by Rachel Hauck
“It’s time.” Langley clapped his hands, trying to corral the men and usher them out of the green room. But they’d not listen.
Stephen pierced the din with a sharp whistle. “It’s time. Let’s go.”
The Wellington lobby was crammed and jammed. Literally swimming with kids from ages one to ninety-two—young rugby players, families, fans, and beautiful, stylish women who batted their eyes at the team.
At Stephen.
Thomas walked beside him, just off his right shoulder. “Security is tight. We’ve a plainclothes team watching the crowd inside and out. A metal detector is working at the entrance. Bags are searched.”
“Good,” Stephen said. “I wouldn’t be here if I thought anyone was at risk. But please, keep vigilant.”
Heightened security and keeping war secrets was the only way Stephen could play professional rugby. His admittance to the team only came when the league agreed to a strict security protocol. Otherwise, traveling with the prince put the players and fans at risk.
He was grateful the last five and a half years had been without incident.
He found his name at the table. Blimey. His placard read Prince Stephen, not Stephen Stratton. Grabbing the Sharpie set out for signing, he scratched out Prince and wrote Winger.
And the crowd was let loose. For three hours he never looked up. Boys, girls, mums and dads, fans of all ages, shapes, and sizes offering congratulations for the spring 7 Nations Championship, wishing them well in the upcoming World Cup.
“When do you think you’ll be back on the pitch, Your Highness? Brighton needs their Number 14.” A tall man with broad shoulders offered Stephen a rugby ball for signature.
“Who’s to say?” He signed with a flourish. “We’re not answering questions right now.”
“Come on, I’m just a fan. All I want to know—”
“You’re a reporter. Rich Ackers from the Sports Guardian.”
The man reddened. “I told them you’d remember me.” He leaned over the table. From the corner of his eye, Stephen saw Thomas step up. “We’re your biggest fans at the Guardian. We’d love a scoop, sir.”
Stephen handed back his ball. “Have a nice day, Rick.”
“A month? Six weeks? Will you make it to the Premiership?”
But Stephen had already moved his attention to an intense-looking girl of eight or so. “Are you here to watch your brother play in the tournament tomorrow?”
“Me brother?” She stuck out her chin with an air of offense. “Number 6, I am. A good one too.”
“Are you now? A blindside flanker. My apologies.” Stephen smiled his sincerest, taking the poster she offered. “What’s your name?”
“Leslie, and I’m every bit as good as the boys.”
“Probably better.” Stephen signed the poster, then bent under the table for one of his caps. “Here you go. A special cap for a special girl.”
“For me?” Her blue eyes sparked.
“Never hold back. Play hard.” Stephen nodded at her dad. “You ever need anything from me, ring the King’s Office.”
He blanched and stuttered. “Y–you don’t say? T–thank you, sir. You’re very kind.”
“We need more players like Leslie.”
“She’s a tough one, that she is, Your Highness.”
Leslie gave Stephen a nod as if that was that and moved on, addressing Earl Bruce and his duties as a prop.
Langley bustled down the line, whispering to the team. “Quickly, move quickly. We’ve no time to linger.”
Stephen greeted the next fan. A teen boy. Then the next. A young lad. After him was the redhead, who seemed to have little affinity for rugby.
“So we meet again, Your Highness.” She giggled as she angled gracefully toward him, exposing the fleshly part of her womanly essence.
“So we do.” He signed her poster of the team and was about to shake her hand when he caught sight of a woman moving across the crowded lobby.
“Excuse me.” He stepped away from his station, ignoring the redhead’s scowl, and ducked under the velvet rope, squinting through the crowd. Corina? He’d know that dark sheen of hair anywhere. What was she doing here?
“Your Highness, Your Highness,” Poor Langley, calling after him, his thin voice barely slithering through the crowded lobby. “Your station, please. You must stay behind the rope. Pandemonium, pandemonium.”
But Stephen continued to squeeze through the crowd with rugby prowess, his intention fixed. He’d stop for no one if Corina was in the lobby. Did she fly all the way over to bring the signed annulment papers?
“Stephen.” Thomas’s hand clapped onto his shoulder. “Where are you going?”
“She’s here.” Stephen shoved around a large man, catching up to Corina at the registration desk. But just as he reached for her shoulder, she turned.
Stephen stopped, hand frozen in midair. It was not Corina. His strength weakened as his adrenaline ebbed, his disappointment was palatable.
The woman gasped and offered Stephen an awkward curtsy. “Your Highness . . .”
“W–welcome to The Wellington.” He gave her a weak smile then turned, excusing his way through the crowd toward the green room.
“You thought she was Corina?” Thomas said, walking beside him, whispering over Stephen’s shoulder.
“Leave me be, Thomas.” Stephen found the water bins and jerked a bottle from the ice, taking a cold, cleansing swig, soaking his parched throat.
“You’re still in love with her.” Thomas, much to Stephen’s discomfiture, did not leave him alone. He reached in the bin of ice for a Coke, peering at Stephen with a smirk.
“Don’t tell me how I feel, Thomas.” Stephen sat on the hard, pea-green couch, his ankle throbbing. He polished off his water and crushed the plastic bottle, tossing it into the rubbish against the wall. In love with her? No, ten times no.
“Let’s get back out there.” He didn’t want to let down the fans. As he stood, Stephen caught his reflection in the mirror on the wall and he knew.
Thomas was right. He was still in love with his wife.
TEN
Thursday morning Corina stepped out of the cab and into the shade of her childhood Marietta home. A one hundred and fifty-year-old white, two-story antebellum with floor-to-ceiling windows and a wraparound veranda that was purchased by her great-, great-, great-grandfather right after the Civil War. In 1867.
Just six months in America from the ancient royal city of Castile, Spain, Grandpa Carlos Del Rey I quickly made his mark in the newly changed South.
Since then, one Del Rey or another had inherited and lived in Casa Hermosa. Home Beautiful. So it had been as Corina grew up—full of life and joy, laughter.
The lovely estate she used to call home, run to for safety, for comfort and love, for acceptance, for laughter, was now a morose mausoleum.
She glanced toward the third-floor captain’s deck as the cab driver set her suitcases at her feet. She and Carlos used to climb out there on summer nights and wish upon the stars.
“That’ll be forty-two fifty.”
Corina glanced at the cab driver, emptying out the last of her reminiscing, and reached in her bag for her wallet. Without Carlos, would Casa Hermosa ever be beautiful again?
She paid the driver as the sticky Georgia humidity rode the low breeze that brushed her shorts against her skin. Then she found herself alone under the magnolias and live oaks, the Spanish moss waving in greeting.
No one knew she was coming. Her first time back since she went to work for Gigi. For some stubborn reason, she’d not telephoned to let Mama know she was coming.
Probably because she had so much on her mind. The reappearance of Prince Stephen sank deeper into her soul day after day.
During her preparations for the trip to Brighton, and on the one-hour flight from Melbourne to Atlanta, Corina tried to sort out her thoughts and feelings, separating truth from vain hopes, dreams from reality.
She told herself going to Brighton was h
er job. Gigi insisted she cover the premier, interview Clive. But she wondered if “love well” encouraged her to win back her husband.
Yet Stephen came to Melbourne looking for an annulment. Not reconciliation. Why would she even consider any other possibility? Especially after his cruel rejection during the darkest days of her life. Crazy, right?
But they were still married. Five and a half years after believing they were over.
Honestly, she was practically a ball of weepy confusion. Worse, there was no one to talk to about this mess because no one knew.
Corina nearly broke down and called Daisy, ready to confess the whole secret thing. Though, in the end, she couldn’t form the words. Her marriage, her relationship with Stephen felt private, personal, as if something for God’s hearing only.
He knew the truth. She could talk to him. He was more than willing to listen.
If God was behind this Brighton excursion, and if she’d correctly interpreted the grandfather clock chimes and the “love well” whisper, then she wanted to obey.
Or this all boiled down to the fact she was just a foolish girl, desperate to cling to something, anything, she’d once loved and lost.
“God,” she whispered now, in the shadow of home, “I trust you, but help me out here, please. Am I even close? Can I win Stephen back? Is that what you want?”
Nevertheless, at this point she was all in, willing to sacrifice her heart, her will, and her pride. Shoot, she wasn’t even above begging.
Love had a way of making a girl empty herself.
If Stephen refused her flat out, she’d sign the papers—with or without news on Carlos. The truth, while comforting, would not bring him back, and she felt desperate to deal with this open chapter of her life.
Corina’s memories spoke as she made her way to the veranda. Summer evenings of chasing fireflies, the scent of Daddy’s grill in the air. The hum of the ice-cream maker. The strum of Daddy’s guitar and the beauty of Mama’s sweet soprano. Sneaking out with Carlos for a midnight swim in the pool.
Stringing Christmas lights on the railing. Birthday parties and cutting cake. Saturday nights in the porch rocker, quietly talking, listening to the crickets and cicadas, making up lyrics for their music.
Laughing until her side hurt.
All of it ended when Carlos died. Corina understood that. She endured the same pain as her parents. What was her birthday without her twin, her best friend? What were holiday traditions with part of her heart missing?
Yet how could she survive without the laughter, love, and affection? Without new memories and new traditions. She tried for five years and nearly lost her soul.
However, she didn’t fly up here just to remember what had been. She came for the dress. The Luciana Diamatia. Perfect for a royal movie premier. For reminding Stephen of the love they shared.
She stooped to gather her luggage when a short horn blast caused her to glance around. Daisy Blackwell. She’d recognize that horn toot anywhere.
“Well, as I live and breathe, Corina Del Rey,” Daisy said, pulling her Mercedes SUV alongside Corina.
“Daisy Blackwell, as I live and breathe.” Corina forced a bit of cheer in her words as the lovely, tan, and fit Daisy slipped from behind the wheel. She was southern from the top of her blond head to the tips of her pedicured toes.
“Why didn’t you tell a body you were coming?” Daisy wrapped Corina in a great hug, the fragrance of Chanel chasing around them.
“I’m only here for a few hours. I’m flying out tonight.” Seeing her old friend tied another knot in her tangled emotions.
How many hours they’d spent up in her room giggling, dreaming, getting ready for cheer practice, football and basketball games, homecoming, prom, Saturday night dates, and their first pageant? Thousands of hours. Thousands of blessings.
“I swear to goodness it’s been a coon’s age since I’ve seen you. Girls”—Daisy leaned into the driver’s side open window—“you remember your Aunt Corina, Mama’s best friend in high school.”
Corina peeked inside and waved at towheaded little girls buckled into car seats. “Hey, Anna.” She was four and cuter than a speckled pup. “And hi, Betsy,” Corina said. At two, the younger of Daisy’s daughters was the image of her beauty. “They’re gorgeous, Daisy.”
“I know.” She sighed, turning to Corina, arms folded. Dressed like every upperclass Georgia belle, in her pleated shorts and matching top, wearing bedazzled sandals, Daisy was everything she had dreamed of being. A country club wife with a lawyer husband. And a mom of two. “But they’ll be the death of me. Travis says we just have to get them to college. Then they’re on their own.” Her chortle flirted with the breeze. “So, how’s life with the great Gigi Beaumont?”
“Crazy as usual. She’s sending me to Brighton on assignment.”
“Well, lucky you. I love Brighton. Wish I could get Travis to go, but he hates long trips with the girls. And he won’t go so far away without them. They’re so young. If anything were to happen . . .” Daisy raised her blue eyes to Corina. “I’m sorry, I forget sometimes.”
“I wish I could forget.” More and more, Corina craved speaking the truth. She drank up honest conversation. Mama refused to talk about Carlos. And Daddy never seemed to be around. “You’re allowed to talk about your life, Daisy. It makes sense you’d not want to leave the girls.” If she had two beauties like Anna and Betsy, Corina wouldn’t let them out of her sight.
“So, you’ve returned to the dark plantation.” Daisy glanced toward the house. “Your Mama still hasn’t been to a Daughters of Dixie meeting. And Daddy said your daddy has yet to hit the golf course or attend a church meeting.” Daisy bit her lower lip. “I’m sorry, I know it’s all so painful, but we miss your parents around here.”
“You know it’s why I had to leave. They can’t get out of mourning.” Corina scooped her hair off of her neck, releasing the Georgia heat trapped next to her skin. “I’ve come to grips that life will never be the same.”
“But you’re the Del Reys. The best family in town. Y’all will come around, I’m sure of it. Horatia will show up at a Dixies meeting one day with an agenda a mile long. Ole Donald will be on the golf course with my daddy and Reverend Pike, ready to talk a new church addition.” Daisy squeezed Corina’s arm as if she could infuse her with the same enthusiasm.
“You’re a bigger dreamer than I am.”
“No one will argue with you there.” Daisy’s laugh brought Corina around the bend, closer to her journey home. “So tell me what’s in Brighton? And why did you come home first?”
What’s in Brighton? Perhaps true love. “I came for the Luciano Diamatia.”
Daisy slapped her hand to her heart. “Be still. Oh, I looove that dress.” Then she cocked an eyebrow at her friend. “What sort of event needs the Diamatia? I mean, really Corina, it has to be one of the world’s rarest and, may I say, least-worn designer gowns.”
“Not my fault he didn’t finish it in time for my debut. I’m wearing it to a movie premier. King Stephen I.”
“Oh girl, you have all the luck.” Daisy shoved her slender hand through her hair. “We saw the trailer last night and it looks fantastic. Braveheart meets King Arthur. And Clive Boston . . .” Daisy closed her eyes and exhaled. “A more gorgeous man never lived.”
“I’m interviewing him.” Well, supposedly, if he shows, but this was the most fun Corina had had in a while, so why spoil it?
“Get out.” Daisy shoved Corina’s shoulder. “You’re interviewing Clive Boston? Remember when you met him a few years ago at that indie film fest? He was such a snob, but oh, who cares? I could just stare at him for hours.”
Corina laughed, unhindered by the hiccup of grief. “He was downright rude until he found out Daddy was one of the film backers. Then he was all like, ‘Miss Del Rey, can I call you Corina?’ ”
The friends laughed in harmony, like they used to, when they held the tiger of life by the tail. The breeze moseyed between them as the Georgi
a sun eavesdropped through the summer leaves.
Daisy sobered. “I miss you.”
“I miss me too.”
“I wish you’d tell me what else bothers you.” Daisy drilled Corina with her gaze, one friend detecting another’s sorrow. “I can’t help it, I just see something else in your countenance. Is it because you left a twin? Does that make it worse?”
“Yes, twins . . .” There. Nice and safe. And true. But with no need to expose her journey with Prince Stephen.
“Corina, I cannot imagine . . .” Daisy gripped her hand. “You know I’m always here for you.”
“And I love you for it.”
Daisy had been patient since Carlos’s death, giving Corina space, filling her days with her own life and family. But always, during the dark years of grieving, Daisy popped around the house a few times a year, trying to draw Corina out.
But Corina found it hard to shower Daisy’s joy with her dark rain.
“I had a dream about you,” Daisy began, slow, staring off, remembering. “You were . . .” She laughed. “You’ll love this . . . A princess.”
Corina made sure she laughed. Loud and quick. “Oh, that’s rich.”
“I mean, what made me have such a dream? But it was so real.” Daisy’s merriment faded as she turned a serious eye toward Corina. “You were so happy. Your eyes radiated this glow . . . of joy. You were married to Prince Stephen of Brighton.”
Daisy’s last words sucked the air out of Corina. She faltered backward, trying to breathe, chills racing down her arms despite the Georgia heat.
“Oh my!” She jammed her hands on her waist and tried to laugh, but the thin air in her lungs only produced a shallow exhale. “Th–that’s something . . . a nightmare . . . that’s what. Me, a princess? All those photographers chasing you about, blogs and newspapers picking on your clothes and hair. Duchess Kate is a saint if you ask me.”
“No, Corina,” Daisy said, more somber than before. “You’d be a perfect princess. You’re practically one now. But what struck me was how happy you were. I woke up in tears, really.”