Luisa cleared her throat. “Your Highness, you’re hosting members of the International Paralympic Committee and a group of San Rimini’s Paralympians that evening.”
“Friday?”
“You are free on Friday after eight.”
Claire smiled. “I’ll double check, but I believe I’m free Friday night.”
“Movie at my place.”
“Do you have popcorn?”
“If not, I believe I have the resources to get some.”
“Done.”
Chapter 16
In the four weeks following Claire’s nighttime visit to La Rocca and her fabulously unsuccessful attempt to end their relationship, they had made four unsuccessful attempts to see Out of Africa.
After attempts two, three, and four, Eduardo felt compelled to point out that the first failure was Claire’s fault.
Their original date, on the Friday night after they’d first made love, was rescheduled when a prominent American businessman was arrested and Claire was compelled to stay late at the office. Movie dates two and three were canceled when Eduardo had dinners run longer than expected, though they managed to meet for shorter dates at both the palace and at her residence. They’d taken care to avoid the media, and their efforts kept speculation about their relationship on the back burner, buried at the end of reports. It had helped that Aletta’s sister, Helena Masciaretti, was photographed walking hand-in-hand with a well-known Scottish actor ten years her junior, drawing the attention of both royal watchers and the tabloid press.
For once, Eduardo was more than happy to have Helena in the limelight.
The fourth movie night was scrapped when Arturo and Paolo, Prince Federico’s sons, both came down with strep throat. Before being diagnosed, they’d spent the afternoon in Eduardo’s apartment curled up on his sofa watching television, and he wanted a day to ensure the room was cleaned and that no one else in the family was ill.
The fifth attempt was arranged for a Saturday at the palace.
“We won’t be interrupted this time,” Eduardo promised Claire over dinner at Trattoria Safina, an inconspicuous restaurant located on the Via Vespri, a block downhill from the Strada il Teatro. They’d arrived late on a Friday night, after most tourists had left the area for their hotels and only a few locals remained. Two journalists had spotted Claire entering the restaurant and were staked out across the street, but the trattoria’s shades were positioned such that the men couldn’t identify her dinner companion. Otherwise, Claire and Eduardo had peace and quiet. Basia, the young woman who worked the front of the trattoria, kept an eagle eye on the street. She was the type who could scare off a professional bodybuilder with a glare, despite her small size and wildly colored hair.
Over mushroom-stuffed ravioli and fresh bread dipped in herbed olive oil, they talked about work, then family. Eduardo’s grandsons had recovered from strep and had been running around the palace garden that afternoon.
“Tomorrow night, we can have an early dinner at La Rocca,” Eduardo said. “If it’s all right with you, Amanda and Marco could join us. I know you met them at the credentials ceremony, but I want them to get to know you. They wouldn’t stay late, so we could watch the movie afterward.”
Claire took a long, tantalizing sip of her wine and eyed him over the rim of her glass. When she finally set it down, she said, “Spending time with Amanda and Marco would be wonderful, but I have to warn you: I won’t want popcorn after dinner. Movies require popcorn.”
“Are you canceling already? Over popcorn?” He gave her a withering look, but she laughed it off.
“No. But don’t expect me to eat a lot at dinner, even with Samuel doing the cooking. Not eating one of his meals is going to take an enormous amount of willpower. I want that sacrifice recognized and rewarded.”
“So noted.” He made a face. “But I won’t do it in front of Samuel.”
“You don’t know how good you have it with him.”
“I do know. But if I admit it to him, he’ll double down on the oatmeal. I’m not sure I can survive that.”
She grinned and told him to enjoy his ravioli.
The next evening, Fabiano dropped Claire at La Rocca just as Marco and Amanda passed the rear entrance. Though she’d met Amanda the night she’d presented her credentials and had the chance to greet Prince Marco briefly that night, she hadn’t seen the couple since. Claire wasn’t sure what to expect, particularly from Prince Marco, but both greeted her warmly. Together, they climbed the stairs to King Eduardo’s apartment. Marco tapped in the code at the keypad. As they entered the vestibule, they heard voices coming from the great room.
They entered to see Samuel Barden standing beside the king at the table. Both men had their backs to the door. Samuel had one hand on his hip as he gestured toward a low floral centerpiece and said something about using an arrangement from the family dining room instead.
“Not romantic enough,” Eduardo replied. “Not if it’s the orange and yellow arrangement that was there during breakfast this morning.”
Amanda, Marco, and Claire exchanged looks.
“Do you have anything pink? I think Claire likes pink.”
“I do like pink,” she said as she moved toward them, surprising both Eduardo and Samuel. “But what’s on the table already is beautiful. Let’s leave it.” To Samuel, she said, “Thank you. This is lovely, as always.”
Eduardo gave the table a long look, but his disappointment was apparent.
Samuel said, “Dinner will be ready in a half hour, if that’s suitable. I’ve left wine and sparkling water on the bar.”
Once he was gone, Marco and Amanda went for drinks and Claire gave Eduardo a gentle kiss on the cheek. Near his ear, she murmured, “Not romantic enough? That’s very sweet.”
“We’ve tried to have movie night for weeks now. I wanted to get it right.”
“We’re both here. That’s all we need.”
For the next two hours, they enjoyed a delicious dinner and conversation. At one point, Eduardo crossed the room to retrieve a bowl from the bar. When he set it in front of Claire, she laughed so hard she could hardly speak.
“Banduzzi olives,” Eduardo announced.
“And this is funny…how?” Amanda asked.
“At our first dinner here in the residence—a business dinner, I must add—I had Samuel leave some on the bar so Claire could try them. I’d sent a Banduzzi olive tree to the embassy as a welcome gift with the dinner invitation and promised to serve them.”
Marco eyed his father. “What happened?”
“It was all I could do not to stare at her once she entered the residence. I managed to mix decent Negronis and talk to Claire somewhat intelligently about policy initiatives, but I completely forgot the olives.”
“You distracted him,” Amanda said. “That’s rare.”
The smile Marco gave his father made Claire feel welcomed all over again.
They’d just finished dessert when Amanda mentioned to Claire that her father, a former ambassador to Italy, had followed Claire’s career. “He teaches a course each spring at American University, so he keeps up on a lot of the initiatives at embassies around the world. He told me he was very impressed with some of the programs you worked on during your time in Uganda.”
Claire expected Amanda to mention the education program, but instead, it was a maternal health care program that had caught her interest. “I knew there can be a lack of access to maternity care, but I had no idea about the incidence of obstetric fistulas. It’s horrifying to know that so many women—teenagers, even—end up with such devastating injuries from labor, then are left to fend for themselves.”
Claire nodded. “Horrifying is the perfect descriptor for it. Thankfully, there are some wonderful organizations working in Uganda to educate people about the problem and the need for preventive care. They’re also recruiting doctors to perform low- or no-cost surgery so women who’ve been affected can lead more normal lives. Their work gives me hope.”
He hadn’t heard of the problem, but Amanda said she’d done some reading after speaking with her father. “There are several San Riminian health care workers who’ve volunteered their time and expertise. Some in Uganda, others in Burkina Faso and Kenya.”
Eduardo leaned back in his seat and considered his daughter-in-law with admiration. Claire sensed they’d built a solid respect for each other in the years since Amanda had met and married Marco. “We should be doing more to support them. Once the Strada il Teatro project is done, would you remind me of this conversation?”
“I might be a little busy with my own baby, but I’ll make a note. If I don’t remind you, perhaps Claire will?”
It didn’t escape Claire that Amanda’s suggestion assumed that Claire would be around for the long haul. She nodded and said, “I can do that. I met with several fistula patients at a clinic my first year in Uganda. It’s not an experience I’ll ever forget.”
A short time later, they’d adjourned to the sofas and Claire mentioned that she’d had the opportunity to meet Giovanni Sozzani, the king’s close friend, when he’d hosted them for lunch two weeks earlier.
“Did he try to convert you to the dark side?” Marco asked.
At Claire’s frown, Amanda said, “That’s what the king calls cycling. He’s a runner, Giovanni is a dedicated cyclist. They debate the merits of one over the other all the time.”
“We did discuss cycling,” Claire said. “The town where I grew up draws a lot of cyclists in the summer. We talked about New Mexico and Colorado and the cycling events held there. But he didn’t try to convert me.”
“I warned him,” Eduardo said. “She refuses to run. I can’t fathom it, but I can live with it. If Claire were to start cycling, though, I’m not sure how I’d handle it.”
“I told him that taking a spin class doesn’t count as cycling,” Claire noted. “But I prefer hiking when I can, anyway.”
Amanda agreed and said she and Marco had been trying to schedule extra hiking time on their weekends so she could keep moving throughout her pregnancy. “Having that outdoor time is the only thing that keeps me from being exhausted. It refills the energy well.”
“And that,” Marco said, “is our cue to leave. It’s getting late, and my wife and baby need to sleep.”
“The baby can sleep whether or not I sleep.”
Marco shrugged and stood, but the stealthy wink he shot at Amanda made it obvious he simply wanted his wife alone.
Once they were gone, Eduardo asked Claire if she was still awake enough for the movie.
“For that particular movie? Always.”
Eduardo strode toward the coffee table in search of the remote control. “He likes you, you know.”
“Who? Marco?”
“Yes.” Eduardo located the remote, then smiled at her. “He was very close to his mother and has always been protective of her legacy. But not only does he like you, he likes me with you. He told me that last part this morning when we finalized the time for dinner. He said I’ve been at my best recently.”
Claire felt tears come to her eyes. She still remembered watching the late queen’s funeral on television. The pained looks on her family’s faces had spoken volumes, Marco’s expression in particular. She smiled at Eduardo through the wave of emotion that suddenly gripped her. “Thank you for telling me.”
“I thought you should know.” He gave her a long, heartfelt smile, then turned toward the far wall and pushed a button on the remote to reveal a television that was hidden behind a painting. As the painting slid to the side, he admitted, “I don’t have the opportunity to watch television that often. Arturo and Paolo assured me that I can get the movie on here and showed me how to find it in the menu.”
Claire moved behind Eduardo and wrapped her arms around his waist as he hit the power button. “I love that your grandchildren teach you things about your own apartment.”
“They’re too smart for their own good. Federico has to work hard to keep up with them.”
Claire planted a kiss on the back of Eduardo’s neck, then offered to refill his water glass. As she moved to the bar, she said, “I know what I said earlier about popcorn, but I can watch without it. Dinner was far too tempting for me to save room.”
Eduardo made a sound of agreement, but didn’t speak. When she turned from the bar, water glasses in hand, his eyes were riveted on the television. He raised his hand and clicked the remote to change the channel, but not before Claire saw her own face on the screen and heard the reporter use the phrase, “her past.”
“Go back.”
He glanced at her with concern in his eyes, then hit a button. The screen showed an old, blurry photo of Claire with her ex-husband.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” she muttered. “This is ancient history. He’s all they could dig up about me? Next thing you know, they’ll pull out my seventh-grade school picture. I had a painfully uneven haircut for that one.”
“You know how these go,” Eduardo said. “They don’t have anything newsworthy to run, so they go searching for old information they can make sound new and intriguing.”
“I suppose.”
For over a month, she and Eduardo had stayed the course with the media. They’d agreed to remain silent for the time being and to continue leading their lives, deciding it was the only way they could enjoy their time together and truly get to know each other.
Helena Masciaretti’s new, high-profile relationship had given them the breathing room necessary to accomplish that. There had been shots of Claire entering and leaving La Rocca, and even a few of them strolling through the palace garden that had been taken with a long lens by someone who’d climbed on top of a bus shelter on the Strada il Reggiménto. In each instance, Zeno Amendola and John Oglethorpe had told reporters they had no comment about their bosses’ personal lives. With little to use, the press had—for the most part—run with other stories.
This report, however, felt different, even as the announcer noted that Claire had been married for two years in her early twenties. Her voice promised scandal.
Then she delivered. A photo of her ex that looked current filled the screen. In a voiceover that had sounded prerecorded, the announcer said, “This is David Arnold Smith today.” The shot panned out to reveal that he was holding a board under his face with his name on it.
A curse went through Claire’s mind as the announcer continued, “Last night, Smith was booked into the Santa Clara County Jail in San Jose, California, for public intoxication after leaving a strip club. A friend spoke to one of our reporters about the incident on the condition of anonymity. That friend told us that Smith is not a regular at the strip club, but went there because he and his friends were unable to visit their usual bar.”
The shot cut to the back of a man’s head, partially blurred, as he spoke to a reporter in a parking lot. Behind the reporter, the bottom edge of a flashing neon sign was visible. “Yeah, David’s a good guy. Good guy. He’s like, being stalked because of his ex-wife. It’s just wrong, ya know? The guy can’t even go out with his friends and get a drink without being harassed, all ‘cause of a woman who cheated on him. He’s got a new wife and he has moved on.”
The last two words were louder and slurred.
The screen returned to the booking photo and the original announcer continued, “David Arnold Smith has had a number of run-ins with the law over the years, all for public intoxication. However, his last arrest was nearly five years ago. He is said to blame Claire Peyton for this latest incident. We have reached out to the ambassador’s office for comment, but they have not responded to our request.”
“I expect my phone will ring any minute.” Claire put a hand to her forehead. “This is asinine. I haven’t seen him in well over twenty years. I had no idea he was in California. And I most certainly did not cheat on him.”<
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Eduardo muted the television, then wrapped an arm around her waist and eased her to his side. “I’m sorry, Claire.”
“That was an American network, wasn’t it? That means my parents will see it. That’s the last thing they need. He was atrocious to them.”
“With any luck, they’ll tune it out. They know the truth about you.”
She cast a sideways look at him. “You believe me.”
“Don’t doubt it for a moment.”
“Thank you.”
He set the remote on the coffee table and urged her to take a seat beside him on the sofa. “Would you care to give me the nutshell version of the story? I’d tell you about my marriage, but there have been books written on it. If you aren’t sick of hearing about it, you should be.”
She laughed at that. He had a way of putting her at ease, even under less-than-ideal circumstances. “The nutshell version is that marrying David was a huge mistake. We met in college. He flirted, sent flowers, said all the right things. He loved that I worked hard and had ambition, because he did, too, at least at first. But we didn’t know each other well enough to be married. I knew he liked to go to bars with the guys on the weekends to watch sports, but I had no clue how much he drank or that it was more than just the weekends. Not until we were married and moved in together. I kept finding empty bottles in the bottom of our trash bins and jammed beneath the seats of his car. I worked long hours and he was doing well at his job, which made it easier to hide his addiction. When I confronted him, he lied about it. Then he insisted it wasn’t a problem and that I was being a killjoy. Gave me a whole spiel about how he needed an outlet from a stressful job and that he was simply getting adjusted to working full time and being married.”
Claire took a deep breath. She hated digging up the past, but she didn’t want it to affect her future. “Anyway, I told him it was over unless he got help, so he agreed. One afternoon I picked up a gas receipt he’d dropped in our carport. It was for a station on the far side of town and was time-stamped for when he’d told me he was at therapy. That’s how I discovered he was sleeping with an ex-girlfriend. Her apartment complex was across the street from that gas station. He confessed to it when I handed him the receipt and told me it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been such a nag about a drinking problem he didn’t have. I moved out the next morning and filed for divorce as soon as I could find an attorney. We were legally married for two years, but only lived together for six months.”
To Kiss a King (Royal Scandals: San Rimini Book 6) Page 16