Finding Home

by B. E. Baker

  Most people spend their entire life doing whatever they can to avoid being outright rejected, but not me. I look failure in the face and say, hit me, please.

  I’m such an idiot.

  I wish Noel were here. He’d know just what to say. Of course, if he were here, I wouldn’t need any words of advice. He’d already be Dad’s Regent.

  As if I’ve entered the Twilight Zone, as if thinking about him summoned him here, piano music floats across the family room. It’s light, it’s mellow, it’s magnificent. It’s Noel, it has to be. No one else I’ve ever heard play sounded so balanced and simultaneously rich, like he had four hands with which to play instead of only two.

  Even the beats, the pauses, the rests between one note and the next are impeccable. Not too long, not too short.

  In a word: perfect.

  I should walk into the conservatory and see who’s playing. It has to be. . . My feet are moving, my heart in my throat. Beth is a hairdresser. She plays part-time at a restaurant. But it is Beth. She’s so engrossed in the song she’s playing that she doesn’t notice when I enter the room. I quietly take a seat. She plays three more songs before she sees me, jolts, and stops playing.

  We both spin around when we hear the clapping sounds coming from the foyer. The cooks, the chef, the housekeeper and her maids, and the butler are all gathered outside the door to the conservatory, but Dad’s standing in front of all of them, tears leaking down his cheeks. “I thought. . .”

  I close my eyes. I know exactly what he thought.

  “You sound so much like Noel,” Margaret says. “Thank you for playing such beautiful songs.”

  Beth stands up, her face white as snow. “I’m so sorry—Paisley told me it was fine if I worked on a few songs in here.”

  “Don’t apologize,” I say. “No one has played since Noel died, and I think we all missed it. More than we realized.”

  Beth gathers up the papers in front of her, sets them on the bench and practically bolts. But instead of heading upstairs toward her room, she beelines for the side door, toward the garden.

  “Someone should talk to her,” Dad says. “Don’t you think?”

  I’m already headed for the garden, weaving my way in between the various members of the staff who closed around her exit as if guarding her from paparazzi. “I’ve got it, Dad.”

  “Wonderful,” he says. “Because I have no idea what to say to the girl.”

  Neither do I, but at least she knows me a little. It takes me ten minutes to find her—because our lawn is far too large. I pass dozens of benches, but no Beth. I finally spot her, leaning against the base of a huge Elm tree, sitting cross-legged on the ground.

  “Hey there, Mozart.”

  She snorts. “Hardly.”

  “Mind if I sit?”

  “It’s your house.”

  “Well, technically it’s entailed, which means I’ll probably be tossed out—”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I circle the tree and slide down next to her, my back leaning against the same trunk. “You told me you played ‘back up’ piano.”

  “I do,” she says. “I cut hair.”

  I snort. “Sure, but what we heard in there.” I shake my head. “You are extremely talented. You should be, I don’t know, at Juilliard.”

  “I almost went,” she whispers.

  My head swivels around to face her. “I knew it. Why didn’t you?”

  She shrugs. “My GPA, uh, grade point average—”

  “I know what that is,” I say.

  “Well, it was kind of borderline and Juilliard made my acceptance contingent on receiving Bs in every class my last semester.”

  “And?”

  “I almost failed Algebra. I barely got a C—I wasn’t even close to a B.”

  I whistle. “Well, I won’t be hiring you to handle my accounting any time soon, but that was a big mistake on their part.”

  “Yeah.” She leans her head back against the stump, her eyes looking into the branches above. “Juilliard is probably still reeling from the loss of Beth Graham.”

  It’s a little dark, but her humor is solid.

  “It’s fine, though. I mean, if I’d gone, I wouldn’t have been around when my brother came back from the war. Or when my dad nearly lost the car dealerships. Or when my sister Jennifer had a baby—she had a really tough six months after her first son was born, and I stayed with her to help with the nighttime feedings. I would have missed all of that if I’d been a little better at math.”

  “But you would have been brilliant at Juilliard. I’ve never seen the entire staff quit working and stand around listening to music, not in my entire life.”

  “It reminded them all of Noel, that’s all. Which is exactly why I haven’t been practicing there,” she says. “But I had a few ideas and wanted to try them a few times before playing in front of people.” Her laugh sounds almost strangled. “Backfire. I ended up playing my songs for the first time for the Prince of Liechtenstein.”

  “I’m not a prince,” I say. “Not unless an awful lot of people are swayed enough by delicious cake that they decide to change a law that’s centuries old.”

  She smirks. “I was talking about your dad. Not everything is about you, Cole of Liechtenstein. I should congratulate you, though. I don’t remember my adoption day, but I imagine it felt pretty good.”

  “You’re right about that.” I can’t even describe how it feels, not in a way that will make sense. “But it almost makes it harder.”

  “What?”

  “Knowing that I could basically be booted from this house, the house my dad owns, at any time, it felt fine. I mean, I wasn’t even his son, not really. But now I am, and it feels more unfair to me. I resent it more than I did last week.”

  “Booted? But only if he dies, right?”

  I grin. “Maybe you should pack your bags. Our eviction notice could arrive any time.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “But in all seriousness, Dad’s been sick. He could die at any time, really.”

  Beth gasps. “He’s sick?” She licks her lips. “I noticed he doesn’t seem to see very well.”

  “His eyesight has been breaking down for a while now, but it’s his heart that’s life threatening.”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” She glances at her knees. “But maybe that’s one of the reasons he decided to do this. So you would know, even after he was gone, that you were his. That he loved you.”

  “I’ve always known that,” I say.

  “But now you know it.” Beth looks up at me, her impossibly long lashes framing the biggest, darkest brown eyes I’ve ever seen.

  She may be the first person I’ve ever met who really understands how I feel. As if I’m being drawn by a bungee cord, my head ducks. Lower. Lower.

  Her face doesn’t waver, but she inhales and her lips part, infinitesimally. Which, of course, draws my eyes. I know that I shouldn’t kiss her, my sister’s American friend. She’s too young, she would never move to Liechtenstein, and she’s so American. Especially if I want to rule here, I should not be involved with an American.

  Dad spent twenty minutes last night telling me that Franz’s marriage to an American was our best weapon in this fight.

  But I don’t care about any of that, not right now, not while Beth’s looking up at me with those eyes and that mouth. I wrap one arm around her and lift her toward me as my head lowers the few inches that still separate us.

  And our lips touch.

  Hers warm, soft, full. Mine hungry, desperate, urgent. She tastes like strawberry shortcake and sunlight. Her body curls toward mine naturally, her head tipping up, her lashes fluttering down, and I forget everything else. The House Law, the dynasts, my job in Antwerp, my brother Noel, none of it hurts, none of it worries me, not right now. There are only Beth’s smooth arms, Beth’s inviting mouth, and Beth’s smooth cheek beneath my fingertips.

  “Looks like he cheered her up,” Holly says.


  Beth springs away from me like a birdshot blast in hunting season, sprawling backward onto the manicured lawn. Holly and James are laughing so hard I’m worried they’ll suffocate.

  If they don’t, I might take care of it myself.

  9

  Beth

  I scramble to my feet as quickly as possible. I’m sure that the back of my khaki slacks is now covered with grass stains, so I make sure to face Paisley and her husband directly. “That was. . . I mean, we were. . .” I swallow. “I wasn’t upset to begin with. I’m fine.” I glance down at my watch. What excuse can I give to escape? Then I can either sink into the ground forever, or I can pretend this never happened. I’ll place even odds on both. “Oh wow, I didn’t realize how late it was. I need to call my sister Christine. She had some questions for me.” About what? I’m such an idiot. “Hair emergency.”

  I should spin on my heel and run away, but then they’ll see the grass stains I’m positive are spread across my bum.

  “You can call her out here,” Paisley says, her eyes still sparkling. “We’ll give you some privacy.” Her eyes sparkle with suppressed mirth.

  Cole stands up and brushes off his pants. “We certainly will.” He glares at Paisley.

  Some kind of bizarre nonverbal communication takes place between the two of them, and then Paisley takes James’ hand in her own. “We better head inside. If I don’t eat some crackers soon, all those hors d’oeuvres might come right back up.”

  James and Paisley walk away, their shoulders still shaking, Paisley still glancing over her shoulder intermittently. Still, they give a reasonable approximation of leaving us alone.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I know that was. . .” Actually I have no idea what it was.

  Cole steps closer.

  My heart hammers in my chest. I like him way, way too much.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” His voice is low, gruff.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “I mean, obviously I enjoyed it.”

  He clears his throat. “Me too. I’ve been thinking about that for longer than I—you aren’t sticking around here, and I am, at least for now, and—”

  “Paisley already told me that the family sort of freaked out when your Uncle Franz married his wife.”

  His eyes widen. “It’s not because she’s black,” he says, “or because she was born in Puerto Rico or didn’t have a title.”

  I sigh. “I know. It’s because she was American.”

  He laughs. “I mean, yes and no. We love America, we really do. We love Germany and Switzerland too. But for so long, the monarchs in our family sort of eschewed Liechtenstein, so the people here are a little wary of anyone who doesn’t have roots here. It wasn’t long ago that we used Swiss judges to adjudicate our own disputes.”

  “I didn’t realize that.” I can see how dating an American would be. . . complicated. Even if you weren’t sort of campaigning to get chosen to be a prince.

  “Which, you know, wouldn’t have mattered to me two weeks ago. Or even three days ago.”

  “Before you were trying to convince fifty-five snooty dynasts that you’re fit to take over for your dad.”

  “Fifty-three.” His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. “But yes, basically that’s right.”

  “I totally understand,” I say. “You don’t need to worry about it. I’m leaving in like three more days.”

  He nods.

  “So, still friends?”

  He smiles. “I certainly hope so, and I’ll talk to Holly to make sure she’s not going to be idiotic about it.” His eyes light up as though he’s recalled something he forgot. “The whole reason I came out here was to make sure you know that we appreciated the piano music. You are welcome, very welcome, to play at any time. It has been. . . missed. Please don’t worry about everyone’s response. It’s just that you played so well that it filled some kind of empty hole none of us knew we had.”

  “Thanks,” I say, “but I doubt I’ll need to play again.”

  He frowns. “Aren’t you supposed to be practicing for the tour?”

  “I’ve actually been doing plenty of that.” It’s a good thing my fingers are used to playing for long stretches, or I’d nearly have played my fingers raw in the last few days.

  “How do you mean?” Cole asks.

  “Do you remember Jostli, the owner of the Hotel Adler?”

  Cole’s eyebrows draw together. “I do.”

  “He’s sort of paying me to play for meals over at his hotel’s restaurant. With the hotel closed right now for some kind of remodeling issue, it’s been really helpful for them to have the extra patrons that live music brings.”

  “You’ve been playing there?”

  I can’t quite help the smile that curls the side of my mouth. “And singing. It has been really fun. The people here are so kind.”

  “When do you play next?”

  “I’ve been doing lunch, but Paisley’s mom wanted some help with the shower plans earlier, so today I’m supposed to leave in a few minutes to play for dinner.”

  “I’d love to come listen,” Cole says.

  “Uh, I’d prefer you not. . .”

  I hate seeing the hurt look in his remarkable green eyes.

  “It’s not personal, but I don’t really know any of the people who come, and that keeps me from stressing about playing and singing.”

  “Playing for me would make you nervous?” Now he’s smiling.

  “Not usually,” I say, “but I’ve been playing my own songs and my own lyrics. It’s different somehow.”

  “Well, I’m not giving up,” Cole says. “I’d still like to hear you, but if you want your first dinner to be lower stress, that’s fine.”

  “Thanks.” I head back for the palace.

  Cole falls into step beside me. “I hope he’s paying you well.”

  “Better than I deserve, I assure you,” I say. “He’s paying me close to double what I make for the same thing back home and playing my own stuff is much more fun than doing covers all the time.”

  “As long as it’s fair.”

  “Although, I probably shouldn’t admit that it’s in cash. Does that mean I need to report my earnings here? Will you hand me in to the authorities now that you know?”

  Cole rolls his eyes. “I might let it slide, just this once.”

  Once we reach the palace, I head upstairs to change, and Cole leaves for some kind of meeting with the Prime Minister. I’m on my way upstairs when I see his Range Rover circling around the palace and down the hill. I understand why he can’t pursue anything with me, but it still sucks. My fingers brush against my mouth, remembering our kiss.

  The best kiss I’ve ever had. Times ten.

  I’m glad I have a job to do today so I can’t moon around the rest of the night. And tomorrow I play at lunch again, and then I have the baby shower. Then just one more day and I’ll be heading back to Frankfurt. I’m pretty sure. I text Henrietta and Uwe to make sure nothing has changed.

  Uwe replies a few moments later with the details of when and where I should report.

  I change clothes, putting on the black dress I wore the first night here. Since I’m performing for a dinner crowd, I figure I should look my best.

  When I walk downstairs, Paisley tosses me her keys with a half smile. “You sure you don’t want Cole to give you a ride?”

  “Why would she need that?” her mom asks. “It’s barely more than a mile away and he’s not even here.”

  “No reason,” Paisley says. “Good luck!”

  “Thanks.” I glare at Paisley over my shoulder on the way out, and she winks. When I slide across the buttery black leather of her Mercedes, I worry it might ruin me for my eight-year-old Honda Civic when I go back home. A girl can get used to living in a palace and driving like a princess. I’ve also grown accustomed to simply driving down the mountain and around the corner and easily pulling into any spot, but when I arrive today, the little circle is already packed. I end up parking on the s
treet two blocks away, which stinks since my heels aren’t low. I wonder what’s going on—or maybe Sundays are just busy days around here.

  When I arrive, every table is already packed—inside and out. My eyes widen. “What’s going on?”

  Hannah waves me back, her smile sly.

  “Is there some kind of special event?” I ask.

  “You’re the special event,” she says in German. “Word of your playing has spread and many people have been making reservations. Jostli has hired four new servers, and two new cooks to keep up. He wants you to stick around.”

  I blink. “My German isn’t very good. Can you repeat that? I think I misunderstood.”

  But when she repeats herself, I realize that I didn’t misunderstand.

  “They’re all here. . . because of me?”

  Jostli strides toward us. “All because of you!” His voice booms, his grin almost painfully wide. “And I need to know how to keep you here. I think I can expand. Move the parking lot a few streets away and make my courtyard bigger. During the winter, we’ll put heaters on the patio. It’ll be lovely.” His English is definitely better than my German, so I’m grateful he always switches to English with me.

  I shake my head. “I can’t stay. I live in America, and I’m only here because I’m going on tour—”

  “With Henrietta Gauvón, I know, I know.” Jostli spits on the ground. “I hate Henrietta Gauvón.”

  I laugh. “You don’t, but I appreciate the compliment. I already told you that I can be here for lunch tomorrow, and then maybe one more performance the day after, and then I have to leave.”

  He sighs. “If you don’t like that tour, you can come back here. Yes?”

  “No, I have two jobs and a family back home! In Atlanta, Georgia.” I look around at the gathered crowd. “I do love it here, and I’m delighted that everyone enjoys my music. In fact, I wrote a song today about Liechtenstein. The people, the mountains, the genuine warmth, all of it. I am so grateful that you’ve all come to listen to me.”