Inconceivable! Page 14

  “How are things going in Cypress with the boys?” Sara always wanted to know every detail when it came to John.

  Even though we were still supposed to follow the ban on electronic communication, John called me every night from Paphos to give me the highlights of his day.

  “They’re having fun. They got measured yesterday for their black, boring tuxes.”

  “Boring or not, his tux won’t draw attention away from his beautiful girlfriend,” Sam offered.

  “I love you, Sam,” I said, throwing my arm over his shoulder.

  “Are you trying to steal my boyfriend?” Plato cut in, shoving my arm off Sam.

  “Them’s fighting words.” I knocked Plato’s hat off his head.

  “We need crowd control for the Americans over here.” Tilda called out with her hands cupped around her mouth.

  “Hatty. Do you think John’s cousins will be at Winter’s Feast? What’s the name of the one from Germany? Prince von Sexy-stein?”

  “I’m sure Count Hohenstaufen will be there.” Sara had begged me to divulge all the details of my weekend at Sanssouci, and seemed particularly interested in hearing about Gerhard.

  “I’ll be his HO-henstaufen anytime.” Sara stopped on the sidewalk to put her hands over her head and wiggle her hips.

  “Honestly, Sara!” I laughed at her unbridled enthusiasm. “You have to stop watching American rap videos because one day, I’m afraid you’ll up and run away to L.A.”

  I grabbed her hand and pulled her along as we both cackled.

  “This is la place!” Plato said, opening the red door for us.

  We filed inside. A black and white checkered floor gave the entryway a vintage feel, and an enormous spiral staircase provided drama.

  “Hatty? Enchanté!” The voice came from a man who looked to be in his seventies. He handily descended the stairs.

  “Monsieur Bonhomme?” John had shown me photos of the world renowned designer with his mother. The man approaching me had sparkly, kind eyes, suggesting his surname’s meaning rang true. I figured if he could help me find a beautiful gown, he’d be a damn good man.

  Monsieur Bonhomme embraced me and softly planted a kiss on each cheek. He knew I was bringing an entourage, so I introduced my friends.

  “My dears. Please. Call me Mathias. Now, I would be delighted to make a dress for you, Hatty, but I want to show you a few finished gowns, in case you like one of them.” He pronounced the words with a thick French accent. John told me to speak to Mathias Bonhomme in English, not French, because he wanted to practice with an American.

  We followed Mathias up the staircase to the first landing, where he opened a door off to the right. Inside, floor to ceiling windows allowed the fading sunshine to saturate the peeling wallpaper. Though the room looked a bit dilapidated, the racks of dresses shone like brand new stars in Mathias’ universe. He led us to a rack with three gowns.

  “These should fit, or I can take them in, if they are too big. Shall we begin with these?”

  My friends watched in hushed awe as I examined each gown. The first was an orange-red strapless dress with rhinestone accents on the bodice. A matching stole hung next to it. It had a full skirt that flowed out from the bottom of the bodice, hiding all manner of below-the-waist flaws; I loved it immediately. There was also a silk pewter dress that seemed a bit too old for me, and a light lavender gown with spaghetti straps. As I’d expected, the orange-red dress looked the best on me. My little gang agreed. I was ready to call it a day when Mathias spoke up.

  “If I may, mademoiselle. I have one more gown to show you. Come with me, but let me ask your friends to stay here,” he said as he headed toward a door at the back of the room.

  “I’ll be right back, guys.” They were already milling around, taking advantage of the opportunity to examine the dresses hanging on other racks.

  “Take your time. Maybe I’ll find something here I can wear,” Sara said as I followed Mathias.

  He took me to a large dressing room outfitted with a small stage, a massive tri-fold mirror, and more racks of dresses.

  “Mademoiselle, will you try this one for me?” In his wrinkled hands, he held a black gown devoid of bling, though the fabric was shiny. It was a strapless mermaid dress, a style that hugged the body until just above the knees where fluffy folds of gauzy black fabric cascaded in expansive layers.

  “It’s beautiful, but not for me. Do you know how huge this will make me look?” I patted my thighs.

  “S’il vous plait.” He offered it to me with his head slightly bowed. Not knowing how to respond to such a gesture, I took the dress, stepped on the little stage, and placed the hanger on the top edge of the mirror.

  “Oui. Pour vous seulement.” Only for you, Bonhomme.

  He turned around as I took off my shirt and pants and stepped into the dress. I had to wiggle as I gently tugged it up around me. I held it up and asked him to zip it.

  When he was done, he stood beside me and we gazed into the mirror.

  Yes, my hips and thighs looked big, but that’s how they were supposed to look. The flare at the bottom brought them into perfect balance, giving me an exaggerated feminine shape.

  “This is the one, mademoiselle,” he said, not taking his eyes off my reflection.

  “Ouais,” I agreed.

  “Don’t show the others. Surprise them and Monsieur le Prince the night of the party.”

  I nodded. “Merci. Merci beaucoup.”

  I took the dress off and put my clothes back on, knowing the black gown was the perfect choice for what essentially was my debut as John’s fiancé. I could hardly wait to see his reaction to my selection.

  “We will send this dress to the palace early next week.” Mathias Bonhomme took my hand in his, put it to his lips, and placed a gentle kiss on it. “Hatty, it has been a long time since such a beautiful woman from Toulene’s court paid me a visit. Merci, and I hope you will come see me again. You’ve made me very happy.”

  “Me too, Mathias.”

  When I walked back into the larger room, my friends stood huddled around Sara who cradled a phone in her hand. They looked up at me with wide eyes.

  No one spoke. Sara handed me the phone.

  Prince John Spotted in Cypress With Ex-Girlfriend

  By Clarence Watson

  December 12, 2013

  After weeks of almost no public appearances, Toulene’s Prince John was spotted at a quiet bar near Tzelefos Bridge in Paphos, Cypress with ex-flame Princess Juliana of Holland’s royal family.

  The two dated more than a year ago, though neither the Meinrad nor Orange family ever confirmed the pair were in an exclusive relationship.

  A tourist snapped this photo of the two cozied up in a booth at the back.

  Belvoir Palace staff did not respond to requests for comment.

  The photo was dark and grainy, but I’d recognize that gorgeous man-hair anywhere. His head was bent toward a ravishing blonde as though they were deep in conversation. I handed the phone back to Sara.

  “I’m sure it’s all a big mistake. Would you excuse me for a minute?”

  I walked out of the room, down the spiral staircase, and into the entryway. I twisted a heavy brass knob on a door to my right, and stumbled into a massive closet. I pulled the chain hanging from the ceiling, bringing a bulb to life, and closed the door.

  Breathe, Hatty. My fingers shook as I dialed John’s cell phone number for the first time, not giving a shit I wasn’t supposed to call him.

  e’re engaged. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?” My words blasted into the phone, sending my anger across the miles right into his ear.

  “Of course it does. How can you even ask such a question? Look, she’s an old friend and she invited herself out for drinks. It was her last night in town. I couldn’t say no.”

  Face palm. “Of course you can. You say, ‘No. I’m engaged. This wouldn’t look right.’ I think you like being seen in public with lots of different women. What I can’t figur
e out is why you never want to be seen out with me.”

  “Hatty, we’ll be seen in public soon enough, and then there’s no going back. I want to guard our privacy as long as possible. In fact, I want you to move into Belvoir.”

  “If you think―” My righteous indignation froze. “What did you just say?”

  “It’s easier to protect you from the press when we’re together. And, I want to spend more time with my soon-to-be wife.” God, who could argue with that?

  “But isn’t that risky? What if they find out I’m moving in?”

  “They won’t if we’re careful. I’ll make all the arrangements.”

  “So, we’re not renting vans, collecting empty boxes from the grocery store, and getting our friends together for moving day?” Because that’s how we’d do it in Missouri.

  He chuckled. “Not unless you want to do it that way.”

  “Fine. You’ve twisted my arm. I’ll let you and your ‘people’ handle it.”

  Silence. Then, “Hatty, I miss you.”

  “I miss you too.”

  We said goodbye. My fury over the news story didn’t evaporate, but it dissipated as I imagined living just a couple hundred feet away from my fiancé.

  It was Christmas Eve, and what I thought of as “Orange-gate” with the Dutch princess was behind us. Though my journalistic skepticism stayed aroused, John’s lack of suspicious behavior starved it. Rest in peace, skepticism.

  As I got ready to go downstairs and join John’s family for dinner and a gift exchange, my stomach thrashed with anticipation. The queen had arrived from Thailand earlier in the day. She was in Roeselare to celebrate Christmas and then Winter’s Feast on December 29 before heading back to Phuket on January 2. As an early Christmas gift, John gave me a black velveteen dress with a delicate lace slip that deliberately hung below the hem line. I thought the exposed lace was an elegant touch, but I worried about the reaction it would elicit from the queen and John’s fuddy duddy father.

  I walked into the dining hall to find John, Henri, and Leopold gathered around a side board, inspecting liquor bottles. John set his down when he saw me.

  “Hatty! You look stunning.” John kissed my cheek and squeezed my hand to reassure me as he led me to the queen. She sat at the head of the massive table with Aunt Elinore standing beside her. Beneath the queen’s flawless make-up, her skin was tan. She wore a navy blue suit with a stylishly wide collar and a string of pearls.

  “Granny, this is my Hatty,” John said, transferring my hand to his grandmother’s. I gave her a deep curtsy, bowing my head and lowering my eyes.

  “Your Majesty.” No one had to tell me how to address the reigning monarch.

  “Hatty Brunelle of Southwest Missouri. Daughter of a school teacher and nurse. Do I have that right?” She released my hand.

  “Yes, your majesty.” I kept my back straight. The queen’s presence made me want to maintain the best posture.

  “Are you a reporter? You know we don’t really like the press in this family.” She gave me a playful wink that made me smile.

  “So I’ve heard. I was a journalism student at the Royal University, but I’m taking a break from school to get to know your grandson better.” I stopped myself without mentioning my previous internship at Les Valenciennes, remembering the alternative weekly opposes the monarchy.

  “Trading a future Pulitzer for a prince? I think you’ve chosen wisely, though admittedly, I’m a bit biased.”

  “Are you tired from your trip?” I wanted to move away from the painful subject of my on-hold education.

  “Oh yes. It’s always exhausting. Maybe someday I can convince Leo to bring the boys to Phuket for the holidays.” She lifted a wine glass to her lips.

  “But we’d have to cancel Winter’s Feast!” Aunt Elinore said dryly. Since she shouldered most of the event planning responsibilities, she had a love-hate relationship with the annual celebration.

  At that moment, the butler, Herr Schroeder, came into the dining hall and sounded a gong. A pretty brunette slipped into the room behind him, taking a seat next to John’s father. This was Louisa, a much younger “friend” of Leopold’s, according to John. Yes, he actually used air quotes when he described her to me.

  Toulenian tradition called for an elaborate Christmas Eve dinner with family. The staff served course after course of holiday fare. Fresh winter vegetables filled our salad plates, and the table held baskets of bread best enjoyed with slabs of rich Irish butter. The main course consisted of roast turkey along with a Cornish game hen for each person at the table. I hardly had the capacity to entertain the two rounds of dessert―cheese and fruit.

  After our overindulgence, we moved to the parlor with the blue textured wallpaper and white-and-gold molded embellishments. The gift exchange had the potential to be terrifying. I mean, what do you buy a queen, a duchess, and three princes? It sounded like the beginning of a bad joke. And there were rules. The meaning of the gift was more important than its size or monetary value, and you had to give everyone in the family the same gift.

  “Hatty. You may go first.” The queen smiled at me and a sharp terror ran down my arms. What if they hated my gift? Too late to second guess it now.

  I passed out the weighty green boxes. They looked festive with a sprig of fresh holly on top. “You each get a dozen chocolate chip cookies made from my mother’s recipe. Instead of regular chips, I used chocolate chunks from Pierre Marcolini’s shop in Brussels. I hope you love every bite.” The cookies had a subliminal message: they showed how blending a recipe from Missouri with fine chocolate from Europe could lead to something beautiful. See what I did right there?

  “I’m already in a food coma, and you’re giving me more to eat?” Henri groaned with dramatic flare before devouring an entire cookie in one bite.

  There was an exquisite outburst of ohh’s and ahh’s as they each tried the cookies.

  Even Leopold seemed pleased. “Did John tell you Pierre Marcolini is our favorite?”

  “I confess. He deserves credit for recommending that particular shop.” I patted John on the cheek.

  John went next, giving each of us a little black book with a leather cover, just like the one he used during our trip to Ghent. He encouraged us to find a creative use for our notebook. Aunt Elinore said she’d jot down her final to-do list for Winter’s Feast. In a burst of inspiration, I announced I’d use mine as a sketchbook.

  “Are you an artiste, Hatty?” The queen stared at me.

  “Not really. I’m not very good, but I love to doodle.”

  Henri handed out bottles of wine made from the first harvest of grapes in Burgundy, France the year he was born. “It was a good year!”

  John’s father gave us each a platinum watch. As he placed them in our hands, he noted he’d like the family to be known for being on time in the New Year.

  “Louisa picked them out.” We all pretended like we hadn’t heard him. Royally awkward.

  We each received a personalized photo album from Aunt Elinore. Underneath my name were the words “Winter’s Feast 2013.”

  “Don’t store all your photos on your phone,” she admonished us.

  The queen went last. She raised her hand to Herr Schroeder who stood by the parlor door. He disappeared, and just a few seconds later, returned with a string of servants. They delivered a box to each of us.

  “Go on. Open them.” The queen waved her hands before sipping her tea.

  Inside, I found a small wooden box. Carved on top were a series of arched characters I didn’t recognize.

  “It means ‘family’ in Thai.” It was one of the seven languages the queen had mastered.

  I opened my box and inside was a single pearl and a tiny slip of paper. “Welcome to our family” was written on it in tiny cursive. I looked up in surprise at the queen. I mouthed the words “thank you” and she smiled broadly.

  After our gift exchange, John and I politely excused ourselves and headed upstairs. Instead of walking me down the cor
ridor to my room, he opened the door to his bedroom.

  “I can’t stand the idea of having you wake up alone in your bed on Christmas morning. How about you sleep here tonight?”

  “Of course. And I assume when you say ‘spend the night,’ you mean literally just sleep together.” Let’s just be clear.

  “Yes, my dear.”

  “What will your family say if they find out we’ve spent the night together? They’ll think I tried to seduce you.”

  “No they won’t, and they’re not going to find out. Since tomorrow’s Christmas, the staff will have the morning off. So, Henri will prepare breakfast for Father, Granny, and Aunt Elinore, and they’ll eat at eight. Just sneak back to your room to get ready while they’re having breakfast.”

  How could I say no?

  “All right. I’m going to change clothes. I’ll be back.”

  When I returned, I tapped on the door. John opened it, wearing a fitted tee shirt and soft cotton drawstring pants. Not even Pierre Marcolini’s chocolate looked this delicious.

  I went in and he quickly closed the door behind me. We looked at each other and laughed nervously.

  “We’re acting like horny teenagers,” I said with a giggle.

  “Well, since we’re a bit older, we have to show more restraint.” John, always the sensible one.