.” I held up one finger. “Be right back.” I scurried toward the kitchen, distinctly remembering having put the corkscrew in my pocket.

I smiled at the line of three chefs working their steaming skillets as I headed to my locker toward the back of the cramped kitchen. I popped opened the lock and then dug through my purse. Sure enough, there it was. This particular corkscrew with a large gripper was the only professional model that didn’t require me to place the bottle between my thighs. Funny to watch, yes. Professional, no. Not many diners wanted to see their wine wedged in my crotch.

Picky, picky.

I pulled the paper from my pocket to deposit it in my bag, but the moment my eyes registered what it was, my heart stopped.

Paper clipped to a small business card was a cashier’s check for five hundred thousand dollars drawn by the Bank of New York.

“Holy, crap,” I whispered, my hand trembling. The check seemed official enough—watermark, signature from the bank president.

But…but…it was just a dream, wasn’t it? I stared at the card. It had the name Cimil and an address near Central Park written on the front. On the back, a handwritten note said, 9:00 a.m. sharp. Don’t be late. Have garage sales to hit.

No. It most certainly hadn’t been a dream.

Okay. So I get how in this situation, especially for someone with my particular set of challenges, the proper reaction might be to ignore how the check ended up in my pocket and then jump up and down in gleeful hysterics. One might even fall to his or her knees and thank the angels above for such a gift. Five hundred thousand frigging dollars. It would solve all my problems. I could go to the bank in the morning, cash the check, pay for my mother’s treatment, and go to school.

But the fact was, an ugly cloud of bizarre hovered overhead along with an equally bizarre string attached to the money. And on the other end of that string was some crazy woman with a fetish for hot-pink.

A baby? She really wants me to have a baby with her brother? What I couldn’t figure out was why. Why would anyone believe I’d go for such an insane idea? And why would anyone think I’d make an ideal surrogate? Was it the four Big Gulp–sized cappuccinos every day? How about my addiction to ice cream mochi and sourdough bread with extra butter? Oh, I know. It must’ve been the four hours of sleep I got each night. Yes, I could see how anyone would want to rent my womb.

My mind raced. I felt so damned cornered. Yes, I needed the money, but I didn’t want to have kids yet. Someday, yes. When I found the right man. But not now. Not like this.

That’s when it hit me. Anger. How dare this strange woman…

I glimpsed at the card. Cimil.

How dare this…Cimil pop into my life and throw money at me. She obviously knew about my horrible situation and was taking advantage. And how did she know? Good frigging question! But I wasn’t going to stand for it! My eggs and body weren’t for sale! No way would I have a baby with some stranger and then give it away to a bunch of crazy, rich people. What sort of person would I be?

“You’d be a bad bumper sticker waiting to happen.” I huffed loudly and shoved the check in my purse. After work, I would give Cimil a piece of my mind. I’d find some other way to get my mom her medicine. I could go to private organizations for funding. I’d also petition the Swedish company directly. I bet they gave away dozens of grants each year. It would take time, but with a little luck and lots of persistence, I’d find a way.

You’ll figure this out, Penelope. You always do.

***

Chock-full o’ determination and hell-bent on defending my honor, I stomped up the steps of the insanely gorgeous brownstone located in the exclusive Carnegie Hill neighborhood. Despite the late hour, salsa music and laughter poured outside through several cracked windows.

What kind of people would want to party with a depraved woman like her? I wondered.

I leaned over the side of the porch and tried to catch a peek inside through a tiny gap in the noxious-pink curtains, but could only make out the shapes of a few bodies.