Inconceivable! Page 7

  After we left St. Bavo’s, we browsed the wares in several small shops. Yep, the day kept getting more bizarre―I was shopping with a prince. Thanks to his baseball cap and casual clothing, no one looked at us twice. Bernard, also dressed in plain clothes, was in the shop but kept his distance to avoid drawing attention.

  I loved all the chotskies―the small figurines of Brussels’ Mannequin Pis, snow globes that put Belgian landmarks in the middle of a blizzard, and miniature wooden replicas of the guild houses that lined the Graslei harbor.

  John hovered over a table covered in pieces of lace. “The sign says these were all handmade in Belgium. Don’t you think you need to take home some Brussels lace? Look at this one.”

  He held up a delicate section of lace. Vines, flowers, and leaves sprang from a central stem, all held together by threads thin enough to rival a spider’s web.

  “It’s beautiful.” I took it from his hand gingerly, not wanting to stress the lace.

  We took it to the woman behind the counter. She must have overheard us talking in English.

  She spoke to us with a heavy accent: “This is perfect for couple.” She held it up and pointed to the flowers and leaves. “The pattern means many babies.”

  She smiled as she patted her abdomen. Heat instantly enflamed my cheeks. I busied myself digging for my credit card, a convenient way to ignore the implications of her words. I wanted to say, Hey, lady. He and I only met for the first time a couple of weeks ago. We’re not even really dating yet. I haven’t signed the paperwork!

  When I finally pulled the card from the depths of my purse, John handed me a brown paper bag.

  “It’s a gift. It’s the least I can do since you let me drag you out of the country today.”

  I suppressed the words, “You shouldn’t have done that!” and merely smiled. “Thank you. I’ll treasure this.”

  John took my hand and kissed the back of it. “Time to go. More surprises await.”

  ohn led me down the cobblestone street with Bernard several steps behind us. He reached for my hand, and his fingers locked with mine. This wasn’t the kind of neutered touch I remembered from the hallways of my middle school. This was a deliciously awkward feeling of skin against skin, warm and constantly adjusting.

  We meandered our way to Korenlei where we stopped at the front door of a restaurant. The small flag hanging by the door had the words Allegro Moderato printed on it. Inside, the maître d’ waited for us, apparently prepped for our arrival by one of the guards. He led us to a private room where a lively fire in the fireplace radiated warmth for the room’s only table. We took our seats by a giant window that looked across the Lys River to the guild houses.

  “Bon Appétit!” He quietly shut the door.

  “Do you bring all the girls here?”

  “Hatty. I know you think I date a lot of women. But can you imagine the kind of exposure I’d face if I did? I’ve only seriously dated two women. Both of them ended our relationship once the press found out and began following them around the clock. Once that happens, things change. I think you already had a little taste of that, right?

  “Yes, but they quickly lost interest. I’m not fun to photograph.”

  “That has nothing to do with it. I called in several favors with editors and asked them to rein in the wolves. I also confirmed we’re not dating.”

  “Seriously? I thought they left because I bored them to death. Thank you, then, because it was awful and uncomfortable. I don’t see how you handle it so graciously. Aren’t they after you all the time?”

  “Yes, especially when I’m out with someone I’m dating. Even if we’re dressed down and travel outside of Toulene, the press can still find us. They bribe people and lie, whatever it takes to track us down. It becomes much harder to enjoy a quiet dinner like this when you’re worried about a photographer crashing through the window. When the tabloids figure out we’re dating, I won’t be able to stop them.”

  “Is that a warning? Are you trying to scare me off?”

  “No, I’m being honest. The relentless coverage became a source of conflict with the two other women I dated.”

  “Did you love them?” I blurted it out before I could stop myself. I had no right to ask.

  “Yes. One of them. I loved her very much. But, she wasn’t willing to put herself and her family through the kind of scrutiny that comes with being in a relationship with me.”

  Who was she? My mind raced back to all the tabloid cover photos I’d seen of the prince with some “new girlfriend.” Though I liked to read the covers, I rarely cracked open the magazines. The only woman I remembered seeing on multiple occasions was a princess from the Orange family in Holland. She was blonde and slender with impeccable features, exactly the sort of face that should be on the cover of magazines next to a prince. But her family is already under press scrutiny, so I couldn’t imagine she had been The One.

  “I’m sure it’s an intense experience to be under constant scrutiny.” Yeah, being on the journalist’s side of the camera felt a hell of a lot safer. I wasn’t looking forward to trading places.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Entrez.” John spoke with a perfect French accent.

  “Beinvenue. Je m’appelle Jean-Paul. Que voudriez-vous à boire?”

  “Je voudrais bien avoir seulement l’eau,” I said. You’re not the only one who can parler a little français.

  “Nous êtes prendre le Château Mont-Redon, Côtes-du-Rhône Rouge.” John ordered the wine, and then the garçon left, closing the door with care. “I had no idea you spoke French.”

  “Oh, I started studying the language and culture in high school. It’s my minor at the university. I’ve found a few occasions to use it during my time in Europe. It’s kind of a drag English is the dominant language in Toulene.”

  “Yes, but most people speak two or even three languages. You shouldn’t have trouble finding places to practice your French. By the way, I hope you don’t mind the wine. Will you have a glass?”

  “Of course. John, thank you for this. All of this. It’s been a day I’ll never forget.”

  “You’re welcome. I do want to ask you about something, but I hope it doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”

  He paused and I nodded. “Go ahead.”

  “The night we met at Finn’s, you said you’d dated Jack. Plato said the two of you were together for about a year. Is that right?”

  Lord, have mercy. Plato had probably told him everything, so I couldn’t hide the truth.

  “I’ll give you the story, but only if you promise to tell me more about your past relationship.” I craved information about the person against whom John would compare me.

  “I’ll tell you about Claire, but I asked you first. Plato told me a few details but I’d like to hear the whole story from you.”

  There was a knock at the door. Jean-Paul entered followed by a sommelier carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses. The sommelier put the glasses on the table, uncorked the bottle, and poured a small splash of ruby liquid for John to taste.

  John took the glass and sipped. “Oui, merci.”

  “Que-est ce que vous voudriez?” The waiter asked for our order while the sommelier finished pouring the wine.

  John looked at me.

  “Tu vas de l’avant,” I told him with a smile, trusting him to order for us.

  “Nous voudrions le stoverij, s’il vous plait.”

  Both men left quickly.

  “What’s stoverij?” I asked.

  “It’s a meat stew, a classic Flemish dish. They add a nice bit of strong beer from one of the local Trappist abbeys. It also comes with pommes frites.”

  My stomach gurgled softly in response to the pending arrival of French fries. You can take the girl out of the Ozarks, but you can’t take the love of fries out of the girl.

  “Sounds perfect.” I took a sip of wine. “So, here goes. Jack and I met on campus at the gym. I used to go workout after class to blow off steam,
and Jack was always there. You know his real name is Jacques, right? But he likes everyone to call him Jack. Whatever. At first, I thought that was cute, but then it just seemed like he was trying to be someone else. Anyway, we started talking, and then one night, he asked me to go with him for coffee.

  I paused to swallow.

  “We quickly became a couple. I loved going to his rugby matches… until I didn’t. I competed with rugby for his time and attention. One evening when he was supposed to be hanging out with his teammates, I decided to go to the gym. He was there jogging around the track with a beautiful, petite blonde. In terms of appearance, she was the complete opposite of me. The way their bodies brushed against each other without flinching and the way they looked so comfortable together, I knew he was sleeping with her.” I stopped again, tears threatening to spill from my eyes.

  “Hatty, you don’t have to keep going.”

  Oh yes I do. The spigot’s wide open.

  “Jack confessed right away when I asked him about it. He told me he simply had more in common with Hilga from Germany than with Hatty from America. He was so matter-of-fact about it, and that really hurt. He used to say looking at me was like seeing a movie star from the early days of Hollywood. I thought it was a lovely compliment, but after I found out he cheated on me, it made me feel frumpy. So you can see why I’m kind of mystified by the fact that you want to spend time with me.”

  I took a deep breath, willing the lingering anger to settle down.

  John reached across the table and took my hand, squeezing it gently. “The woman I loved is named Claire Léglise. Her family owns one of the most popular casinos in Monaco. I courted her. She knew I was close to proposing, but she chose to end our relationship.”

  Close to proposing. A cocktail of excitement, nervousness, and expectancy prompted my brain to dust off a memory of my seven-year-old self wearing a wispy white nightgown and my mom’s slip as a veil. But the prospect of John proposing, even at some distant date, worried me. What would that mean for my career?

  It was almost imperceptible, but I was staring at him so intently, I noticed the flicker of pain in his eyes. I squeezed his hand. A twinge of jealousy confirmed my budding affection for John.; clearly, he still cared for Claire, and clearly, that bothered me.

  “She blamed my family because she thought they weren’t sufficiently welcoming. She also didn’t want to spend the rest of her life under constant scrutiny from the press. She felt it could ruin her family’s business. So, we said goodbye, and I haven’t seen her since.”

  “Since when?” I’m not sure I want to know.

  “Since July.”

  “Three months ago? Are you ready to go through this process again so soon? And with someone you hardly know?”

  A soft knock again stopped our conversation. Jean-Paul entered and supervised as two men brought the food to our table and served us. I gave the requisite ohh’s and ahh’s, but felt eager to return to the topic at hand.

  When we were once again alone, I said, “John, are you really ready for this now?”

  “My brother asked me the same question last night. Yes, I’m ready. I don’t believe in letting the past bind you. Hatty, you’re so completely different from Claire or any other woman I’ve ever dated. You don’t hold back. You speak your mind. I need more people like that in my life.”

  “You might get tired of it. Before too long, you’ll want me to keep my mouth shut.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  I picked up my spoon and tasted the meat stew. “Oh, my goodness. So. Good.”

  “I’m glad you like it. I love Flemish cooking,” he said, digging into his bowl of stew.

  We spent the rest of the meal talking about our favorite movies and the books we love. Both of us laughed too easily thanks to the wine; it bathed reality in a soft, warm glow.

  When we arrived in Toulene, we waited by ourselves in the train car while the rest of the passengers emptied into the station. It was time for us to leave, but he slipped his arm around my waist and pulled me close. He kissed me softly on the lips. Slower this time. It felt the way kisses in the movies look: intense, sensual, not one movement out of sync. There was a sense of restraint; we stood on the precipice of a new relationship, only beginning to get acquainted. Even so, this kiss hinted at the depth of our attraction.

  “Sleep well. I look forward to seeing you soon,” he said, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. His tenderness and the way he gazed into my eyes eased my concern about his fairly recent break-up with Claire.

  Before I started my car, I sent James a text: No story tonight. The event was a bust, just a low-key family gathering.

  Turning the ignition, there was a tune simmering on my lips. Ding, dong, the blog is dead. I couldn’t wait for Monday when I’d walk into James’ office and tell him I was done with First Rate Royals. I was about to find out just how first rate the royals really were.

  he noisy vibration of my new phone zapped me out of my dream―a surreal recap of the previous day’s trip to Ghent. I thought James might be calling to chew me out for not filing a story last night; it was strange he never responded to my text. The words “No Caller ID” flashed across the top. I fumbled with the slim rectangle and answered just before it went to voicemail.

  Before putting the phone to my ear, my eyes noted the time on the phone’s screen: 6:30 a.m.

  “Hello?”

  “Hatty Brunelle?”

  “Yes. This is she.”

  “This is Cilla d’Hiver. I’m head of the public affairs office at Belvoir. Do you have a minute?”

  I grabbed my glasses and sat up in bed. “Is this about the paperwork I need to sign?” John doesn’t waste any time.

  “I’m calling about the story you wrote for today’s edition of The Morning Dispatch.”

  Surprise and confusion swished in my brain. “I didn’t write a story.”

  “It’s on your blog. It’s also in today’s print edition above the fold. Your story reveals information and details you collected from the prince yesterday.”

  I reached for my laptop sitting on the nightstand and flipped open the lid. “Hang on… I still don’t know what you’re talking about.” Struggling to keep my voice steady, I inhaled deeply, reminding myself I’d done nothing wrong.

  “I’m calling to put you on notice and say the palace has no comment…”

  “Wait! My laptop’s not on yet.” My school-issued laptop was half a step above two Dixie cups and a piece of string.

  “In the future, if you want to contact the Meinrad family, come through me. Good day.”

  The line went dead. What just happened?

  My laptop finally woke up, and I opened my blog. The top headline tattled the precious secret John had entrusted to me:

  Secret Charity Work Revealed! In Her Final Days, Princess Beatrix Established a Foundation for Cancer Patients

  From staff reports

  The Morning Dispatch has learned exclusively that shortly before her death, Toulene’s Princess Beatrix set up and funded a foundation to support cancer patients in Ghent, her hometown.

  Public tax records for the foundation reveal the Meinrad family continues to funnel yearly donations to the organization even though it provides no services to the people of Toulene.

  “I can’t believe the royal family is sending Toulenians’ tax money outside our borders to fund a pet project of the late princess,” said Assemblyman Henk Haas who chairs the finance committee.

  Prince John traveled to Ghent Saturday to visit patients who receive medical supplies and other services from the foundation.

  “He visits us as often as he can, usually two or three times a year,” said a cancer patient leaving the foundation office Saturday.

  A sick feeling rose up in my chest. Who wrote the story and how did they get this information? I dialed James’ cell phone, knowing he’d pick up even though it was early on Sunday morning.

  He answered on the second ring. “Did y
ou see the story?” he asked.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I yelled into the phone.

  “I’ll ask you the same thing because your text said there was no story.”

  “John made me promise to keep the information about his mother’s foundation off the record.”

  “Fine. But Paul made no such promise. He followed you because I knew you’d need back-up.”

  “Back-up? Don’t you trust me to do my job?”

  “The prince promised to take you to a private event. I expected him to gag you with an off-the-record request, so I sent Paul along as your wingman.”

  “Wingman? I didn’t know he was going to be there. Look, I’ve done my best to earn the prince’s trust and do my job. Do you have any idea how hard it is to strike that balance? And now you’ve ruined it.” I huffed as though I’d jogged a mile, and I had runner’s adrenaline screaming through my veins. “I quit. I’m done with the blog and I’m done with your paper.”

  “You can’t quit. You’ll fail your internship.”

  “We’ll see. I’ll talk to my advisor tomorrow. If I have to stay in school an extra semester, that’s fine. But I’m not going to let you undermine my credibility and burn my sources.” I mashed the red button on the screen to end the call. Then I threw my phone into my pillow and let my tears pour over the injustice of the situation.

  After washing my face and blowing my nose, I picked up the phone to call Tilda. She’d help me figure out how to fix this cluster. I was in no shape to formulate a plan.

  The lights were low, and only a couple of people remained in the front room of Finn’s―Monday evenings were slow after ten. Sitting at the bar, I nursed a diet soda. My phone showed thirty minutes had passed since I sent my napkin note to the back room where the prince, Plato, and some other guys were playing poker. The message I sent him? I refuse to fold.

  I typed a text to Tilda, telling her our plan didn’t work.

  “I don’t think you want to hit send,” a deep voice behind me said.

  John put his hand on my arm and I flipped my phone so it was facedown.