“Precisely. I picked them up from the newsagent while you were sleeping in the van before we left Tilly’s.”
“That first day? Wow. Weirdo,” I teased.
“I cannot play it cool, Dylan,” he said wryly. “I am not cool.”
“Cool is overrated.” I shrugged. “Are you sure you can do this? Deep-frying looks kind of tricky. All that boiling oil…”
“How dare you doubt me! One of the production people let me google how to do this on her smartphone. I am perfectly capable. Watch and learn.”
He poured oil into an enormous pot and set it on the stove to heat, thermometer clipped to the inside rim to check the temperature. Then he began banging around the room, opening cupboards, pulling out bowls and flour and utensils. With great concentration, he whisked together the flour and salt and some baking powder. Then he was off to the fridge, returning with milk and some more oil. That was whisked in a separate bowl, then they were all stirred together.
“Careful, Jamie,” I cautioned as he leaned in to read the thermometer. I could see the oil shimmer with heat.
“Perfect,” he said. Using tongs, he dipped a candy bar into the batter until it was completely coated and then carefully lowered it into the oil. It bubbled and sizzled. We watched the Mars bar bob with bated breath, like witches standing over a cauldron. A few minutes later, Jamie pulled it out with a slotted spoon and set it to rest on a paper towel.
“It’s beautiful,” I said. Well, as beautiful as a greasy lump of piping-hot dough could possibly be.
“Try it! Try it!” he urged, grinning, as he picked the fried candy bar up with his tongs and held it out to me. “Take a bite.”
“Baah!” I exclaimed as I bit off a morsel of molten chocolate. “Hot! Hot! So hot!”
“Sorry, sorry!” Belatedly, he began frantically blowing on the Mars bar.
“’S’okay.” I swallowed noisily. “Let’s try it again.”
Gingerly, I took a bite. There was a slight crunch from the outside of the batter, then the doughy fatty deliciousness, and within, pure melted chocolate. It was so good I giggled involuntarily, like a demented candy gremlin.
“Is it good?” he asked anxiously.
“It’s perfect,” I said.
“Ouch!” I yelped.
“Stay still, dearie.” The grandmotherly type who was currently stabbing me mumbled through a mouthful of pins. For someone who was only as tall as my elbows and looked exactly like Mrs. Claus, she was surprisingly scary. “Dinna move a muscle. And stand up straight, if ye please.”
I pulled myself up to stand as straight as I could, imagining that string coming out of the top of my head like Heaven always talked about. I couldn’t believe we were at the final dress fitting. Pretty soon there would be no more wandering through the castle, no more meals comprised of unknown foodstuffs, and no more filming the occasional confessional with Pamela and Cameraman Mike—which honestly hadn’t ended up being that bad. Mostly, I just had to recount everything Jamie and I did in really specific detail. Pamela did make me say, “Scotland is the perfect place to fall in love!” about fifteen times before it finally stopped sounding sarcastic because of some agreement TRC had made with VisitScotland.com. #ScotSpirit. She had me say that a lot, too.
But now, after a couple weeks of aimlessness, our last few days at Dunyvaig were speeding toward the wedding like an out-of-control train. How could the rehearsal dinner be tomorrow? At least nothing bad had happened since Jamie and I had disappeared through the secret door. Well, nothing bad had happened yet. Maybe Pamela was busy drafting her contract-violation lawsuit. Goose bumps broke out along my exposed arms.
“You couldn’t have sprung for long sleeves, Dusty?” I asked as the seamstress maneuvered my arm above my head, pinning around my waist. “It’s December.”
“You’re gonna be inside, dummy,” Dusty said dismissively. “And that thing’s made outta velvet. If it had long sleeves, you’d be sweatin’ like a hog by the time we hit the first dance.”
“You sweat and you know it.” Heaven pointed her champagne flute of sparkling nonalcoholic grape juice at me. “She’s just lookin’ out for you. Good call on the sleeves, Dusty.”
“Thank you, Heaven.”
I rolled my eyes as they clinked glasses. The two of them were sitting on the couch in silk bathrobes—Dusty’s white one bedazzled with Bride on the back, Heaven’s pink with Anne Marie—and they looked entirely too chummy for my taste. Since Heaven only had brothers, she could never truly understand what a pain in the ass a big sister was. Mom sat across from them in an overstuffed armchair, thankfully not in another stupid bathrobe, but in a typically tasteful cashmere sweater set and slacks combo.
I wondered if this room had been where the lady of the manor got her clothes made back in the day. We were tucked away somewhere on the second floor, but this room was big—much bigger than my bedroom. A three-way mirror in front of a little raised dais, just like in the store at home where Dusty got all her pageant dresses, dominated the room. There were armoires all around, too, but when I’d poked inside, everything was empty. Not where Florence kept her wardrobe, then.
Oh God. Florence. When Dusty moved in here with Ronan, would Florence still be living here, too? Probably. Where else would she go? This was technically her home. I shuddered at the thought. No matter how big Dunyvaig was, I wouldn’t want to share a house—or even a castle—with that.
“You look lovely, Dylan,” Mom said encouragingly. “Isn’t it nice to be out of jeans?”
“Not particularly,” I replied. It was a beautiful dress, made of a deep blue velvet so dark it was almost navy, but the boning in the fitted waist was digging into my ribs, and the sweetheart neckline left me itching to pull it up every couple seconds lest my flat chest be exposed to the world. Never mind the million tiny buttons marching up the back that had taken forever to do or the tartan sash tied in an absurdly enormous butt bow. At least the dress was shortish and poufy—tea length, Dusty had called it—so there was no way I could trip over it. One stress factor removed from walking down the aisle.
“Don’t sass me on the dress, Dilly!” Dusty warned. “I gave you the flats, didn’t I? Hmm? What more do you want?”
“I thought we were wearing flats so the bridesmaids wouldn’t be a thousand feet taller than Kit Kirby,” I said.
“Flats are not gonna help that one itty bit.” Heaven shook her head.
“Well?” the seamstress asked, stepping away from me. “What do ye think?”
“Good,” Dusty said decisively. “She’s done.”
“Lovely,” Mom agreed.
Heaven shot me a thumbs-up and took a swig of sparkling grape juice.
“Time for the bride, then!” the seamstress chirped. “Down ye go, dearie, and I’ll help ye with the buttons.”
I hopped off the platform, and the seamstress’s pudgy yet nimble fingers made relatively quick work of the buttons. I went back behind the folding screen where I’d stashed my clothes and wriggled out of the dress, my ribs singing in relief. There may have been a pink silk bathrobe with a rhinestone Dylan—or worse, Dilly—lurking around here somewhere, but if there was, I had no intention of finding it. So I just pulled my jeans and hoodie back on.
Dusty left her champagne flute on the table and stood as I returned, stretching her arms ostentatiously above her head.
“I’m so excited!” Heaven squealed.
An outside observer might think she was the maid of honor. I felt sort of bad for not being all squealy and gooey, but hopefully Dusty understood that all this wedding stuff just wasn’t really my thing. Besides, it’s not like we’d ever been the kind of sisters who were squealy and gooey before. Dusty was so much older than me—for much of my childhood she’d been like a glamorous babysitter, and then once I hit middle school and all of its attendant tortures, she was a constant reminder of all the ways I wasn’t enough—all the ways I wasn’t Dusty. No perfect hair or perfect smile or constant stream of adoring boyfri
ends. Just me.
“Have you seen the dress yet, Dyl?” Heaven asked, the exact same thrill in her voice as when we watched the brides at Kleinfeld finally say yes to the dress. This was like every wedding show we’d ever watched come to life.
“I, um, I think I saw a picture,” I said lamely.
“The pictures don’t do it justice,” Dusty said as she disappeared behind the screen. “Prepare for your minds to be blown, y’all.”
The seamstress removed an enormous white garment bag from one of the armoires and handed it to Dusty, who disappeared with it.
“You need help, honey?” Mom asked.
“Naw, I got it.” All I could see above the screen were long tan arms and an enormous pouf of white tulle. “I’ll shimmy it on down, then one of y’all can zip me up.”
A few moments later, she emerged. The dress had the same sweetheart neckline as mine, made of a rich cream silk that glowed against her skin. The full, poufy skirt fell all the way to the floor, and the bell shape made Dusty look more like she was gliding than walking. Dusty was beautiful—I knew that; I had lived with that fact for every day of my life—but I had never seen her look like this before.
“Now, it’s not the full effect,” Dusty said as she crossed to the dais, “because I haven’t zipped it, and there’ll be a big ol’ sash with a huge-ass butt bow made out of the clan tartan, just like all y’all have, but this way you get the picture.”
“Dusty,” Mom said mistily, dabbing at her eyes.
“Wow,” Heaven said, awestruck.
“I’ve got the sash right here!” the seamstress chirped, waving a banner of Dunleavy plaid. “I’ll zip ye up right quick, dearie, then we’ll add the bow.”
“All right, then, Mrs. McGregor, let’s get zippin’!” Dusty grinned. “Now, y’all, don’t be shocked, but I decided not to wear a veil,” she said seriously, like she was expecting us all to gasp. “I’m gonna wear white heather in my hair. And maybe a thistle. Unless it looks too spiky. But the groomsmen are gonna have thistle and heather in their li’l boutonnieres, and it’ll be so Scottish everyone’ll just die.”
“Ooo, it’s a wee bit snug, dearie,” Mrs. McGregor clucked from behind Dusty as she attempted to pull the sides of the dress together. “Takin’ a bit of a minute to try to get it together.”
“Uh-oh,” Heaven mouthed as we exchanged glances.
“Havena been keeping a careful watch on yer figure, mmm?”
“I’m—I’m sorry,” Dusty stammered. “All the rich food over here, and there’s no gym, so I haven’t been workin’ out. I can suck it in, I think. Just yank that zipper up and then we’ll get to buttonin’.”
“That’s quite all right, dearie. Ye willna be my first bride to get carried away with the cake tasting. Or perhaps…” She assessed Dusty critically. “It isna so much the cake that’s the problem as it is the bun, if ye ken my meaning.”
“Mrs. McGregor!” Dusty yelped. A violent scarlet blush, almost rashlike in its intensity, broke out across her neck. “I don’t know what you think you’re on about, but I’d appreciate it greatly if you shut your damn piehole.”
I froze in my seat, unable to move a muscle, but felt the room spinning around me. We had been so close to making it to the wedding without anyone knowing—only two days away. I felt beads of sweat pop out on my forehead as a sick feeling settled deep in my belly.
“A bun?” Heaven asked. “Like a bun…in the oven?”
Dusty clamped her lips together firmly, turning slowly red to white. I couldn’t look at Heaven, couldn’t look at Mom, couldn’t look anywhere but at Dusty.
“Dusty…are you pregnant?” Mom asked faintly.
“Holy flamin’ hot Cheetos,” Heaven whispered.
Dusty moaned, covered her face in her hands, and sank to the floor, her skirts billowing up around her.
“Why don’t you give us a minute, Mrs. McGregor,” Mom said smoothly, like absolutely nothing had happened. “We can finish the fitting at another time.”
“Not a problem, not a problem at all.” Mrs. McGregor rapidly began packing up her pins and assorted supplies.
“And I’m sure we can count on your discretion, Mrs. McGregor,” Mom added. She was all politeness, but I could hear the steel behind her words.
“Not a peep. Dinna fear.” In a wave of flustered “dearies,” Mrs. McGregor bustled out the door, shutting it firmly behind her.
“Dusty,” Mom said warmly, her voice suffused with love. “You’re having a baby.”
I watched Dusty look up at Mom.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” she whispered. “Are you mad?”
“Mad? Oh, honey.” Mom smiled deeply, her eyes crinkling with delight. “I am just…so…happy!”
She laughed, then Dusty laughed, too, a strange spluttery laugh-cry. Mom crossed the room and plopped down on the dais next to Dusty, folding her up in her arms.
“I’m gonna be a meemaw!” Mom said proudly as the two of them rocked back and forth. I couldn’t tell if they were laughing or crying—maybe both.
“So much for keeping it a secret.” Dusty wiped her eyes, the mascara coming off in black streaks on her hands.
“It’s okay,” Heaven said earnestly. “I won’t tell anyone, Dusty, I promise.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she replied. “It’s too late.”
“What’s too late?” I asked.
Dusty raised her arm and pointed. I turned to look over my shoulder at the cameraman. Right. I had forgotten he was there.
“Secret’s out,” Dusty said grimly. “I’m sure you’ll take this back to Pamela before I even get out of the dress,” she addressed the cameraman, who said nothing. “And I can’t wait to hear what America has to say about this one. No little baby deserves the kind of hate that’s gonna get thrown my way.”
“Hate? Come on, Dusty. Have a little faith. People like you,” I said firmly. “That’s what Pamela keeps saying, right? That America’s on your side or whatever.”
“On my side? You are hilarious, Dylan,” she said, with no trace of hilarity whatsoever. The giddiness of a moment earlier had been replaced with grim despair. “For every sweet old lady that writes into the People mailbag wishing me and Ronan a fairy-tale ending, there are ten DieDustyDie blogs.”
I snorted. DieDustyDie? Come on.
“It’s a real thing, Dyl. Google it,” she said seriously, and for the first time I noticed how tired she looked. There were dark shadows under her eyes that even her brightening concealer couldn’t cover up. “DieDustyDie is a hashtag. There’s a Twitter trend created solely for the purpose of hating me.”
“But it doesn’t matter,” I insisted. “Who cares what these people think? About the baby, or about you, or about anything? Their opinions don’t matter. They don’t know you.”
“But they think they do!” she cried, and rose to her feet. Mom leaned forward as if to stop her, somehow, and then thought better of it. “You can’t understand what it’s like. To have people you’ve never met think they know you.” She started pacing the room frantically, the bottom of her wedding dress dragging on the floor. “It’s hard. It is so damn hard. I had no idea how hard it would be. And it’s not just those awful trolls on the Internet! It’s the nice ones. The ones who are so invested. How can they care so much? It’s killing me, everyone’s opinions. The weight of it. It’s crushin’ me.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
“I have to.” She sighed. “I am grateful to TRC every damn day of my life for bringing Ronan into it. But I sure as hell wish I’d read those contracts a little bit closer before I signed.” She looked directly at the camera. “I know y’all won’t put that part in.”
“Dusty.” Mom rose up to stand and opened her arms. “Come here, baby.”
Dusty collapsed into Mom’s arms, her back shaking with the force of her silent sobs. Despite the fact that she was wearing a half-open wedding dress, she looked like a little kid. Mom rubbed her back soothingly, up and down, up and down.
“Maybe we should go,” Heaven whispered.
I nodded in agreement, and we slipped out the door as Dusty cried quietly in Mom’s arms.
“Holy poop,” Heaven said as we shut the door to the fitting room behind us. “Holy flying poop balls.”
“You wanna put some pants on?” I asked, gesturing to the robe.
“I don’t even remember where I put my pants. Let’s get out of here. I need some Cheetos. They have Cheetos in this country?”
“Heck if I know.”
“Thank God this damn castle is so big. I need a minute before we run into another camera.” Heaven placed a hand on her chest. “I think I’ve got angina. Like my nana.”
“You do not have angina.” I picked her up underneath her elbows and started dragging her down the hallway.
“This is too many plot twists. Too many. I can’t handle this many dramatic revelations on one episode of Prince in Disguise.”
“You’d like it if you were watching it on TV.”
“Yeah. Exactly. Safe on my TV. Not living it. Or living next to it. This isn’t even happening to me and I’m freaking out! Are you freaking out? You don’t seem like you’re freaking out. Why aren’t you freaking out?”
“I’m freaking out on the inside.”
By some miracle of castle navigation we’d ended up at my bedroom, and I shoved Heaven inside and closed the door behind us.
“You’re gonna be an aunt, Dylan,” Heaven marveled. “Aunt Dylan. Wow.”
“I know.” I grinned. “Aunt Dylan.”
“You are definitely not freaking out.” Heaven flopped onto my bed, hand still pressed dramatically to her chest. “Wait a minute.” She propped herself up on her elbows. “Did you know? Is that why you’re not freaking out?”
“Um…”
“You knew! I can’t believe you knew, and you didn’t tell me!”
“I couldn’t, Heaven, I promised—”
“No, Dylan, stop—I’m not mad. I’m impressed,” she clarified. “I’m not sure I could have kept a secret that big.”
“I had to,” I said simply. “And now we have to try to keep Ronan’s mom from finding out before the wedding.”
Prince in Disguise Page 19