by Amy DeLuca
Some of them visited Newport for only a few short weeks in summer, as the Wessex family did. Others were year-round stalwarts of the Newport old guard, America’s ruling class still presiding over one of the country’s very first playgrounds of the rich and famous.
“Patton, pull over here, would you?”
The driver did as Alex requested. “It’s off season,” he said. “The club will be closed.”
“I know. I just want to… look at something.” Alex got out with a quick, “Be right back.”
As Patton had warned, the club’s buildings were closed, but Alex stepped onto the beach and walked toward the water.
Painful-sweet memories flooded his brain like the rising tide washing in. This place contained the most beautiful—and most painful—memories of his life.
Like seagulls swooping and pecking at a sandwich dropped in the sand, they came at him, taking sharp bites from his heart with each pass.
Cinda’s long, blonde hair whipping in the sea breeze.
Her laughter carried on the wind.
Their tanned bare feet, leaving prints side by side in the damp sand.
Those prints washing away with the gentle surf, disappearing as if they’d never existed.
Alex ran a hand through his hair, tipping his head back and staring up at the clouds forming above.
What am I doing here?
There was no point in this other than to torture himself. He’d seen far more beautiful views and spent time in places that put this one to shame—one of the privileges of being born into a royal family.
What had made this spot special was her. And she was gone. She hadn’t wanted him. Without her, it was nothing but sad.
Maybe he’d wanted to prove to himself that none of it had been real, that the powerful feelings he associated with Newport had been nothing but an overgrown boy’s flight of fancy.
But if comfort was what he’d been seeking, Alex certainly hadn’t found it here today.
If duty didn’t compel him to stay in town and receive his new fiancée and her family next week, he’d ask Patton to drive him back to the airport. Instead, he forced himself to leave the husks of old memories behind and slipped into the back seat without a word.
“Did you find what you were looking for, son?” Patton asked as he pulled back onto the road.
“No.” Alex sighed. “It’s gone. Let’s go home.”
Three
Dust and Ashes
The distance from Cinda’s company office in Newport’s business district to the Wessex mansion on Bellevue Avenue was only a few miles, but the drive always felt like crossing dimensions.
She gazed out the windshield of her nine-year-old Honda Civic, taking in the International Tennis Hall of Fame and the posh shops marking the beginning of the most famous street in the “City By The Sea.”
The short stretch of commercial properties gave way to the residential section of Bellevue Avenue where acres of immaculate landscaping, stone walls, large old-growth trees, elegant brick and iron estate fencing, and the crests of mega mansions peeking over tall privacy hedges served to remind everyone of the distance between the “haves” and the “have nots.”
Every once in a while, there was a clear view of one of the mansions, and the plentiful tourists who walked up and down the sidewalks stopped to take photos in front of The Elms, which was built during the Gilded Age by coal baron Edwin Julius Berwind, or Marble House, one of three Newport mansions built by the Vanderbilt family.
Those and several other magnificent homes owned by Gilded Age industrialists had been donated to the Newport Preservation Society years ago.
Now they were open for tours as museums and were the top tourist attractions in the country’s smallest state.
The private homes, like the one owned by the Wessex family, tended to be set farther back from the road and secluded, though Cinda was aware of who lived in some of them.
She passed one owned by Jack Bestia, the famous fantasy author, whose bestselling Onyx Throne series had been made into a wildly popular TV show.
His new next-door neighbor was the current heavyweight champion of the world, Sullivan Reece, though Cinda had heard the boxer was rarely in town because of his training and fight schedule. She’d been meaning to reach out and offer her company’s services and made a mental note to do that tomorrow.
A few houses down stood a massive stone mansion that had been subdivided into five large condominiums and was currently being rented out by the founders of a new software company that had recently gone global, making millionaires, if not billionaires, of all of them. The locals had dubbed it “Billionaire Bachelor House.”
Reaching Palais du Soleil, as the Wessexes’ European styled home was called, Cinda pulled up to its ornate iron gates and punched in the security code, driving forward when they swung inward. Parked in the circular drive in front of the house was the Fairy Godmother Home Cleaning Service van with its rosy-cheeked animated namesake painted on the side panels and rear doors.
She parked behind it and went through the mansion’s tall wooden front door into the dramatic entry hall with its black and white marble flooring and direct view out to one of the home’s back terraces and garden temple.
Katy was working in the library, wiping down the imported European wall paneling. She looked over her shoulder when Cinda entered the room, sagging in relief and probably exhaustion.
“Oh thank goodness you’re here,” she said. “There was no way we were going to make it. I even made the girls turn off their music so they’d concentrate and work faster.”
Cinda gave her a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure they loved that. Where are they?”
“I’ve got Renata cleaning the chandelier crystals in the dining room, and Christina is working on the floor-to-ceiling windows in there. We’ve already changed the linens in the master suite and the six guest bedrooms, but they need to be vacuumed, and the fireplaces still need to be done. We haven’t even started on the kitchen. All that china in the china room will need to be washed by hand, not to mention all those glass-front cabinets.”
She sounded panicked, and Cinda patted her arm. “We’re going to make it. I promise. I won’t leave till it’s done. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”
“You’re a saint,” Katy called after her. “It’s a good thing you’re not one of those sit-in-your-office-on-your-tuckus kind of bosses.”
“No way. Cleaning is my cardio,” Cinda joked and heard Katy’s laughter echoing down the hallway.
Unfortunately, sitting in the office for some of the day was part of running a company, but Cinda made a point of getting out and cleaning alongside her employees on a regular basis. It was good for morale as well as giving her the opportunity to do a little quality control and remind herself of what they were dealing with every day out there in the trenches.
Not that the homes they serviced were unpleasant. On the contrary, most of them were pretty spectacular.
Back when Cinda had been a kid working for her father’s cleaning company, most of his clients had been small businesses and modestly sized homes, owned by the working-class residents of Newport, like her family.
The only connection they’d ever had to the upper echelon was the contract Dad had signed the summer Cinda turned twenty-four with the Spouting Rock Beach Association, more commonly known as Bailey’s Beach.
In spite of the fact his company was doing well, and he could easily afford to pay other workers to do it, he’d put Cinda and her younger stepsisters to work cleaning the cabanas and the pavilion, much to her stepmother’s dismay.
“We should be facilitating friendships for my girls with the sons of the rich club members,” she’d protested. “… not turning them into their servants.”
“Good honest work never hurt anyone,” her father had replied calmly.
Of course, Cinda’s stepmother Julia claimed it was all that work that had sent her father to an early grave. That summer had been his last.
He’d died of a sudden heart attack, and Julia, who’d inherited his business but had no interest in actual work, had run it into the ground within only a few months, losing that lucrative contract and declaring bankruptcy.
It had taken Cinda many years—and a lot of convincing of some of those same wealthy club members—to claw her way into some semblance of success with the Fairy Godmother business she’d started.
Instead of resurrecting the rather basic name of her dad’s company—Joseph’s Housekeeping—she’d named it after her mother’s favorite fairy tale, Cinderella.
No glass slippers for this girl. Cinda chuckled to herself as she walked through the butler’s pantry and into the china room off the kitchen.
Wow. Definitely going to be a long night.
Katy hadn’t been kidding about the china. The place settings seemed endless, the cabinets holding them stretching up to the ceiling. Just the glass fronts of the cabinets would take a couple hours to clean, and the number of windows and mirrors in the formally decorated home would require gallons of glass cleaner to polish and shine.
When the girls finished in the dining room, they took over for Cinda on china duty while she cleaned out the fireplaces then went upstairs to vacuum and tackle the master bathroom.
Boy did the superrich enjoy their wood paneling. It stretched from floor to very high ceiling in the bathroom and even lined the outside of the tub surround.
After working for hours, Cinda finally finished the upstairs. She checked her watch and realized AJ’s bedtime was drawing near.
Shoot. It was late. She wasn’t going to make it home in time to see him and say his bedtime prayers with him before he went to sleep.
She headed downstairs to check on her employees and to retrieve her purse with her phone inside so she could at least call and say goodnight.
On the way downstairs, Cinda pulled cobwebs from her hair and wiped her hands on her uniform, which now that she looked at it, was none too clean. These old houses tended to get very dusty when not in use.
She’d also splashed herself pretty well when cleaning the deep bathtub, so the dust and ash on her clothing had become mud in some spots. Oh well, the only person she’d be spending time with tonight was Jon Snow, and he wasn’t likely to complain.
The sound of the front door opening startled her. The shock multiplied exponentially when she heard a male voice. A very rich, deep, cultured voice, with a distinct accent.
Cinda froze on the stairs, her heart pounding like a trapped rabbit as the owner of that voice thanked someone for driving him and stepped into the entry hall.
He was tall, dark blond, incredibly handsome. His fit body was encased in a perfectly tailored suit that looked like it had cost more than her two-bedroom house.
Though the last time she’d seen him he was wearing nothing but swim trunks and a swipe of zinc oxide on his nose, Cinda recognized the man instantly.
Alex.
Her brain screamed at her legs to turn around and run up the stairs like the mythical character in that fairy tale. But she couldn’t move. She was in shock.
She’d never expected to see her first love again anywhere—and certainly not here.
What on earth was he doing, walking into the home of Aubernesse’s ruling family like he owned the place?
Oh. No.
This couldn’t be happening.
Four
Thank You for Your Business
“Honey, I’m home,” Alex joked as he stepped through the front door then immediately regretted it.
No one was expecting him to arrive until tomorrow. He’d probably just scared the wits out of the cleaning crew. If he took a broom handle to the kneecaps for arriving without warning, he’d deserve it.
No one was immediately in sight, but Alex knew they were still here. There were vehicles parked in the drive, and he smelled the homey scents of lemon cleaner and fresh laundry. He took a few more steps into the foyer, wondering if he should call out again and identify himself before someone summoned the police.
And then he looked up.
Perched on the white marble stairs, at about the midway point, was one of the cleaning ladies. Her uniform was filthy, her shoulder-length blonde hair bedraggled.
Smeared on her forehead and nose was—what was that? Soot? She must have been terrified because her eyes were wide, the whites standing out starkly against her smudged face.
“Hello,” Alex said, holding up his hands, palms forward in the surrender pose. “There’s no need to be alarmed. I’m not actually an intruder. This is my house… or rather, my family’s home. I’m Alexander Wessex.”
The woman said nothing. Perhaps she didn’t understand English? Alex repeated himself in Spanish, all the while drawing closer to the foot of the staircase. With each step he took forward, she backed up a step.
“It’s okay,” Alex assured in a gentle voice. “I live here. I won’t hurt you.”
Her chest rose and fell in a rapid rhythm as she continued to stare. Finally, she spoke.
“You already did.”
Alex felt as if he’d been struck on the back with a two by four. All the air left his lungs in a gust.
That voice. He’d know it anywhere. And now, under all the smudges and grime, he recognized her face.
“Cinda? Is that you?”
“Hello Alex,” she said, her stoic tone matching her grave expression.
A powerful rush of emotions made Alex’s legs weak. His heart was clawing its way up his windpipe, hindering his ability to breathe. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry or both.
After all this time, after all the effort he’d put into trying to find her, here she was, standing right in front of him in his own house.
Frowning at him. Right.
She left you, idiot. Stood you up. Didn’t want to see you again.
Alex’s brain reminded his stupidly celebrating heart why he and Cinda hadn’t stood face-to-face in almost five years.
While he had been ready to walk away from his country, his family, his duty, his entire life for her… she’d never even bothered to show up at their meeting spot the night before his family was to leave the country.
He’d waited on that dock until well after midnight, a glittering ring in his pocket, his heart sinking to the bottom of the bay like an anchor.
“How are you?” Alex asked to break the awkward silence.
“Good. I’m good.” Cinda’s voice quivered a bit, but her hands were steady.
He also noticed she wore no rings on those hands. Which didn’t necessarily mean anything—she was doing housework—the company she worked for probably advised their employees not to wear jewelry on the job.
And it doesn’t matter anyway, idiot. She didn’t want you.
“It’s… been a long time. You look good,” he said.
She glanced down at herself and let out a humorless chuckle. “Figures that this is how I’d look when I saw you again.”
Sighing deeply, she glanced away toward one wall and then up. Her gaze returned to level with his.
“And this is your house. You’re a Wessex. I guess I understand now why you wouldn’t tell me your last name all those years ago.”
Alex took a step toward her, and Cinda jerked backward, losing her balance and sitting hard on the marble step behind her.
Moving cautiously, as if approaching a skittish animal, he joined her on the stairs, taking a seat a few steps below her.
“My parents forbade it. It was part of our security protocol when we were younger,” he explained. “Back in Europe, there had been a few foiled kidnapping schemes against members of the royal family. My mother and father believed we’d be safer while here in the States if no one knew our identities. That was why we didn’t have cell phones either—so we couldn’t be tracked. I’ve sometimes wished I’d broken the rules and told you who I was.”
“Why?”
“In case you…” Self-respect wouldn’t let him finish the sent
ence. “Never mind. Anyway, you still live in Newport. And you’re still in the cleaning business.”
Under all the grime, Cinda’s skin blushed deeply. She stood.
“Yes. And I’d better get back to work. We should be finished and out of your way very soon. Welcome back to Newport… Your Highness.”
She practically ran down the stairs, heading for the corridor that led to the kitchen.
That was it? Back to work? She wasn’t the least bit curious about what had happened in his life over the past five years?
Despite the way she’d abruptly ended their summer affair, Alex found himself afire with curiosity about what the last several years had been like for her.
Had she finished community college and gone on to get that business degree she’d always talked about pursuing? Had her stepsisters ever matured and started treating her more kindly?
Had she met someone special—someone she actually loved?
He guessed it didn’t really matter. Their time together had clearly meant more to him than it had to her.
The smart thing to do would be to let it go, to go about his business and let her get on with hers as she so clearly wanted to do.
Alex got up and followed her down the hall.
“Cinda. Wait. I’d like to speak with you for a minute.”
Reaching the kitchen, she stopped and turned around. There were three other women in the room, gathering their cleaning supplies, apparently preparing to leave.
“Is there something you’d like to discuss about the house?” Cinda asked in a business-like tone. “We pride ourselves on customer satisfaction.”
Her face was tight, defiant, but there was a spark of panic in her eyes, and now her hands were shaking. She slipped them into the pockets of her apron.
Interesting. She wasn’t as unaffected by seeing him again as she pretended to be.
The slip in her composure stoked the coals of his already burning curiosity. What had happened all those years ago? How could he have been so wrong about her feelings for him? How could months of being inseparable and crazy in love have turned into complete indifference so quickly?