Cindy's Prince

by Bush, Christine

  She laughed and reached up and ruffled his hair.

  A catch lodged in his throat. Except for Mrs. Duran, no one in the world had ever ruffled the hair of Princeton Edmund Highfield. She had done it as long as he could remember, as a toddler who had fallen off his bike, as a ravenous teen that arrived to raid the refrigerator. Emotion surged, all of a sudden, making his throat tighten, and it totally threw him off kilter.

  “Nope. That’s it. Thanks,” she said. “You’ll make some woman a fine husband some day.” She turned and looked at him pointedly. “Speaking of which, I hear the wedding was lovely. Your parents are dying to speak to you about it. Did you have a good time with Ms. Carrington? One of these days you will meet the woman of your dreams.”

  He laughed and refilled his coffee mug. If he had to stop in and visit his parents, he needed more fortification. “You know you’re the only person who can get away with badgering me, don’t you? The wedding was exactly as you’d expect it to be. As was Ms. Carrington. And no, she is not the woman of my dreams.”

  “Good,” snapped Mrs. Duran. “I have a feeling the woman of your dreams will not be exactly as anyone would expect.” She finished unloading the box and wiped her hands on her apron. “And I, for one, am looking forward to seeing who my Prince will take as his princess. Now go see your parents before you’re off to your next adventure. Might as well get it over with. And tell them lunch will be at noon.”

  His princess. Suddenly his mind was filled with the vision of a girl with laughing eyes, sitting on a little stool, a flowing princess hat on her head. Man, he was in trouble. He took a stiff drink of coffee, and headed toward the breakfast room and got ready for battle.

  Some people might think being Princeton Highfield was easy. The son of one of Philadelphia’s richest men, he’d had the best education, the best clothes, the best home money could buy. He was the fourth and youngest child of Hugh Highfield and his old-moneyed society wife, the former Celia Westbury. Who could ask for more?

  He passed through the hallway in the well-appointed manor house, where large portraits of his ancestors reigned in all their gilt-framed splendor. How many times had he walked this way? For some reason, today he was seeing his world for the first time. His feet made no sound on the expensive oriental carpet sitting upon gleaming floors. He passed an alcove, stopping for an instant to look at an oil painting of his mother’s grandfather commanding the space. Two Queen Anne chairs in elegant leather sat below the frame, an intricately carved table nestled between them, where a crystal vase of fresh flowers perched.

  The view was fit to grace an interior design magazine, he realized. Probably at some point, it had. But never, ever, in his life, had he seen anyone sit in those chairs. No one had ever relaxed, or enjoyed them. For some reason, this thought bothered him a lot.

  He shook it off. He had bigger thoughts to contend with. He took another swig of coffee, and stepped to the breakfast room, and the Highfield Inquisition.

  “Princeton, how lovely!” His mother rose from her chair and crossed to him, kissing the air around his face. She wore a long silk dressing gown. Her hair was perfectly styled, and her perfect make-up was in place.

  He didn’t remember ever seeing her otherwise. How did she do that so early in the morning? “Good morning, Mother. You look elegant as usual.”

  She smiled sweetly and sat back down.

  “Father.” He crossed to the end of the table and shook his father’s hand. “Good morning.”

  “Glad to see you’re up, son, and not frittering away the day. Not admirable to fritter, I’d say.”

  Prince sat stiffly on one of the high backed chairs at the table. He doubted his father had ever frittered one minute of his life. He wore his usual suit in a light grey wool, white shirt, expensive tie. His grey hair was perfectly groomed, and he smelled faintly of aftershave. The newspaper was open next to his plate, turned and neatly folded to expose the financial pages and market reports. No, no frittering for Hugh Highfield.

  He looked with a narrowed gaze at his son, taking in everything from his sneakers, to his racquetball clothes, to his still-unshaven jaw. He didn’t say a word, just pressed his lips together.

  The familiar tight lips. His father didn’t need to say a word. Hugh Highfield had already said it all, in Prince’s twenty-eight years of life. Prince knew exactly when he came up short. Which was often.

  “Miss Carrington looked lovely last night,” his father began.

  Cut right to the chase. Waste no time on formalities. The hairs on Prince’s neck prickled.

  “Absolutely lovely,” agreed his mother. “And charming. Absolutely charming.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” he agreed.

  “Don’t mess this up, boy,” said his father, giving him a piercing gaze. “This would make for a most suitable arrangement. Many benefits to a coalition between the two families.” He pointed a finger. “Don’t drop the ball here.”

  Drop the ball? He did a little deep breathing, calming himself. No sense in overreacting. This was nothing new. Nothing new.

  “Your mother has been in touch with Marian Carrington. She got the disturbing impression from her daughter this morning that you were not as interested as she had hoped.” He shook his head. “This is most distressing. We assured her such was not the case. We’re counting on this, you know.”

  Sparks of anger flashed in his head. In touch with Marian Carrington? The society grapevine had deep roots. Judgments, gossip, disturbances, assurances? The sun had barely risen on the horizon, and already he had been judged, evaluated, and criticized. They actually thought they could conspire to align him with a suitable bride. That was bad enough. But the worse realization was they actually thought he would go along with it.

  The caffeine buzzed a little in his veins. He put up his hand. “Stop, Father,” he said with as much control as he could muster. “I’m a grown man. This is my business and no one else’s.”

  “Nonsense. Your business?” The sharp, piercing gaze was back. “What makes you think it’s your business alone?” Hugh Highfield motioned to the mantel place next to the table, where a picture of Prince’s older brother, decked out in uniform and medals, was proudly displayed. “Now HE is a grown man. He is a credit to this family and to his country. The least you can do is to take direction and find success through the opportunities we’re availing you. The best thing you can do is to get in touch with Haley Carrington this very morning and let her know how mistaken she is. Case closed.”

  High Highfield picked up his coffee cup in one hand, and his paper in the other. He began to read.

  Princeton had been dismissed. His stomach churned and his anger rose like bile in his throat. Words ached to spew forth. But it would do no good to talk back. He knew that clearly from a lifetime of experience. He took a deep breath, and turned to his mother. “I’ll be leaving now, Mother. Nice to see you.”

  “Goodbye, dear boy. Come around again soon.” She smiled cordially.

  The gesture looked as if she was totally unaware of the drama unfolded before her. Prince had seen that before, too.

  He couldn’t leave the house fast enough.

  Chapter Five

  The top down in his Aston Martin, Prince revved up the engine and pulled out of the estate driveway like he was off the line at the Daytona 500. He’d held his tongue, held his temper, but there had been a price. Energy raced through him like he had his finger in an electrical socket. After he’d gone a few blocks toward town, having jammed on his brakes for slow-moving shoppers three times in a row, he regained control of himself and slowed his speed.

  His father made him crazy. He was sane enough to know his father had no real control over his life. Not like the old days when marriages were arranged, when sons and daughters were spliced together to grow dynasties and prevent war. Even if making a great society match and beneficial business deal would make Hugh Highfield happy, he had no ability to make it happen in reality. Hugh Highfield just had his expectations
.

  His expectations. All his life, Prince had been wishing he could live up to his father’s expectations. His brother always had. He was considered a kind of white knight even before he had donned his uniform and won medals in the war.

  In her own weird way, his sister had won respect. Hope had defied their father, doing what she pleased, refusing the society expectations of being a Highfield heir. She’d built a life as a successful veterinarian, much to her father’s chagrin. She’d stood her ground, and then had married a tough but successful corporate wizard. Hugh Highfield had given his grudging respect.

  Next came his sister Joy, the family society queen who was following in Mother’s footsteps, while getting her college education course by course between charity luncheons and fashion shows. A “proper” marriage would follow, he was certain. She too, lived up to the family “expectations.”

  But not him. A car pulled into traffic directly in front of him, and he jammed on his brakes.

  Prince had rolled through prep school with ease, achieving great grades as well as a reputation on the soccer field. He’d gone to Princeton University, his father’s beloved alma mater. The institution was the source, believe it or not, of his name. He had every intention of being a success.

  And he was. He’d graduated with close to a 4.0 average, majoring in English Literature. He’d had enough fun to make the college years memorable, but not enough fun to have blackened his record. He’d lived his life to fulfill the family expectations, and he’d fully planned to take his place in the family shipping business.

  But his father had not approved of him. He’d given him an office, a lot of social expectations, and nothing meaningful to do. Prince received a hefty salary, but when he tried to earn it, he was criticized, pushed aside, and ignored. His expected role in life was to play the happy playboy, attending society events, playing tennis at the country club, and just not get in the way.

  When Prince relocated to the guest house a few years ago, the move had caused a stir, but he had gotten his way. Living in the main house and exposed to his father’s stares and controlling advice on a daily basis had been unendurable. He showed up at the office once or twice a week, showed up at the country club twice that amount, and more or less did as he pleased as the days rolled by.

  But he wasn’t happy. And he sure wasn’t going to get married, especially to his father’s handpicked society maiden. Time to draw the line. Time for Princeton Highfield to stop getting pushed around, and decide just who exactly he was.

  He tightened his hands on the wheel, and maneuvered through the Saturday morning traffic in town, heading for the racquetball club. As he approached the grocery store, he glanced at his watch. He was running late, but he’d left in a huff and hadn’t remembered to bring a water bottle. With an exasperated sigh, and without a turn signal, he veered left and into the lot. He barely missed running into a motorcycle turning in from the opposite direction. Prince slammed on the brakes.

  Tires screeched. Both car and cycle came to an abrupt stop with inches to spare, nose to nose.

  The cyclist sat astride the Harley, feet now stretching to reach the asphalt.

  The guy was pretty small. That registered with Prince first. If the situation deteriorated, he wouldn’t have to fight hard to protect his orthodontia. The cycle wasn’t huge, and it was pretty old, from what he could see. So he wasn’t about to have a bad moment with a maniacal member of a motorcycle gang.

  But he had a feeling he would get an earful, and grimacing, he knew, though he’d hate to admit it, he had been in the wrong. He had been the one to cross traffic and hadn’t even used his turn signal. In blinking rhythm, the Harley signal still flashed, though he hadn’t noticed it in his preoccupation to get into the parking lot. Whatever happened, he deserved it. He had been irresponsible.

  Here it comes. On cue, the cyclist reached down and turned off the blinker. Then a hand went up to remove the sun glasses. Anger flashed.

  He stared in amazement. He had seen those eyes before. He had seen them laughing, on the bus. They had been animated with fun, in the library. He had even seen them flash fear, when he had presented her with the parcel from her late husband. But this was the first time he had seen them angry. And they were the last pair of eyes he expected to see atop a Harley. The cycle driver was Cindy Castle, and she was mad.

  She stared, reaching up with the other hand to yank off her helmet. The long dark hair spilled out, shining in the sunlight, like a shampoo commercial on TV.

  “What the heck is the matter with you?” said the girl with the flashing eyes. “Do you think you own the world? You could have killed me. I have kids who depend on me. Do you care who you trample, who you splatter on the sidewalk?”

  “Sorry,” he stammered and cleared his throat. Prince was not used to stammering. Except for extreme moments with his father, which could be enough to silence thunder from the sky, he was never without words. He stared, trying to focus on something other than the fact her hair was amazing, and she looked pretty great in her jeans. And the truth was, he really was sorry!

  “Sorry?” She shook her head. “Just sorry? Figures. Rich people think the rules aren’t for them. Highfields evidently don’t need to follow traffic laws.”

  Now instead of looking angry, she just looked tired. Highfields? The fact registered she had recognized him from the day before, and she’d figured out who he really was. Why did he suddenly feel embarrassed about who he was? He tried to smile, but his face wasn’t working.

  She had anchored her helmet on the back of her cycle then turned to face him again. “I’m going to go now, if you don’t mind. Please try not to hit me.”

  By now, impatient drivers honked behind both of them. She put her feet on the pedals and turned the cycle into the lot.

  He watched her go, emotions flaring. Cindy Castle. And he had almost nailed her with his car. What kind of god of the universe had made that little coincidence occur? What exactly were the odds of that?

  He sighed. This wasn’t going to be his day. He was fascinated by that girl, despite how inappropriate it was. As angry as she was at his driving, and as disgusted as she had looked when she said his family name, she was far from fascinated by him.

  Most of the women he met practically lit up like a light bulb when they heard his name, impressed with his pedigree, his striking bachelor good looks, or at least his to-die-for Aston Martin. But not this one. Her lip curled with contempt.

  Resigned, he climbed back into the Aston. He would chalk it up to life experience, and stop thinking about her eyes, about her hair, about her smile. And maybe someday their paths would cross again, in some positive and harmless way. On that day, he could let her know he wasn’t the absolute jerk she had assessed him to be. Maybe. But not today.

  He backed up his car carefully, and pulled away from the lot. At this moment in time, he had no desire to get water bottles. He had no desire to run into Cindy Castle in the aisles of the market. With his luck and with the way the day was progressing, he would probably hit her with his cart.

  So he headed to meet Kyle at the club, where he was pretty sure he would also get creamed at racquetball. Some days are better than others.

  ****

  Cindy was through the produce aisle before she found her way back to serenity. What about the too-good-looking-for-his-own-good Princeton Highfield stirred up her insides? The guy couldn’t help it if he was rich. Who could blame him for thinking he owned the road? He practically did. And he did look good in that snazzy car.

  In spite of herself, she smiled. Then she thought of his picture on the society page, attached to the beautiful heiress, and the smile faded. Out of her league. And better off out of her mind. She knew better. Her hand closed around a smooth orb. She turned her attention to the tomatoes and carrots before her. Thinking of vegetables was definitely safer.

  Grocery shopping was a test of her organizational abilities. At the register, she packed her purchases with precision and balance
, filling the back pack to capacity. The rest of her order split between the two side compartments on her motorcycle, balancing the weight evenly, and using every square inch of space. The packing was a geometrical masterpiece.

  She made her way back to the boulevard, enjoying the feel of the bike beneath her. As the light turned green, she accelerated hard. The bike responded with a kick and she took off, no cars in front of her. Leaping ahead, she felt the air pressed against her, the sun rays warmed her face. The sound of the engine roaring in her ears. Freedom. It zapped through her like a lightning bolt, energizing her. There was nothing like it. And the freedom was short lived. She saw a distant light turn red, and cut her speed as traffic built up around her.

  When she reached Lark Street, she pulled the bike down the alleyway and locked it in the garage, lugging the bags into the house. “I’m home,” she called as she arrived, “Who’s hungry? Lunch is in five minutes.”

  “Hooray!” came a muffled barrage of voices from the living room. She found Connie and the three kids hiding under a big green tent made from a comforter and three strategically placed kitchen chairs.

  “We’ll be out in a sec,” called Connie from the depths of their sanctuary. “We’re telling stories in the castle here. Did you get peanut butter? Everyone wants peanut butter.”

  “Oh yes I did! And I got a loaf of that fresh baked bread. It’s still warm.”

  “You are fantastic. Yum. I think I died and went to heaven,” Connie said with exaggerated enthusiasm.

  “My dad and mom died and went to heaven too. Do you think…” Morgan’s voice broke in, low and sad. “They are happy in heaven? Do you think they miss me?”

  Cindy’s heart contracted, sadness pouring in. She sighed out loud. The realities of life. She always made it a point to let the kids voice their thoughts, their feelings, their loss. Though each time they did, the loss of her sister hit her like a cold wave. Grief was a long process.

  “Sorry, bad choice of words,” said Connie softly from under the blanket. “You go make lunch, Cin, and Morgan and I will talk about heaven. It’s okay. I’ve got it this time.”