A Baby for Christmas

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Amelie

I’m sick of spending the holidays alone.

Growing up, I always spent Christmas with crowds of people. This same sprawling country manor echoed with the voices of dozens of French cousins from my father’s family. Their parents turned their noses up at me—the Creole daughter of a poor American mom—but the children just saw another playmate.

When my father died in a drunken crash, the crowds disappeared and his family turned their back on us. Christmas withered down to my mother, me, and maybe a few friends. My mom, an orphan, had no one but me—at least then, we had no one around to hurt us with their duplicity or scorn.

Now I’m in the same position: the only family I will get are children of my own. I’m thirty and unmarried. It’s leaving me contemplating some pretty unusual options to fill up my lonely, vacant home.

Am I really going to do this?

This year, again, I’m having Christmas dinner alone, just like the last five, since Mother’s death from cancer. I’m her only surviving child and the duty to continue the family line falls on me. But times like now, as I watch the growing storm wind stir the myrtle fronds outside, I wonder what to do to have a child of my own. And on my own terms.

The maids and other staff have gone home, aside from the security guards patrolling my mansion and grounds. The cook, Marcie, left a small feast of my favorites on covered plates: salmon with lemon and garlic, rice pilaf, tomato salad, a sliced Philippine mango, and a single glass of chilled Chardonnay. Cherry pie for dessert. Its crown of vanilla ice cream was melting so fast in the hot evening, I had to eat it first.

It’s not very Christmassy—but neither is the weather outside Baton Rouge today. My Christmas lights adorn palmettos and trees in full bloom and fruit. No severed evergreens or fake snow to be found anywhere.

But, like everywhere else, the Christmas feast is about family. So here one is being planned.

I dine at a small bleached wood table on the screened balcony which peeks through the myrtles at the rolling lawn spreading out in every direction from my estate. This was my father’s mansion; my father’s money, though, in my hands, it has multiplied exponentially.

I get the occasional phone calls from France—now that I profit more annually than their country’s GDP. I recall my mother, and our last lonely Christmases, and never answer. My cousins might have grown up into decent people but they’re a package with their parents—whom I want nothing to do with.

That’s why I dream of my own family, with my own children and grandchildren filling up this place. I used to dream of a husband as well—but time and disappointment have changed my ambitions. Since my mother died, I haven’t even been on a date.

Romance is a gamble—one that has not paid off for me. But a baby?

It’s so much better to care for a child on my own than spend another ten years playing the field, looking for a man to love me and start a family. I want to be a mother. A man’s permanent participation in the process isn’t exactly necessary.

And as much as I cried over Dad, genetic material and money were all he could supply. And I don’t need money.

Looking down at my notepad, I’ve been making a list of considerations, sometimes crossed off. Sometimes they make me blush.

Intelligent

Fit

Healthy family history

Mentally stable

Responsible

No addictions

No family history of addiction

34-42

Dark hair (?)

Scratch out the dark hair. I don’t actually care what color my baby’s hair is. The sperm donor can be any race or color—as long as he’s healthy, meets the other standards, and is willing to abide by my terms.

Apparently that was too much to expect of Louisiana men when I looked for dating and marriage prospects. Even if all I wanted was to keep the money I earned before the marriage. That’s how to distinguish a gold-digger: if anything gets between them and my money, even if it’s my own property, they get mad.

The rumble of thunder distracts me; the lowering sky tosses through the branches and I nod. Not long now. Staring at my list, I take another bite of my pie, barely tasting it.

A lot of financial, s****l, and romantic predators have been fended off. The last one was Marcus, who told me he would “lay down the law” as soon as we married, and that my estate needed “a real man” to manage it. By then, similar and worse encounters had burned me out, so I outright told him to go to hell.

I dab at my lips with a napkin; the delicate, girlie way. I’m a bit of a b***h. But a lady in my position should be.

I haven’t given up on romance so much as on letting men and luck decide when I become a mother, and how long to spend alone. That gives strangers too much control over my life—and many of those strangers have turned out manipulative and hostile.

Rain starts falling in sheets, the smell of ozone promising a real summer thunderstorm. The wind lifts my curly brown hair away from my face as it sighs its way through the insect screens. It’ll be a beautiful night.

The Lord of the Rings series is on when the thunder first rattles all the gem and mineral samples lining my living room walls in their cases. It’s actually a parlor off my bedroom, but I don’t spend much time in the vast spaces on the lowest level—not enough parties to justify it most of the time.

The thunder rolls again … I scoop up the notepad and pick up the pen, taking a gander at my advertisement.

Are you a healthy single or polyamorous man between the ages of 34 and 42? Single woman seeks sperm donor for live-in arrangement. Discretion and a background check are required; must be willing to move in and relinquish custody rights.

Room, board, medical tests, and travel will be covered until conception is confirmed. Incidental expenses are negotiable. A substantial bonus is available for a successful full-term pregnancy.

Sitting back, I let out all my breath and nibble on the pie again, examining what is there so far. It seems cold, given the subject matter. Maybe it should be? Would it be too soft?

This is business. Even if it involves f*****g me at least once a night until a pregnancy is established.

If my dating experiences do not improve, this might be the last time I let a man have s*x with me. As well as the first. Maybe I should be pickier.

Dark hair goes back in. The sort of men who have always caught my eye are: Richard Armitage, Idris Elba, Hugh Jackman, and Mark Dacasos. The more personal parts of my list will not be printed; they are reminders for when the photos start coming in. Thinking about it, I add hot as well.

“Now you’re just being shallow,” I chuckle. But … this situation will be awkward enough, no matter how hot a specimen plays my stud. It will be even worse if I’m not attracted to him.

A flash of lightning edges everything in a brilliant light for a moment and I brace myself for a brown-out, but the power doesn’t even flicker. The plantation has been in our family for five generations; in my youth, the lights would flicker with every storm. Clearly, upgrading the power system has paid off.

Why don’t you get out and meet more people, Amelie? It’s the commonest thing my friends tell me. They don’t understand that, after everything, I want tenderness, kindness. If a man cannot provide it, I would rather go without one.

My child will get my love and efforts instead.

After a few more hours of watching movies and fiddling with my ad copy, I retire to my bed. Lying alone on a mattress that could sleep four, I listen to the storm beating against the armored windows. My doubts gnaw at me for a while before drifting off.

What if no suitable man responds? What if someone else shows up who tries to use me? What if he’s difficult to live with, or lousy in bed?

Maybe I should have done the artificial insemination after all. My eyelids start getting heavy. I’ll feel better knowing my child’s father.

And … the idea of spending my entire life a virgin … hurts.

Especially since it’s hardly my fault. It’s not like the bar was set particularly high for potential lovers. In this day and age, it seems that men will sometimes dig to get under the lowest bar.

Even my father did that.

My own bitterness is noticed with some amusement as I drift off. It will probably be fine. Not every man is dreadful, and most of the respondents will be perfectly normal.

One of them should be able to help me conceive in the course of a year. Provided, of course, someone is interested. There’s always the lab, if not.

And so I advertised, anonymously, online.