Inconceivable! Page 3

  “I’m sure. Let me text my editor.” I reached into the linen bag that held my wet clothes. “Oh no. My poor phone.” I pulled it from the pocket of my wet pants.

  It was waterlogged and didn’t jump to life like it usually did when I pushed the home button. Panic gushed into my fingertips, forcing them to push the button repeatedly. My photos from the preschool were on there!

  “Do you know the number? I can take you to a phone.” He started down the stairs.

  “Yes. That’s great.” Distraught that the phone―and photos―likely weren’t salvageable, I dropped the dead device back into the bag.

  At the bottom of the stairs, he veered left and there was a rotary phone in a small alcove in the wall.

  “Will this do?”

  “Once I figure out how to dial it.”

  James picked up on the first ring.

  “Yes?” he demanded.

  “Hey, it’s Hatty,” I said a little sing-songy, trying not to give away my editor’s tone to John who stood a respectable distance down the hall, but remained within ear shot.

  “Are you on your way back? Please tell me you got some good shots of the prince and the girl who got into the limo with him. It’s all over Twitter and Instagram, though no one got a clear shot of her face. We have to get the story of the mystery girl. I bet he’s seducing her at the palace right now.”

  “Well, I’m with the prince. He gave me a ride to Belvoir.”

  I registered the horror of James’ words. Journalists becoming a part of the story was a major no-no. “He pulled you into the limo? Why the hell would he do that?”

  I worked hard not to roll my eyes. “He’s agreed to let me interview him. But I won’t make the 4:00 p.m. deadline.” I tried to sound like the seasoned reporters who held their own with the editors.

  “Okay. Ask him who does his hair. I’m kidding. But definitely ask him about the little tart who was on his arm at the Carlisle racetrack Sunday afternoon. If you can get him to talk about this stuff, all the regional papers will run your story. They eat this shit up. See you soon.”

  “Fine,” I said and hung up the phone. My toes dug into my damp shoes at the thought of writing a story about the prince’s love life.

  “All set?” John asked.

  “You bet. Where do you want to talk?”

  “In a big room filled with my ancestors. Come. I’ll show you.” He was already rounding a corner at the end of the hallway.

  John led me to a room with a ceiling that was at least two stories high. Arched windows at the top of the walls ushered in natural light. The layout reminded me of a great hall I once saw while touring a German castle. The walls were painted a deep red, creating a dramatic backdrop for the room’s many paintings.

  I strolled inside and surveyed the artwork. There were portraits of serious-looking royals as well as pastoral landscapes that reminded me of the Ozarks. Bloody combatants were frozen in time on several canvasses marking major moments in Toulene’s history. No one does war like Europeans.

  As I walked deeper into the cavernous space, my heels clicked on the parquet floor, then fell mute when I crossed onto a broad maroon rug that ran the length of the room.

  While I soaked up the paintings, John pulled two white chairs out from the wall, positioning them in the middle of the room. He handed me a black notebook and pen.

  “Here. You might need these. I want you to get my quotes right. Most reporters fail at this basic task.”

  “Thanks. I’ll do my best. Before we start, tell me about this room.”

  “It’s called the Regents Room. If you ever tour the palace, you get to walk through here. But few people outside the family and close friends spend any significant time in here.”

  “So who’s your favorite relative?”

  “That’s a tough choice because so many of them have fascinating stories. If I had to pick, it would be Uncle Fergus.” He pointed to a painting halfway up the wall to our right. “He’s the one standing in front of a mirror being fitted for a suit.”

  “Ahh. And why is he your fave?”

  “See the woman in the painting crouched by his feet, checking the length of his pants? That’s Emmaline, the royal seamstress. Despite extreme ridicule from his mother, Queen Helena, Fergus followed his heart and married her. Theirs was the first marriage between a member of our family and a commoner. The queen disowned him.”

  “Talk about harsh.”

  “It got worse. About a year after their marriage, he and Emmaline contracted typhoid. She died first at their shack on the outskirts of Roeselare. When Uncle was nearing the end, he had his neighbor wheel him in a cart to the front gates of Belvoir. He sat for two days in his own filth, and the family refused to send anyone to help him. When he died, the guards left him there and didn’t dispose of the body until after dark.”

  I shivered at such cruelty. “That’s criminal.”

  “My mum felt the same way. She had this painting commissioned during her first year of marriage to my father. I think it was her way of staking some territory with Granny. She had it unveiled in a public ceremony and my father apologized on behalf of the family for its treatment of Uncle Fergus and Aunt Emmaline.”

  “Wow. Your mom had some moxie.”

  “She did. Just like those two.” He nodded toward the painting.

  John’s admiration of his relatives’ sacrifice hinted at depths that lay beneath his camera-ready smile.

  “I love the paintings that show Toulene’s history. In America, we look up to you guys since you were the first ones who broke away from British rule,” I remarked, as I took another sweeping glance at the battle scenes. “It’s your ancestors’ decision to set up a monarchy that makes Americans wince. You know, I always wondered, did the pilgrims consider sailing across the channel to Toulene instead of hanging a right to the New World?”

  John laughed. “Good question. These battle scenes and the portraits of my predecessors give me perspective. Whatever crises they faced are now gone. The country remains. It reminds me I’d have to work pretty damn hard to muck it up.”

  “May I quote you on that?”

  “Absolutely not.” There was an edge to his voice. His expression was harsh and he clenched his teeth, creating a line above his jaw bone.

  “In that case, may we begin the actual interview and speak on the record?”

  “Yes. Go ahead.”

  “Why wasn’t the queen at the preschool? The press advisory said she’d be there to promote her ‘Read to Succeed’ program.” I looked him straight in the eye and smiled. Charm and disarm.

  “Ask the public affairs office for a statement on changes to her schedule.”

  I was talking to a different person―the warm, winning personality had evaporated. Sitting in front of me was a polished politician who gave perfect on-the-record answers.

  “Okay. Then, what did you take away from today’s event that you’ll share with your grandmother?”

  “I saw how the program’s helping children with learning disabilities. Parents get referrals for at-home interventions and therapies. Government revenue subsidizes the service, but parents pay a fee based on their income.”

  He placed his right ankle on the opposite knee, expanding his physical presence. Instead of intimidating me, it intensified my desire to know him better. His ability to handle himself so skillfully in this setting underscored how prepared he was to become king. He exuded power and it hit me in heady waves.

  “The press release said it’s only a pilot program. Why doesn’t the queen plead her case to the assembly for more funding? If she really believes it’s such a great program, why not request broader implementation?”

  John sighed and rubbed his hand over his eyes, underscoring his frustration. “Can I speak off the record?”

  “No. Off-the-record comments are no good.”

  “Then we’re done. You’re asking a legitimate question, but I can’t speak to it on the record.” For the first time since we’d m
et, he looked extraordinarily pissed. He stood, and I panicked. I wasn’t done asking questions.

  “Wait. Let’s try this again.” I capped the pen and closed the notebook. “We’re off the record.” I crossed my arms―I couldn’t use off-the-record comments in my story.

  “It’s very complicated.” He sat down, his facial expression softening. “We’d love nothing more than to strong-arm the assembly into a full-scale implementation of this program. And we can make the case quite easily. This kind of early intervention improves literacy rates. In your country, policymakers look at the percentage of primary school students who fail standardized reading tests and use that number to determine how many prison cells they’re going to need in fifteen years.”

  I was a little impressed. He knew his stuff.

  “Then, what’s the problem?”

  He sighed and crinkled his brow. “My grandmother is the first royal in decades to set out a serious policy agenda that goes beyond asking for an increase in the royal family’s income. She wants to tread lightly because there are other things she hopes to accomplish besides full implementation of ‘Read to Succeed.’”

  I scooted my chair closer to him because, off-the-record or not, this was getting good.

  “What other things does she want to accomplish?”

  A loud bang made me jump. A tall older woman dressed in tailored pants and a sweater approached us. She looked familiar.

  “John! I didn’t know you were here… and with a guest. I’m sorry to interrupt. I was just coming in to think about how we want to decorate the hall for Winter’s Feast. Who’s this?”

  We stood and I scrambled to set the notebook and pen on my chair so I could extend my hand. Before I managed to introduce myself, she spoke.

  “Going riding? I think the weather will put a damper on that.” Her eyes narrowed as she inspected my riding attire.

  “Hatty, this is Aunt Elinore, the Duchess of Kortemark. Aunt Elinore, Hatty. She’s a journalist and she’s interviewing me about my visit to the preschool this morning. I’m sorry Hatty. What’s your last name?”

  “Brunelle. It’s French,” I said, finding my voice.

  “French? You don’t sound French. Nor do you sound like you’re from Toulene,” John’s aunt said with certainty.

  “You’re right. I’m from the States. Missouri, specifically.” I expected the inevitable glazed over smile that told me the person to whom I was speaking had no idea where Missouri was because it wasn’t New York or California.

  “I’ve been there. To St. Louis a couple of times. Very nice area with a rich history. It’s the Show Me State, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  Her words were pleasant, but her presence was overbearing. It was like I was back in fifth grade, sweating under the stern gaze of Mrs. Scott instead of speaking to the Duchess of Kortemark. The palace guard ate my homework.

  “And when will you return to Missouri?”

  “I’m not sure. I graduate from the Royal University in May. I’m interning at The Morning Dispatch this semester.”

  “Hatty, you may know Aunt Elinore has traveled more than any other member of the royal family,” John said, steering the conversation away from me.

  “I hope you felt as welcome in Missouri as I’ve felt the last three and a half years in Toulene.”

  “Indeed. Lovely to meet you, Hatty. And I’m glad to see someone getting use out of those pants I ordered. They emphasize your child-bearing hips.” She floated out of the hall.

  I didn’t know what to say. Had the Duchess of Kortemark just told me my thighs were fat?

  The awkwardness of her parting shot wasn’t lost on John either. “I’m sorry. We never know what she’s going to say.”

  “It’s okay. It’s just a tad startling to hear a member of the royal family call out my thighs.” I forced a courtesy laugh.

  “I don’t think that’s what she was saying at all.”

  I caught a glimpse of his wristwatch. “I’d better head back to the newsroom and write my story. But I still want to hear about your grandmother’s agenda, even if it’s off the record. Maybe some other time?”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Before I go, my editor wants me to ask you one other thing―on the record. At the risk of sounding like a gossip columnist, who was with you at the Carlisle racetrack Sunday?” I gave him the most serious look I could manage given the subject matter.

  “That was my second cousin, Prudence. Most people here don’t recognize her because Pru’s lived in Australia since she was five. It was the first chance I’ve had to spend time with her in ages.”

  “Was it a date?” I totally sounded like a gossip columnist. Or a jealous girlfriend.

  “With Pru? No. I did say she’s my cousin, right?”

  “But I thought…” I wanted to say, But I thought royals sometimes marry their cousins. It’s like a thing.

  “Hatty, let me give you a history lesson. Some of Europe’s royal cousins married to strengthen or extend kingdoms. These were strategic alliances. I have a little more say over the choice of my wife than they did.” He grinned, enjoying how uncomfortable this conversation made me feel.

  “Okay. Sorry I had to ask about that.”

  “It’s fine. The press profits from speculating about my personal life.” Um, ouch. “Off the record, they don’t realize the most exciting thing I’ve done this year was join you and your friends at the pub.”

  “That was the highlight of your year?” I knew he was teasing me.

  “I met you, didn’t I?”

  His words rang in my ears and my cheeks tingled, resurrecting the giddiness I’d felt the night we met at Finn’s.

  Quick! Say something! “If you thought playing poker in the back room at Finn’s was fun, you should try doing a round of Kamikaze Karaoke with us.”

  “Let me know the next time you’re on stage. I’ll do my best to be there. Maybe we can share another chocolate kiss.”

  My heart stammered as he lifted my hand, turned it over, and kissed the inside of my wrist. So much more intimate than a kiss on the back of my hand. It sure beat the hell out of a stiff handshake, which is how my interviews usually ended.

  n the harsh fluorescents of the newsroom, my fingers tapped across the keyboard. I included all the on-the-record details I’d scribbled during the interview. There were scone crumbs scattered on my notes; the taste of cinnamon hovered in my mouth. Because I ran out of time and didn’t get to eat at the palace, John sent me out the door with a warm pastry wrapped in a cloth napkin. Nom nom.

  A zing hummed through my arms, energizing me. Time to submit my story, go home, and comb through every moment I’d spent with the prince. I was in the throes of committing a cardinal sin for a journalist: I was crushing on him. Would he really come out with me and my friends for Kamikaze Karaoke? The possibility filled me with nervous excitement.

  I wrapped up my story and hit “send.” James was gone for the day, and Brigitte, the sleepy-looking night editor sat hunched over her desk, ready to nod off, per usual. While I waited for her to approve the story so I could leave, I got out my notes for an investigative piece I was writing. By the time I opened my spreadsheets, Brigitte was by my side. Even though she looked like she was teetering between wakefulness and a solid nap, she was a notoriously quick editor.

  “James said you were going to write about being the girl in the limo.” Brigitte handed me a print out of my story. “And what about the photos you took after the event?”

  I held up my phone. “It’s dead. I guess it can’t handle its water.” I’d plugged it into the charger on the off chance a steady flow of juice might revive it. I pushed the home button. Nada.

  “Cripes. Well, then just go back and include a few lines about how the prince pulled you into the limo with him, took you to the palace, and gave you an exclusive interview.” She walked away.

  I went back to my story, hating that I had to inject myself into the narrative. I
balked at the idea of pulling attention away from the preschool visit and the “Read to Succeed” program. Those elements were the essence of the story. My limo ride and brief time at the palace were a side show.

  Still, there was no arguing with Brigitte. If I refused to expand my story, she’d roll her sleepy eyes and get James on the phone. I made the changes, got her to sign off on the revised draft, and drove to my apartment in Reines, a suburb of the capital.

  As much as I wanted to deconstruct everything with my bestie, Tilda, my phone was a goner. And in truth, I simply wanted to soak in my claw foot tub and remember the details of the day: the way his jacket smelled, the look on his face when I walked out of the bedroom wearing those ridiculous riding clothes, the authority in his voice when he answered my questions, his lips pressed against the inside of my wrist, leaving a tingling sensation. I closed my eyes, inhaling the lavender aroma of the bath salts. My body responded each time I called up the prince’s face and voice in my head, the collection of images and sounds looped repeatedly for my pleasure.

  Rising from the tub, I wrapped a threadbare towel around my midsection just as a flash of light caught my eye. I looked through the crack in the curtains. More storms?

  There it was again. Definitely not lightning. Something or someone was out there. My mom once warned me about weirdos who stalk reporters. I wondered if someone saw the story about me being “limo girl” and decided to look me up. I shivered at the thought of someone trying to photograph me getting out of the tub. I pulled the towel tighter and slammed my hand against the light switch as an unfamiliar jumpiness taunted my nerves.

  hen I stepped onto my front stoop the next morning―a dreary October Thursday―an explosion of flashes and clicks stunned me. If I had any doubts about whether I was a part of the story, they evaporated in a flurry. I pushed and jostled my way through the crowd. Panic rose in my chest―the camera sounds and the movement of bodies made me think of swarming insects.

  “Are you dating the prince?”

  “Hatty, what did you do at the palace?”

  “Are you John’s new girlfriend?”