by B. E. Baker
None of them know I almost went to Juilliard, before I screwed it up.
They have no expectations of me, so they aren’t disappointed either. I pull out the songs Stephanie wants me to start with—classical pieces so that the guests can focus on their dinner conversation. I don’t start playing the fun songs until after eight, and requests don’t begin until nine. I fumble a bit on the first few songs, distracted every time someone new walks in, but eventually I lose myself in the music. Which is good—I can’t be bumbling around in front of my mother, the famous singer.
When I take my break at eight, I check with Peter, the host for tonight. “Has anyone said they were here for me?”
He shakes his head. “You’re expecting someone?”
A frog in my throat keeps me from explaining. I nod. “Henrietta is her name.”
“Cool,” he says. “I’ll save a table close to the piano.”
“Thanks.” I spend the rest of the break googling my mom. She’s a lot more famous than I realized. She started with opera and only branched out into pop music about a decade ago. She’s worth quite a bit of money, and she’s about to go back on tour for her new album, Sagenhaft. It won’t be released here for another eleven days, so I can’t listen to any of the songs yet.
But when I listen to one of her other albums, I realize why I recognized her name—she always has a pianist accompanying her. I’ve even played some of her songs. I had one piano teacher who adored her music. I scroll frenetically through one interview after another. In one, she mentions falling in love with the depth of the piano when she sang opera. I’m scanning through an interview about her new album when Stephanie taps my shoulder.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m about to start again.”
“Peter wanted me to tell you that your friend came,” she says. “And I have to say, she’s really stunning. Who is she, and is she single?”
I almost laugh. My boss likes my mom? “Um, I don’t think she’s gay.” Although, I guess you never know.
“Pity.” Stephanie walks away.
My eyes sweep the area until they stop on a tall, thin woman with long, wavy curls that fall halfway down her back. Which is much more dramatic because her fire engine red sheath dress is backless. And unlike me, her skin is nearly bronze. But when she meets my eyes and smiles, her dark brown eyes crinkle up just like mine.
She lifts her hand at me, and I reach for the piano keys. And I play like I’ve never played before—smoother, more easily, as if her presence somehow boosts my natural ability. Somehow she focuses me on what I could always do.
When Stephanie announces that we’re open for requests, I’m not even nervous. That means I only have another hour to play before I can talk to my real mother, face to face, for the first time in my life. My fingers fly over the keys, note perfect. And when I finish “Piano Man,” for the second time, and I realize it’s four minutes after ten, I stand up and curtsy. “Thank you for being such a gracious audience tonight.”
For the first time since I began playing here, nearly every guest claps. They clap and clap. Just when I’m worried they’re going to demand an encore, from a stupid background piano gig, the applause tapers off.
Thank goodness.
I sling my bag over my shoulders and walk the fifteen feet that separate me from Henrietta. “Hi,” I say, suddenly unaccountably shy.
“That was beautiful performance,” she says. “Please, sit. I order food for you, too. Your very nice boss told me you are finished at ten.”
I glance at the plate on the table—filet with a béarnaise sauce. My very favorite, and somehow she just knew. “That’s the best thing on the menu,” I say. “Thank you so much.”
She grins, displaying beautiful, pearly white teeth. “I don’t eat meat, but your boss tells me is your favorite thing.”
Wow, she’s vegetarian? She must really care about animals. I feel a little guilty eating the filet in front of her, but not too guilty. After all, I don’t want to waste it. “Well, thank you.”
I sit across from her and realize that since she’s not eating, I look and sound like a slobbery bull in a china shop. “Uh, did you already eat?”
Henrietta smiles. “I don’t eat a lot.”
Of course she doesn’t. She looks like she weighs under a hundred pounds. Holy wow. I must have a good twenty-five pounds on her at least. “Oh. Well, that’s impressive. I eat all the time.”
“You look very active. I’m sure that’s perfect.”
“Thanks,” I say. “So what did you think? It was a little stressful, knowing that my famous musician bio-mom was watching me play.”
“Your playing is absolutely stunning,” she says. “I was very impressed. I wish I could play half so well.”
Heat rises in my cheeks. “That means a lot coming from you. But of course, I can’t sing anywhere near as well as you can. I mean, no one really can.”
She turns her hundred-watt smile on me, and my heart soars. “I am so happy I took the chance to meet you. I was nervous to call, and I hope your parents will not be upset.”
“Please.” I shake my head. “I’m an adult. Besides, they’re really supportive. I’m sure they won’t care.”
She lifts her eyebrows. “I requested to talk to you several times over the years, but they always declined. I finally hired a professional to search for you.”
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, but I can’t tell her that. Not here, not now. I blink a few times. “Um, well, they’re pretty protective, but I’m sure they’ll be happy we’ve met. You know, since I’m twenty-five years old. Besides, it’s not like you need their permission anymore.”
“I am happy to see how musical you are. Do your parents play or sing?”
I shake my head. “I’m the only musician in the family. Both my parents are practically tone deaf.”
She frowns. “That’s too bad. Do they still support you?”
“Of course they do, all the time. With all of it.”
“Good. Many people do not understand the life or heart of an artist.”
My heart lurches a bit. “They don’t always get it, but my mom likes to sew and that’s similar.” Sort of.
“Sew?”
“She takes fabric and makes it into clothing.”
Henrietta’s mouth turns down slightly, her lips compressing.
“But tell me about you! Your new album! Your tour, all of it. You’re so fascinating.”
She talks about her inspiration for her new songs, the irritating woman at her record label, her amazing manager. I barely blink, and I realize Parker’s is closing.
“I am so glad you called me,” I say.
Henrietta sighs. “Me as well. I only wish we had more time.”
I nod my head vigorously. “Me too. Can you extend your stay at all?”
“Unfortunately, I can’t. My tour starts soon, and I’m only traveling because. . . for a press engagement. I had a layover here when I heard that you were living here. I extended the layover, but I must leave tomorrow at the latest.”
“I read about that online,” I say.
“Ah,” she says. “Well, my manager told me yesterday that my pianist is pregnant and quite ill. He’s working to find a replacement, but. . . after hearing you tonight, perhaps you would like to take the position. Would you be interested in joining me on tour?”
The pianist for my internationally acclaimed mother? Going on a European tour that runs all summer? Uh, yes. A million times yes.
The ramifications of such a decision crowd around me—my chair at the salon, Brekka’s high-risk pregnancy, the part-time gig here that I only recently landed. I’d have to give up my chair, I’d lose my spot here, but. . .
Going on tour with a real celebrity, who also happens to be my mother. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I already blew one of those. Most people don’t get a second one.
“I would love to,” I say. “Yes.”
2
Cole
The castle in which I live is not a home, not for me.
Unlike my brother Noel, I’m no prince. My mom married the Hereditary Prince of Liechtenstein, Hans-Michael, when I was only three years old. I started calling him Dad almost immediately, but that didn’t make it true. My father was from Belgium, and my mom didn’t cry at his funeral for very good reasons.
We were both better off without him.
Mom’s second marriage improved our lives in every single way, but it also threw my life down a different path. I’ve spent the past thirty years pretending to be someone I’m not, and in the last few years, the disconnect between my daily life and the reality of my future has only deepened. As Dad’s eyesight worsened, more and more of his tasks fell to me. I met with the Foundation, directing distributions and investments. I appointed judges. I reviewed new laws with the Landtag, and reviewed their enforcement with the National Committee. I approved budgets and refused outrageous requests.
But I am still not a Prince of Liechtenstein.
I’m the Marquis of Béthune of Belgium, son of Gerard, the last Marquis of Béthune. I may not remember Gerard, but that’s my legacy. No matter how many years I live in this palace, or serve the local people, I’ll never be a prince. I’ll never be a member of the Princely House of Liechtenstein.
Which is why I’m telling Mom and Dad tonight that I’m moving to one of my father’s residences—a townhome in Antwerp. From there I’ll work at a new position I’ve found at a bank, Argenta, and I’ll monitor my family estate. The fancy house where I actually belong—the Château Solvay in Walloon Brabant, Belgium. Mom, especially, is not going to be pleased. She always insists that where we are, the royal palace in Vaduz, is my home. Your home is at my side, she says every time I bring it up. But she won’t be here forever, and I’m far too old to follow my mother around.
If I’m being honest, I’ve been too old for quite some time.
The last decade was hard on my family—one hit after another. My little brother Noel died ten years ago, and our world crumbled. Shortly after that, my little sister Holly fled the wreckage, leaving me to hold things together while Mom and Dad slowly recovered. I had recently graduated from college, and I should’ve been headed to New York City to work for Chase Bank, but I returned home instead. It made sense for me to step in to help. After all, I was older, wiser, and more equipped to pick up Mom and Dad’s slack than my eighteen-year-old sister.
I let Holly run and hide without resenting her departure.
The banking scandal hit, and I weathered it. When Dad’s health deteriorated, first his eyesight and then his heart, I finally begged Holly to come back. But in the last year, I’ve realized that while she might have run away initially, Holly stopped running and put down roots for herself in Atlanta. She grew and stretched. She’s happy. Watching my sister seize her life, find her joy, and blossom, well, it made me happy, but it also made me sad. It threw the differences between our lives into sharp relief.
I’m still treading water alone.
And no matter what I do, how hard I train, how much work I accomplish, if I continue, the end result is that I will drown here. I have no future where I am. The Princely House of Liechtenstein is a patrilineal dynasty, so I can’t ever take over for Dad and neither can Holly. We’ll be ousted from this palace the second he dies. Mom and Dad have done an amazing job of pretending it’s not true, but it doesn’t change the facts.
My sister and her husband James flew in today for one of their biannual visits, so Mom and Dad should be in an excellent mood. My timing in announcing my impending departure couldn’t be more perfect. Now that my dad can’t drive, he had his car titled in Holly’s name. Their flight was delayed, but Lars dropped the car off at the airport earlier so it was ready when they arrived, even an hour and a half late. I stand by Mom and watch as Dad’s Mercedes AMG pulls around the bend and rolls through the gate. It would have been just as easy to pick them up, but I think Mom likes the idea of Holly having her own car here, as if it might make her more likely to stay.
Holly waves at the guards as James maneuvers the car around the bend and into the garage. My sweet little sister has always effortlessly charmed everyone around her. No matter how angry I would become that she had left me to handle everything, as soon as she smiled her lopsided grin and stretched her arms out toward me, my anger evaporated.
Mom, Dad, and I race from the parlor window, through the entry hall, and around the corner into the garage, crowding onto the top step in the garage as they pull in. I let Mom and Dad bask in Holly for a moment before grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her tightly against my chest. “Welcome home.”
Judging from her squeak, I might have squeezed her a little too tightly.
“It’s great to be here.” Holly trots through the door into the coatroom and then walks past it into the main hallway.
Lars grabs Holly’s suitcase to haul it upstairs. He reaches for the handle of James’ too, but James steps away from him, yanking his bag away as if to protect it.
I love Americans. “He’s just going to carry it upstairs for you,” I explain.
“I can do that myself,” James says. “I don’t want to impose.”
“It’s kind of his job,” Mom says. “You wouldn’t want to put him out of work, would you?”
James’ eyes widen, and he releases his black roller bag. Lars takes it gratefully and disappears.
Mom walks toward the sitting room, and we all follow.
“I’m so happy to be here in the spring this year,” Holly says.
Liechtenstein in the spring truly is breathtaking.
“Atlanta’s already muggy—in May,” James says. “It makes the Brazilian rainforests seem arid.”
Holly rolls her eyes. “We have been missing New York pretty hard core lately.”
“Hard what?” my mom asks.
“It means he has been wishing he was in New York,” Dad says, beaming with pride that he’s able to interpret American for my mostly English-fluent mother.
Mom frowns. “Oh. Are you considering moving back?”
James wraps an arm around my sister’s shoulders. “Nope. We’re happy with Atlanta, even if we don’t both love the humidity. People matter more than the climate, after all.”
Mom’s eyebrows rise at the perceived slight. After all, Holly’s family is here, not in Atlanta, but Dad takes her hand in his and Mom’s shoulders relax a hair. “Well, you’re just in time for dinner. I’m glad your flight wasn’t delayed. You know how slimy the asparagus gets when it sits under a warmer.”
Oh good, we’ve devolved to discussing food and the weather. Holly’s visit is supposed to make my announcement easier, not harder. “How has married life been?” I ask, trying to steer us back on track.
“They’ve been married for nearly six months,” Dad says. “I should hope they’re settling in at this point.”
Holly shoots me a relieved look. “We’re figuring it out,” she says. “I survived another tax season, and James has set up an office in Atlanta and moved most of his management team out here. He only spends about a week every month in the New York office, and another week traveling to various locations. Otherwise, he’s home with me.”
Dad smiles. “Is the Vaduz office opening next?”
“Well,” James says, “I haven’t—”
“He’s kidding,” I say.
James exhales heavily. “Oh. Right.” He forces a laugh.
I almost feel sorry for him. Our family isn’t exactly easygoing or simple. He definitely has his hands full.
“Let’s eat,” Mom says. “And then we can hammer out the details of an itinerary for your visit.”
“I need a minute,” Holly says.
“Of course,” Mom says. “Let’s convene in the dining room in five minutes, then.”
James and Holly head upstairs. I dart up after them and grab Holly’s arm before she ducks into her room.
“Is everything okay?” she asks.
James turn
s back, his eyebrows raised.
She waves him inside. “I’ll be right in.”
“I needed to talk to you for a second,” I say.
“It’s nothing epic, right?” She hops from one foot to the other. “Because that was a long flight, and I really need to pee.”
Pee? I laugh. She’s more American every day. “I just wanted to warn you. I’m planning to tell Dad and Mom that I’m taking a job for Argenta and moving to Antwerp. I didn’t want to broadside you—but it seems like even now that you’re married, you have no intention of returning home.”
She shakes her head.
“I figure Dad may as well start transitioning things to Uncle Franz.”
“Sounds smart to me,” she says. “Although the idea of transitioning because Dad won’t be alive much longer is super depressing.”
“It’s less about that,” I say, “and more that he can’t possibly complete the tasks required of the Prince without me here to do them.”
Holly’s eyes widen. “Oh, Cole, you’ve put your life on hold long enough.”
“I’ll come back to manage the Distribution,” he says. “And of course you and I will jointly own Berg Telecom. That won’t change. You’ll inherit half of Dad’s share and I’ll inherit half, so you’ll own sixty-five percent to my thirty-five.”
“Cole, I don’t care about any of that.”
Don’t I know it.
Her face falls. “I didn’t mean it like that. I want to help out more, and I’m delighted we’ll be doing this together. I’m just saying that we may as well own it fifty-fifty.”
“You gave your entire trust to save it.” I swallow. A trust that held twice what mine did, thanks to Noel leaving everything he owned to her. Because he loved her so much more than me. Which makes sense. They were full siblings. “You should own more.”
Holly laughs. “Oh, Cole. Neither of us needs money.”
“You’re right. It’s not about that.” And honestly, she should probably inherit the entire thing. It has always been run by the Prince of Liechtenstein.