It turns out Mr. Belleseau had been struggling financially for several years before his untimely passing and nobody knew. His business was struggling, so he borrowed against the equity in his home, and because things were so tight, he let his life insurance policy lapse. When he died, he left behind a wife and three daughters, a mountain of debt, and an empty bank account.
Pierre Belleseau was a proud man. I can’t say that I fault him for not wanting to worry his family. I’m sure every part of him believed he would reverse their situation all in due time, so there was no need to stress the others. How was he to know he was going to fall asleep behind the wheel after working a sixteen-hour day in the office?
“You have no idea how good it is to see you,” Delphine says, still embracing me.
I had phoned her the other day and explained everything, including my plan to convince Emelie to marry me. We had a laugh about it at first, and then Delphine realized I was serious. Without pause, she gave me her blessing and told me how happy it would make Pierre to know that Emelie ended up with me. It was always his wish, she said, and then she informed me that Pierre always thought of me as the son he’d never had.
Delphine had also mentioned briefly over the phone that she was moving, but I didn’t realize until now that she was taking all of their antique light fixtures as well. On second thought, I imagine she sold them for cash.
"How long will you be in town?” she asks. “Isabeau and Lucienne will be driving home from Duke tomorrow. They’ll be here for the summer, though Isabeau has an internship in Charleston next month.”
“I’m afraid I won’t be in town more than a few more days,” I say.
“When do you plan on visiting Emelie? You know it’s her birthday today. I was planning on taking her out for brunch. You should join us!”
“I spoke with her last night, actually,” I say. “I’m afraid she’s not exactly open to my proposal. At least not yet.”
I can’t say that I blame her.
I’m not an imbecile—I knew I wouldn’t be leaving there with a yes.
I just needed to plant the seed.
Now Delphine’s going to water it for me.
“Excuse us,” one of the movers says as he hoists a box onto his shoulder.
We step aside, and I manage to steal a glance into her kitchen, which is void of appliances, nothing but wooden cabinets and empty spaces where shiny metal objects used to reside.
We spent most of our summertime at their country house by the lake, but occasionally we’d head to their city house for a change of scenery or when Pierre had a work obligation he couldn’t reschedule.
Delphine follows my gaze before realizing what it is I’m looking at, and then she covers her heart with a hand.
“My apologies. I don’t mean to stare,” I say.
“It’s been hard,” she says. “In so many ways ...”
“You don’t have to say another word, Delphine.”
Growing up, I never had extended family. Both of my parents were only children. I didn’t have aunts or uncles or cousins. My grandparents weren’t exactly the fun-loving, spoil-you-rotten type. They were typical stuffy royals and they passed when I was quite young. To be honest, I hardly remember them at all. If it weren’t for the royal archives, they would be strangers to me.
The Belleseaus were the closest thing to extended family I ever had, and I loved them like family.
Still do.
It kills me to see Delphine shouldering all of this. I imagine she’s selling this house piece by piece just to keep the lights on and maybe cover some of Luci and Isa’s tuition. Pierre never would’ve wanted to see his family like this.
“Where are you going from here?” I ask Delphine.
“Brunch with Emelie,” she says. “Remember? I told you it’s her birthday today.”
“No, I mean, where are you going to live?”
“Oh.” Her shoulders fall and she peers out the open front door to the moving van parked on the browning grass of her once-immaculate front lawn. “I found a little apartment halfway between Durham and Emelie’s place in Fayetteville.”
For as long as I can remember, Delphine was a stay-at-home mother, and she relished in her role. She lived to take care of her family. It was her sole purpose, and her three daughters were her biggest pride and joy. Unfortunately her circumstances have left her much too young to retire much too inexperienced to land anything beyond an entry-level job.
“If Emelie marries me, your family will be royal-by-proxy,” I say, half thinking out loud.
“I beg your pardon?”
“There will be a small stipend allocated for you and the other girls,” I explain. “It’s mostly to cover travel and other official engagements, but once I’m in charge, I can increase those allocations.”
“Julian.” Delphine’s hand claps across her mouth. “You’re incredibly thoughtful, but I couldn’t take advantage of your generosity like that. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Nonsense. It wouldn’t be right for me to turn a blind eye on your situation, Delphine.” I take her hand. “It pains me to see you like this.”
She swipes at a tear that falls from her left eye before tucking her chin against her chest.
“This is a very humbling moment for me, Julian,” she says, voice broken as a breeze rustles her wavy blonde hair.
“What happened was a tragedy,” I say. “But I would be honored to help. You’re family to me. All of you. I want to help.”
“Julian ...”
Delphine’s eyes lock on mine, and I can’t help but notice how hers match Emelie’s fleck for fleck — green with the tiniest bits of gold if you look close enough. And they share the same sort of modern Grace Kelly poise. The way they move, the way they talk. The occasional flicker of a coy grin. My people would adore Emelie as their queen.
And secretly, I would too.
But for reasons of my own.
END OF SAMPLE.
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About the Author
Wall Street Journal and #1 Amazon bestselling author Winter Renshaw is a bona fide daydream believer. She lives somewhere in the middle of the USA and can rarely be seen without her trusty Mead notebook and ultra-portable laptop. When she’s not writing, she’s living the American Dream with her husband, three kids, the laziest puggle this side of the Mississippi, and a busy pug pup that officially owes her three pairs of shoes, one lamp cord, and an office chair (don’t ask).
Winter also writes psychological suspense under the name Minka Kent. Her debut novel, THE MEMORY WATCHER, was optioned by NBC Universal in January 2018.
Winter is represented by Jill Marsal of Marsal Lyon Literary Agency.
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