Part-time Princess

by Pamela DuMond

  “What?” My own heart beat so loudly I wasn’t sure I could hear him.

  “In a way, you will always be my first love. And I have come to the tragic realization, too late, that you will be my last love.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This marriage between you and Cristoph cements our families’ futures. It saves Friedricksburg, my father’s heart and the Timmel family from financial disaster. It promotes good will to all Fredonians. I can’t allow my personal feelings to screw that up. I won’t allow it.”

  “Let me get this straight. You love me. But you’re not willing to fight for me?”

  “Yes. Because if I don’t fight for Fredonia first? I’m a shitty brother, a crappy son, a rotten prince and not the man that any self-respecting woman should fall in love with.”

  “So nothing will change your decision?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “But—I love you,” I said.

  “And I love you back.” He stood up, walked a few steps, drew me to him and kissed me. He kissed me hard. He kissed me soft. He ran his fingers through my hair, slid his hands down my neck onto my back where he traced circles. He placed both hands on my waist and pulled me to him; my chest against his, my pelvis flush against his.

  “Oh,” I said. He was so hard and I remembered how incredible he felt inside me. My face grew hot, I blushed and prayed he wouldn’t notice. What was I doing?

  What was I freaking doing? Was I the biggest moron in the world?

  I pulled away from him and back stepped. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t marry Cristoph? Just please give me one really good reason?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t. I’ll see you tomorrow in front of the priest. I’ll be the guy in the tux standing next to the luckiest guy in the entire fucking world—my brother. My wish for you, my beloved, is that you get your Happily-Ever-After that you, of all people, deserve.”

  Queen Cheree had plunked down a small fortune and restored the dilapidated five-hundred-year-old church on the grounds of her beloved Labrador Retriever sanctuary in Friedricksbugh. The Royal Fredonia Saint Francis of Assisi Chapel was small, pristine and remarkable in that it featured paintings and busts of St. Francis surrounded by the animals he helped, loved and purportedly rescued. Oddly—in this chapel’s artistic renditions—St. Francis was always surrounded by Labs.

  I bowed my head as I perched on the red-velvet kneeler in the first pew in front of the small altar, my hands clasped tightly together in a prayer. “Dear God and St. Francis. Just hear me out, okay? I mean—yes. I’m totally spun around and lost right now. I took this part-time job because I really needed the money. And you know me, I always work extra hard at all my jobs. Point in case? Girl Scouts—the 5th grade—I sold more cookies than any other Scout. The sign-twirling gig outside Hop Li’s Chinese Restaurant when I was sixteen? I was voted best twirler on the Southside. I still have the framed certificate on my wall. I thought this job would be short. I didn’t expect to hurt people’s feelings, trick or lie to them. But now—I really don’t know what to do. Please just give me a sign. I promise I will listen.”

  As if on cue, someone with light hesitant steps entered the chapel. I prayed it wasn’t a member of the paparazzi, or Ivanka, hell-bent on revenging her mother. I peeked over my shoulder.

  Mr. Philip Philips eased into a pew, gingerly sat down, hunched forward and stared up at me with his all-knowing, blue eyes.

  “Now you’re here? Oh my God, you’re finally here!” I jumped up and down for a few moments and then raced the few yards to hug him. “The Damp is in the house!”

  He extended one arm stiffly in front of him and shook his head. “No hugging. Sorry. Doctor’s orders.”

  “Mr. Philips!” I frowned. “Don’t you think after everything I’ve been through that you’re a little late?”

  “Actually I might be just in time.”

  “Oh!” I huffed and stalked back to my pew, but stopped, swiveled and pushed my hands on my hips. “This is a church and it’s supposed to be holy ground. A bastion of privacy for tortured souls.” I shook my index finger at him. “You need to leave me alone, Mr. Philips. Just like you and Zara and Elizabeth have done all these weeks. I don’t need your help. I’ll figure out on my own what comes next.”

  “Hear me out.”

  “I’ve heard you out a hundred times. I’ve gone over and above for Elizabeth and Zara and Fredonia. I’ve done everything everyone wanted me to do and more. I’m tired. I’m exhausted. I’m a stinking fraud. And that realization haunts me. At least I’m alive. If Helga had her way—I’d be dead. Do you have a policy for that in your job contract? Leave. Do not darken my door no matter where my door is.”

  “But Lucille—you’re not a fraud. Elizabeth hired you to impersonate her for a week, ten days tops. And now it’s been over a month. You’ve done an amazing job.”

  When Esmeralda trotted into the chapel holding Tulip’s leash as my puppy yanked her toward me. “I figured this is where I’d find you Lucy.” She let go of the tether and Tulip bounded down the small aisle toward me. I kneeled down and scratched her ears. She planted her paws on my knees and licked my face.

  “Esmeralda knows?” Mr. Philips asked.

  I nodded. “She’s known for a while now. Zara told her. Where is Elizabeth? She’s supposed to walk down the aisle in less than twenty-four hours. Don’t you think we’re dragging this thing down to the wire?”

  “Don’t kill the messenger.” He sighed and shook his head. “Elizabeth’s not coming back.”

  “What?” I screeched.

  “Crap!” Esmeralda said, plopped into a pew, reclined on her back and fanned her face. “I need a cocktail.”

  “Elizabeth fell in love with a hunky American commoner when she was attending graduate school in the States,” Mr. Philips said. “She hired you because she wanted, no she needed, a little more time to determine if her feelings for the heir to the Appleton, Wisconsin, John Deere dealership were real.”

  Tulip licked my hand. I looked up at the altar and the large mural of St. Francis. A black, a yellow and a brown Labrador nibbled dog treats from his outstretched hands. “This is not what I meant by a sign,” I hissed to St. Francis and stood back up.

  “That’s just great, Philips. Did she know someone would try and kill her? Did she knowingly put me in harm’s way?” Tulip wandered around the chapel, stopping to sniff every couple of yards.

  He shook his head. “The way Elizabeth’s grown up, there’s always been someone who wanted to kill her.”

  “I can vouch for that,” Esmeralda said as she furiously texted.

  “I admit she waited too long to tell you she was never returning to Fredonia,” Mr. Philips said. “For the record? She didn’t tell me either. Or I would have told you before now.”

  “You think? Elizabeth didn’t know that a prince wanted to cement their family ties, that his brother still had the hots for her? She didn’t realize Queen Cheree would give me a puppy and Helga would try to kill me? She didn’t suspect any of that?”

  “She also didn’t know for sure if she’d be able to carry her baby full-term when she hired you.”

  “What?” I asked. “She’s pregnant?” I face-palmed my forehead into my hand. “Of course! That’s why she kept running out of the room during our training sessions.”

  He nodded. “In all fairness…” he winced and dug his fist into his lower back, “…I don’t believe Elizabeth decided she was never returning to Fredonia until after she had her ultrasound and the babies appeared healthy.” He pulled a pill from his pocket, popped it into his mouth and swallowed it. “She’s having twins, by the way.”

  I snapped my fingers at him. “If that’s a Xanax, you totally need to share.”

  “It’s a Tic-Tac.”

  “Dammit! Good for Elizabeth. I hope she and John Deere and their twins will be very happy. I can only imagine the shit storm that will descend upon us once the media discovers I’m not her. That
I’m actually Lucille Marie Trabbicio from Chicago’s Southside. Prince Cristoph’s,” I made finger quotes in the air, “‘fiancé. That the girl who’s been kissing babies’ heads, hugging Fredonian orphans and being interviewed for Euro Elle Magazine is but a lowly, former cocktail waitress. And even worse in their eyes? A commoner from The States. Just fuck me now.”

  “Lucille!” Mr. Philips said. “Mind your language!”

  “Don’t you Lucille me!” I paced in front of the altar. “I’ve busted my ass on this job and I can’t even list it on my future résumé due to the confidentiality agreement that I signed. I’m screwed. You’re obviously here to transport me out of the country—like some top-secret CIA rendition mission, before this whole thing blows up into a media frenzy.”

  “You mean the FIA,” Esmeralda said and continued texting.

  “Yes,” Mr. Philips said. “And no.”

  I screeched to a stop in front of him and jammed my hands on top of my hips. “What do you mean, ‘No’?”

  “You could stay,” he said.

  Chapter 32

  “That’s not even a remote possibility.”

  When the large front door squeaked open and Ladies Joan Brady and Cheryl Cavitt Carlson maneuvered inside, each holding one handle of a medium-sized cooler between them.

  “It’s about time you got here,” Esmeralda said.

  “Your text specifically said drive two more kilometers and turn left on the lane at the crossroads next to the hovel in front of the bleating goats in the pasture,” Cheryl dropped her end of the cooler onto the stone floor with a thud.

  “We couldn’t find the bleating goats.” Joan lowered her end of the cooler and popped the lid off. “Besides, don’t goats make a ‘maaa’ sound? We drove four kilometers out of our way where we finally stopped at a pig farm.” She tugged a large thermos from the cooler and shook it vigorously.

  “I even got out of the car to ask the farmer where the hovel with the goats was located back in the direction that we’d driven.” Cheryl pulled out a goblet, flipped open the thermos’s spigot and filled it to the rim.

  “Thank God you’re finally here,” Esmeralda said. “I’m parched and we’ve got some major decision making to do.”

  “Here Lucy. This one’s for you.” Cheryl handed me the glass while Joan filled another one and passed it to Esmeralda. “You drinking these days, Philips?”

  “Just a thimbleful, my Lady.”

  I stared aghast at Cheryl and Joan. “You know?” I asked.

  “Of course we know,” Joan said and filled four more goblets.

  “Lucille Marie Trabbicio from Chicago. I raise my glass to you—my new BFF,” Cheryl held her goblet in the air. “The real Elizabeth was always a little too self-centered. Not you.”

  “The real Elizabeth would never have gone out of her way to hook me up with the hot, smart, male stripper who’s working his way through med school,” Joan said. “To Lucy! Best princess impersonator ever!”

  “Here’s to Lucy! Long may she reign!” Esmeralda lifted her glass and the ladies and Mr. Philips toasted me.

  I burst out crying. “I love you all so much and I can’t do this. I have to go home.” Tulip raced to me. I picked her up and hugged her.

  “I don’t think you do, Lucille,” Mr. Philips said.

  “But I’m not Elizabeth. And I never will be. Of course I have to leave.”

  “Hear us out,” Esmeralda said.

  “Every place you’ve visited in this country, Lucy, you made friends,” Joan said.

  “Every baby you burped, every orphan you hugged, each senior citizen with dementia whose hand you held and listened to their stories, over and over. You gained fans, but more importantly you won hearts,” Esmeralda said.

  “The people of Fredonia love you. They’re practically frothing at the mouth for you to be their new royal princess,” Cheryl held out the thermos. “Can I top anyone off?”

  Esmeralda held out her goblet.

  “Please,” Mr. Philips said.

  “Ditto,” Joan said.

  “Just a smidge.” I held out my glass as Cheryl made the rounds. “Because the citizens of Fredonia are dying for an American commoner from the south side of Chicago to be their Princess.” I took a drink. “They want Lucille Marie Trabbicio who says yeah instead of yes, could give a rat’s ass about soccer but knows American football stats and lies like a rug to someday be their Queen.”

  “They don’t care if their Princess swears on occasion or follows American football. Because they recognize your kindness. And your kindness is, well, it’s you—Lucille. Elizabeth has her own unique qualities,” Mr. Philips said. “But the people of Fredonia will never love her the way they love you.”

  “That’s the bad back pain killers talking,” I said.

  He sighed and shook his head. “I found a local chiropractor and I’m back to popping Advil and Tic-Tacs. I seriously think you should stay here in Fredonia.”

  “That’s crazy! Someone will find out. They’ll track down my fingerprints or find a connection to my past. The media will out me. It will be a freaking disaster.”

  “So what if they do? It won’t matter,” Esmeralda said. “There will be a ginormous news kerfuffle and then some vapid reporter will show you bottle-feeding abandoned kittens, followed by a news clip with your new royal baby at his or her christening. And after a week or two, all will be right with the world.”

  “But how can that be?” My hand flew to my heart. “Cristoph is a great guy. I seriously like him. He’s an amazing catch: gorgeous, funny and who wouldn’t want to be with him? Except for his ridiculous, playboy thing.” I wiped a few tears away. “But while I like him, I don’t love him and I’ll never love him. Because…”

  I thought of Nick on the plane as I dug my fingernails into his arm, as he held me while I trembled in fear. I remembered the first time we kissed in the park. I remembered making love with him in a feather bed in a chateau overlooking a mountain lake.

  “You could grow to love Cristoph.” Mr. Philips said. “Many people marry for friendship or political purposes. Over the course of years they grow to love each other. It’s not out of the question.”

  I shook my head. “It’s not possible, Mr. Philips. I’m in love with someone else.”

  “But you have a solid friendship with Cristoph,” Joan said. “You could be the perfect Fredonia royal couple. You’ll both have lovers on the side—that’s a given.”

  “Perhaps your lover would be Nick,” Cheryl said.

  I shook my head. “No way he would go for that.”

  “I’ve seen the way he looks at you,” Esmeralda said. “It’s not just lust.”

  “I don’t think he’d share me with another man. Especially not Cristoph.”

  “You’d just have to keep everything hush-hush. That is the royal way.” Mr. Philips pushed himself to standing, got stuck in an awkward position half way up and broke into a sweat.

  I stood in front of him and held out my hands. “Come on, Damp. I’ll help you up.”

  He smiled for a heartbeat, then winced. He took my hands and I hoisted him to standing. “Thank you,” he said. “Don’t leave Fredonia, Lucille. Stay here, marry Prince Cristoph and have the best life in the world with a million people who already adore you.”

  “Who adores you back in Chicago?” Cheryl asked.

  “Alida and Mateo. A few guys at MadDog. Mrs. Rosalie Santiago from Vail Assisted Living. My Uncle John—who I promised I’d never leave.”

  “Your Uncle John will be quietly relocated from Vail to The Retired Royalty Chateaux in Sauerhausen,” Esmeralda said.

  “He’ll live a life of luxury, convenience and have the best doctors at his disposal. You’ll be able to visit him whenever you like,” Joan said.

  I blinked. “But… But?”

  “Exactly.” Mr. Philips walked awkwardly down the short aisle toward the chapel’s entrance. He grimaced as he pushed the massive wooden doors open. A gust of chilly, autumn a
ir burst into the chapel, accompanied by a few jewel-colored leaves.

  “You’re leaving?” I asked.

  “You could have the best life in the entire world, here Lucille. But ultimately—it’s your decision to make.”

  I rubbed my temples. “I’m confused.”

  “I would be too if I were you,” Mr. Philips said. “On the other hand, if I were your parents? If God or St. Francis granted me one last wish before their motorcycle accident? I’d wish for you, my only daughter, a life of love and a life of ease. A life filled with less struggle and more possibilities. Because, Lucille, out of all the young women I have met in my life, you deserve a Happily-Ever-After. And I truly hope you find it.”

  The Ladies and I started crying. Joan passed around a packet of tissues as they dabbed their eyes. Esmeralda blew her nose loudly. “Allergies,” she said.

  I ran to Mr. Philips, Tulip prancing behind me on my heels. “I need to tell you thank you,” I said. “Thank you for taking a chance on me.”

  He nodded and smiled. “I hope I see you tomorrow at the Royal Cathedral wearing a long white dress with a veil resting gently over your beautiful face,” Mr. Philips said. Then he leaned in, hugged me for a moment, looked me square in the eyes and kissed me once—tenderly—on each cheek. “You are our knight-ress in shining armor, Lucille, after all. You—are our fucking one.” He turned and walked out of the church.

  “Stay, Lucy,” Cheryl said. “We love you. You’ll be a great Princess and a wonderful Queen some day. Please don’t go.”

  I glanced around at my Ladies’ faces: sincere, beautiful and hopeful.

  Tulip yipped at me and pawed my leg.

  Oh crap. What was a chick from the Southside of Chicago supposed to do?

  Well, this chick drove back to her ‘family’s Penthouse’, stayed up late with her Ladies-in-Waiting, ordered Chinese, played with her puppy and drank too much champagne as we watched reruns of I Love Lucy .