Inconceivable! Page 6

  “The cost of materials went up. Then, the assembly’s new wage laws took effect. Public projects are subject to the whims of the market and the assembly. I know your friend Tilda works for Assemblyman Aalders. He can’t change the wage laws and then get mad when companies that have government contracts comply with them.”

  “Why continue with the project if the costs were escalating?”

  “This new runway opens Toulene to countries outside Europe. We can now handle larger planes. What I’m about to say is off the record: a major airline will announce next week that it will soon offer direct flights from the U.S. to Roeselare.”

  This was a big freaking deal. There had never been direct flights from the States into Toulene’s capital or any of its other cities. I always flew in and out of Brussels. More tourists would be a game-changer for the country’s economy.

  “Will you give me an advance copy of the press release on the airline announcement without an embargo so I can break the story?”

  “Let’s see how you do with today’s story first. If you do a fair job of explaining all sides, I’ll see what I can do. Actually, I want to offer you something even better. Saturday, I’m going to Ghent for a private gathering. Would you be interested in joining me?”

  I didn’t have to think twice about my answer. I’d take any opportunity to spend time with him. Still, it struck me as odd; royals didn’t let reporters tag along just for funsies, especially when it was something private. Tilda’s warnings about him wanting to use me to plant stories rang in my ears. I’d just have to stay on guard and be careful.

  glanced out the train window, watching the fields of Toulene’s farms slide by in a brown and yellow blur as we wound our way toward Ghent. John sat in a seat across from me. I had to admit he looked handsome even though a baseball cap covered his to-die-for hair. Two royal guards sat at the far end of the car. Otherwise, it was deserted.

  The day after my airport runway story ran, John sent me a note complimenting my story and outlining the details of our trip to Ghent. I’d discussed the invitation with my editor, and James immediately insisted I go. The whole thing―passing notes, getting my editor’s blessing to go with the prince to Ghent―had a whiff of middle school drama.

  “Tell me about yourself. What was it like growing up in Missouri?”

  My stomach knotted. I hated talking about myself, especially to someone I was covering. “Why do you care about my life?”

  “Why do you care about mine?”

  “It’s my job. I care because readers care.”

  “But I hardly think it’s fair. You know so much about me, and I know almost nothing about you. Other than the fact you think my relative’s unfortunate comb over is funny.”

  I smiled and blushed, remembering the awkwardly funny conversation.

  As the gentle rocking motion of the train helped me relax, I told John about my school teacher mother and my father who was an emergency room nurse.

  “So you don’t have any brothers or sisters?” He sounded surprised.

  “No. My mom and dad always said they liked being able to focus on me. Sometimes I do think I have a sister-size hole in my heart. Honestly though, I would’ve taken a brother, too.” I felt the pulse of a phantom pain I thought I’d tucked away in the recesses of my soul years ago.

  “I’d like to have a large family. I loved growing up with a younger brother. And even though I had Henri, I wanted more siblings. I think if Mum had lived, there would’ve been a gaggle of us.”

  A gaggle of kids. In photos, his mother glowed, radiating an inner light that many expectant mothers possess.

  “I didn’t know her, of course, but I believe you. I imagine she would’ve had Belvoir overrun with beautiful, talented children.”

  John’s earnest smile at my assessment hinted at his longing to know what might have been. Our eyes caught for a brief moment. Then, he cleared his throat, looked down, and studied his hands. His vulnerability and brief awkwardness were endearing.

  Best to change the subject. “So, you have a degree in agriculture, is that right?” I mentally thanked Google for existing so I could read up on his background before today’s adventure.

  “Yes. I’m actually working on a doctoral degree.”

  “In farming?”

  “Not exactly. It’s in environmental science. I’m studying invasive species. Just look at this beautiful farmland.” He nodded toward the windows. “Non-native plants and insects threaten this way of life. There’s a farm out by the coast near De Haan where I do my research.”

  I had to silence my inner skeptic. She was rolling her eyes and wondering, Is that some kind of Marie Antoinette thing where you go “play farmer?”

  “I’d love to see your work in the field. And I guess you’re literally out in a field, right?”

  He laughed. “That’s right. How do you feel about getting your hands dirty?”

  “I’m from Missouri. I’m not afraid of a little mud.”

  We chatted about the day he had planned, but he didn’t share any specifics. First, we were going to a private gathering in downtown Ghent, then we’d visit one of the city’s biggest tourist attractions. I’d done a fair amount of traveling around Europe since my arrival in Toulene three and a half years ago, but I’d spent little time in Belgium, which was right next door. I was excited to experience yet another country and language, though John reminded me Belgium and Toulene are similar in terms of the landscape, demographics, and culture.

  When we arrived at the station, an SUV picked us up. We got in the backseat, and Bernard (Limo Guard had a name!) sat up front with the driver. The other guard got into a car behind us. Without a word, the driver sped off, weaving expertly through the heavy traffic.

  “Is it always this crowded in the fall?” The volume of cars filling the streets was astounding.

  “Yes. Ghent and Bruges are both popular with tourists right up until the end of November.” John took out a small black book from his coat pocket. “Thomas, we can go straight to the foundation office.”

  It warmed my heart that John had taken the time to write out the details of our day in a notebook instead of relying exclusively on pop-up reminders on his smartphone like the rest of Europe and the U.S. I smiled as I imagined him bent over a desk writing out our itinerary.

  “Foundation? What foundation?”

  “Not long after my mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, she set up a private foundation. As you may know, she was born in Ghent and lived here until she was twelve. After her cancer diagnosis, she wanted to help the women here who were in a similar situation. She realized they didn’t have the support she had because of her money and position. So, she established a place where they could go for financial assistance and therapy. I try to visit the support group from time to time.”

  It was such a tender revelation. In all my research, I’d read nothing about his mother establishing a foundation.

  “Why didn’t I find anything about this online?”

  “She kept it quiet because she didn’t do it for the publicity. I like to visit as a way to honor her.”

  I paused, carefully considering how to ask my question. “Are you going to let me report on this?”

  “No.”

  “Then, why am I here?”

  “Hatty, I want to get to know you better. And I want you to get to know me.”

  I swallowed. Loudly. His words tilted my world, aligning reality with some of the what-if scenarios I’d choreographed in my head since we first met at Finn’s. What if he really, really liked me? Exhilaration rushed every cell in my body, and I stifled my overwhelming desire to scream.

  But it was possible I was misreading him. “Get to know me? Why?”

  “I have the impression you do your homework. So just think of today as research.”

  Hmm. Not exactly the confirmation I wanted, but I was still on high alert. All signs indicated that today was anything other than an ordinary outing with a source.

 
; The SUV stopped in front of a building with a pointy roof and friendly façade complete with windows and cheery flower boxes. It was similar to many of the buildings we passed on our way here. The words on the glass door sprawled out in a cursive script, comprehensible only to those who read Dutch.

  We walked inside, and a woman with big eyes and bright red lips greeted us with hugs.

  “John! Who is this lovely woman?”

  “Mette, this is my friend Hatty. I thought she’d enjoy meeting the family.”

  The “family” consisted of twelve women seated in padded pink chairs arranged in a circle. John hugged each woman with a tight embrace before introducing me. All but two of the women looked perfectly healthy.

  “So lovely to meet you, Hatty.” The woman, who looked pale and gaunt, wore a green silk scarf wrapped around her head and spoke impeccable English. “We’re always begging John to introduce us to the women in his life.”

  What the heck? Clearly, they had the wrong impression. Or did they? My confusion ballooned. So did my worry. Like mental kudzu, unease grew and spread, enveloping every thought. His flirting might be an attempt to draw me in so I’d slant my reporting to favor his family. As much as I craved his attention, this was a sticky wicket. I didn’t know his intentions. My stomach thrashed and rumbled.

  Mette brought me a chair. John grabbed one for himself and we sat side by side. He asked each woman about specific details related to her medical treatment. He knew Rania was on her second round of chemo. He asked Treze if her new medication was causing her to have migraines as the previous medicine had done. His earnestness and sincerity pricked my heart. Sitting beside him, I noticed how his eyes softened. And they never shifted to his watch or the clock on the wall.

  After the last woman, Eva, gave her update, she added, “I know you may not have time, especially since you brought a guest, but would you play for us before you go?”

  Each woman in the circle smiled expectantly, and John stood. He walked over to a door, opened it, and wheeled out a harp. He set it near the circle and retrieved a small stool.

  As he played quietly, several of the women swayed. Others closed their eyes. This is why he doesn’t play publicly. This is the only audience he needs.

  When he was done, the women gave him a farewell hug, a few added a peck on the cheek.

  “How often do you visit?” I asked when we were back in the SUV. The driver knew where to take us next, though I had no clue where we were going.

  “I come at least twice a year. Mette keeps me informed about each woman through email. Thanks for coming with me, by the way. I almost always come alone.”

  He spoke quietly, creating a seriousness and intimacy that surprised me. Even though the driver and Bernard were up front, it was a private moment. I physically jumped when John reached over and took my hand. John chuckled as though my unsteady behavior amused him.

  “Hatty, relax. I invited you today because I want to ask you a question. Would you be willing to spend time with me on a regular basis?”

  reminded myself to breathe, suddenly aware I wasn’t taking normal breaths.

  “What do you mean?” The moment was heavy, ripe with possibility.

  “I mean I’d like to date you, or as we call it in our family, begin a formal courtship.”

  “Are you trying to woo me so I’ll plant stories on behalf of your family?”

  “Of course not. I’m trying to woo you, but my goals have nothing to do with journalism.”

  He likes me. Likes me, likes me. Holy cannoli. A minor bout of lightheadedness made me blink too much. “So, is this a date?”

  “No. In order for us to go on a date, you have to sign a contract that protects my family’s privacy and yours. Is that something you’re interested in doing?”

  “Are you asking me if I want to sign papers or if I want to date you?”

  “Both, I suppose.”

  “Then yes. To both.” The words slipped past my lips without forethought. In that moment, I saw a seedling planted squarely in my chest basking in the light of John’s attention. It bent toward the light of his humor, his smile, and his touch. I was so into this prince-slash-environmental scientist, he even influenced the metaphors that sprang to mind.

  Before I managed to verbalize any of the hundreds of thoughts competing in my brain, the car stopped in front of an imposing cathedral.

  “The church just closed to the public, so we have it to ourselves,” he said.

  “Is this St. Bavo’s? It’s one of the most famous cathedrals in Ghent, right?” It was the only tourist attraction I remembered from my online research of the city.

  “That’s right. Sint-Baafskathedraal to the locals. I’m impressed you know that. It’s named for the patron saint of the city. We’re going to see the famous Ghent altarpiece. Are you familiar with it?”

  “I’m going to have to plead American on this one. I’ve never heard of it.”

  He laughed. “Don’t worry. Unless you grew up near Belgium or studied European art history, you probably wouldn’t be familiar with it.”

  We got out of the car and walked into a cavernous vestibule that swallowed us whole. Inside, the church showcased the ageless tension between light and dark with its interior design.

  “I love European churches because they’re nothing like the modern Protestant churches in the states where you have a stage with concert lighting and sound. Plus, our churches tend to be so light and airy.”

  “You’ll find none of that American fluff at St. Bavo’s,” he said with a wink. John pointed to our right. “That’s a pulpit made of white marble and oak.”

  Two curved staircases stood on each side leading to an elevated lectern behind which a priest would stand to deliver his homily. White marble statues of angels and mortals at the base of the massive structure created a striking contrast to the dark wood. Most impressive of all was the enormous marble sculpture that served as a kind of roof over the pulpit. On top of the overhang, a gold cross stuck out from among the angelic bodies at an angle that made it appear poised to fall.

  “It would be hard to disagree with someone who stood there and claimed to have God’s authority. He would appear to be speaking from heaven down to earth,” I said, lost in my thoughts as I tried to imagine an actual church service happening here in the 1500’s. I shivered. “So, is this pulpit the Ghent altarpiece? Sorry. I’m Protestant to a fault.” I gave him a shy smile.

  “No. This is an impressive work of art, but the altarpiece consists of multiple panels of paintings. It’s in a separate room.”

  He led me to an area at the back of the cathedral. We passed placards and wall hangings that, to my untrained eye, looked dark and Gothic with small skulls and words in a language I didn’t recognize. Though I’d visited many European cathedrals, including the marvelous and memorable basilica in Krakow, this place was very different in its appearance and feel―colder and darker.

  A man wearing neat khaki pants and a tie nodded when he saw us coming and opened a small wooden door. We entered a room that was more confined and intimate than a classroom, but too big for a closet. It had a floor to ceiling stained glass window that let light pour inside. There were two chairs sitting together in front of the most beautiful work of art I’d ever seen. And I’d toured the Louvre in Paris four times. Two side panels flanked the central painting. The side panels each held four individual scenes. At the top of the center section of the altarpiece, there were three paintings: a woman on the left, a man on the right, and what appeared to be a king in the center. Below that was the painting that caused my breath to catch in my throat.

  “May I?” I asked, gesturing at the panels.

  John nodded and I walked forward. Near the center of the middle painting was a raised altar with a lamb standing on top. Though it looked very much like an animal, its eyes gazed at me in a calm, knowing way as small bursts of light radiated from the back of its head. Blood poured from a single hole in its body near the heart and splashed into
a golden chalice.

  “It’s called ‘Adoration of the Mystic Lamb,’” John said, almost whispering.

  Hearing him speak softly, I turned my head. He was standing beside me. “You look so beautiful in this light.”

  Without hurrying, he reached his hand around my head and brought his lips to mine. We kissed in a gentle, rhythmic way that felt natural, as though we’d kissed before. Even so, my nerves danced, my stomach flipped, and my heart fluttered, bringing my senses to life; he tasted of mint and anise.

  He slowly pulled away, opening his eyes to look at me.

  “John…” I hardly knew what to say. Echoes of a first grade chant rang in my head: first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Hatty with the baby carriage.

  Before I had the chance to stumble around for the right words, he coughed and cleared his throat. “What do you find most interesting?”

  And just like that, we were back to looking at the painting, as though we hadn’t just crossed into new and thrilling territory. I yearned for the warm movement of his lips against mine, but forced myself to keep it together so I could focus on the altarpiece.

  “I think it blends and balances the eternal with the ephemeral, heaven and earth. It’s the retelling of the ancient story of Christ’s death, but the imagery makes it fresh. Growing up, people at our church talked about Jesus being the Lamb of God, but to see such a literal portrayal of that metaphor is stunning.”

  There was a soft knock on the door. John went over and opened it. A small man wearing round glasses stepped into the room with us. He gestured to the chairs, indicating we should sit.

  For the next fifteen minutes, he regaled us with stories about the painting and its history. Thieves had stolen, dismantled, and mutilated it. But since the end of World War II, Ghent had been its home. A group of artists from all over Europe came here and painstakingly restored it.

  As we left, I took one last look at the bleeding lamb. It had witnessed our first kiss, and somehow, that made everything that followed seem ordained by God.