Anger rose like bile in his throat. There was no surprise his father would make an ultimatum. Hugh Highfield was all about ultimatums and threats. But the anger was increased by the wrenching realization he had cowered to so many of his father’s demands and expectations all his life.
“Father,” he said quietly, strength welling up from deep inside. “I know much of this is my own fault. I have gone along with the Highfield Plan for so long, maybe it’s an understandable assumption I would go along with your plans, even for a choice for a wife. I went to Princeton, took a do-nothing job with the firm, and have moved away no further than the guest house.”
“Stop this, Princeton. There has been nothing wrong with your life choices.”
“Except for the fact they haven’t really been mine.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “They’ve been yours. And that’s done now. Starting with Cindy. You know, the funny thing is, she agrees with you. And I’m going to change her mind.”
Hugh Highfield drew himself up to his full height, mouth taut. “Well, you aren’t going to change mine. You will do as I say, or you will pay the price. There have been a lot of benefits to being my son, to doing things my way. This is an ultimatum, son, you stop this nonsense, and forget about that young woman, or you’ll find yourself on your own with nothing but your grandfather’s trust to support you.”
“I hear you. And it’s time I started supporting myself. Good night, Father.”
A stunned Hugh Highfield watched him walk out of the room.
****
Cindy could say one thing about Prince Highfield. He meant what he said. He’d accepted her mandate for a friendship-only relationship, and that had been that. Which was what she’d wanted. She reminded herself on the occasions she found herself staring off into space between inventory lists in the library. Like today. She reminded herself when she happened to glance down at her new black shoes at home on the floor of the closet.
Her decision was right. She knew she didn’t need the complications, frustrations, or heartbreak coming from being in love, especially when goals and interests and lifestyles were so opposite.
What was love anyway? She could clearly remember her sister’s bright smile in those first heady days of love with Jimmy. She could remember how the brightness dimmed with each trauma and loss. She could remember the pain and panic on the day her sister had died, with Jimmy nowhere to be found. Little newborn Hannah has been placed in her arms, Morgan curled up next to her. How she had loved those babies, right from the start. That was a kind of love she could understand.
She remembered her mother’s secret tears, too, late in the night, after her father’s funeral.
Her dear aunt had stepped in to raise them when her mother had died, living a somber and simple life after losing her husband at an early age. Her broken heart had never mended. Aunt Margaret had been a strong and loving woman in so many ways, deserving much more than life had given her.
She straightened her pile of inventory lists, put them neatly in her desk drawer, and started sorting the piles of books on her library desk. She sighed.
And, of course, George. With hopes and trust, she had planned her wedding, wanting to be the exception to the rule. She had mustered the courage, despite the evidence, to dare to love. She had ended up alone and in pain.
Losing your heart to love, Cindy knew, ran the great risk of disaster. She just couldn’t afford it again. Morgan and Hannah depended on her. And she depended on herself. She would stay strong and independent. She would do what she needed to do to raise and protect her own little family, and make sure her community was a safe and solid place to live.
She would not live her life dreaming of fairy tales.
But there were moments. Cindy had to admit there were moments when her mind drifted to those certain magic moments. Despite her noble intentions, Prince Highfield had snuck into her heart, making her feel that tingly feeling that made her heart race. She would keep those special memories locked tight away, be glad for his friendship, and go on with meeting the goals of her life.
Things were bustling at the library, as summer began to slip into fall. Children hustled to finish their summer reading projects to return to school, new shipments of books arrived, and story hours, her favorite part of the job, continued.
Every once in a while, she’d lift her gaze from her latest story, look over the heads of happy children, and see Prince sitting quietly at the back of the crowd, on the wobbly wheeled chair Gladys, the librarian always reserved for him. He’d listen, smile, and then wave as he left, never interrupting her. Seeing him brought a kind of comfort to her, and a sense of loss when he left. But she left it alone.
Life was busy and not without problems. Her motorcycle broke down the week before on her jaunt to the grocery store. With no warning, the cycle lost power, with a loud and ominous metallic clanking cyclists dread. A chain had broken. The cycle was towed to the repair shop, where it still sat, awaiting her ability to pay the bill for the new parts. It would be quite a wait.
The kids, thankfully, were happy and well. Cindy tried to ignore the pesky little restlessness nibbling away at the edges of her consciousness. Life was just fine.
In her spare time, and on the weekends, she had been spending more time at Connie’s health clinic, helping out their flagging budget. Finances at the clinic had gotten so tight, they needed to rely on all the volunteer resources they could find to keep their doors open, hoping desperately to hold out for a much-needed emergency grant from the city. Cindy acted as volunteer receptionist, greeting patients, booking appointments, and helping in any non-medical way she could.
“You don’t have to do this,” her flustered friend exclaimed the first Saturday she showed up for duty. “You are overworked as it is.”
“It’s worth it. You’re worth it. Get away from that desk and go help somebody, Connie. I’ve got it covered.”
So Cindy worked her weekends away, in between running the kids to the community center, and supervising those quietly playing games and watching TV in the battered waiting room.
The clinic stayed open, and provided checkups, stitches, vaccinations, and support for the local families pouring in the door in a steady stream.
Cindy cheerfully welcomed the worried moms with sick kids, the hardworking dads, the dedicated foster moms fighting the odds to give the children in their care a steady life. The work was worth it. But she was tired.
Thursday morning, right during story hour, Prince showed up at the library again. He wore jeans and a light blue shirt. The color would, she knew, bring out the blue in his eyes. The thought both irritated her and intrigued her. Why, in the middle of The Little Engine That Could was she suddenly imagining the hue of a man’s eyes, noticing how completely different he looked in the casual clothes as opposed to the designer suits she had always seen him in?
Being a multi-tasker was more than a good thing, she chided herself, turning the page of the book, making appropriate faces and sounds at the children, reading the story with her usual exuberance.
Cindy smiled inside as she pushed her unwanted fashion critique aside, and focused on the children in front of her. She was startled enough, and honest enough to admit, though, she was very, very glad to see him.
Seconds later, Gladys, the librarian, rushed to her side, frantically waving a piece of paper. Cindy took it, read the words, and her heart dropped. A call from the babysitter reported Morgan had taken a fall in the park. Cindy was needed at the clinic, where he had been taken for emergency care.
As her heart hammered in her chest, she raised her eyes, and her gaze locked with the intense blue ones across the room. Before her breath came back into her lungs, he was by her side.
Prince took the note, read it, and put a steadying hand on her arm.
“I-I have to go,” Cindy stammered. “Morgan.”
She looked up, the faces of the children silently watching her. “The children, many parents won’t be back for them for anot
her fifteen minutes.” Her mind raced, all she wanted to do was to run, and catch the bus.
The hand on her arm tightened. “Relax, Cindy. Morgan will be fine. But you need to go as quickly as possible.”
His voice was like a comforting blanket on her jangled nerves. Something was pressed into her hand. Looking down, she saw the leather key ring.
“Take my car. It’s parked to the left when you go out the door. Around the corner. It’ll get you there fastest. I’ll meet you there later.”
Cindy looked again, from his face, to the kids, back again. What should she do about the children?
He smiled and whispered, “Don’t worry. I have this covered. Go.”
Then he picked up The Little Engine that Could, plopped himself down on her stool, and started in on the story, right where she had left off.
“I think I can, I think I can, woo-woo!” she heard as she darted away. She dared to take one more quick glance over her shoulder before she rounded the corner toward the door, and saw Princeton Highfield, his knees practically up to his chin, sitting on her little stool, holding the book out for all the kids to see.
“Woo-woo!” he said again, and the kids roared in appreciation.
Woo-woo is right. Cindy sped off, gratitude mixing in with the fear and worry about Morgan.
****
The Little Engine that Could. The title itself was an inspiration, Prince had thought as he had dared to take the book.
“I think I can. I think I can.”
If a little train could dare to rise to a challenge, and defy all laws of gravity, mass and energy, so could he.
And if the simple act of reading a story, and keeping a small bevy of kids still and entertained could help to remove even a bit of the horror he saw on Cindy’s face, he would muster up the courage and strength. Princeton Highfield, fighter of dragons.
He read. By the second page, a strange metamorphosis took place. He looked out into the sea of faces, studying him, questioning him, waiting mesmerized for the next words, the next picture. He saw the trust. He saw the hope. Something in his heart melted. His voice caught.
Prince stumbled over a word, taking a second to feel the strange emotion erupting in him. He cleared his throat, not willing to let the kids, or the little engine, down. The story went on. The engine chugged, the children laughed, and Princeton read. All of a sudden, bringing the words to life, to tell the tale of the train, its challenge, its success, felt important.
He watched the faces of the kids, delighting in their celebration as the engine came to a halt at its destination.
They clapped and cheered, and he grinned like an idiot, thrilled they had accepted the “Prince Highfield rendition” of the tale. Parents were arriving, smiling, accepting Gladys’ explanation Cindy had been called away.
“Can we make a train?” one young boy called out. “Cindy lets us make a train.” The whole gang, of course, agreed.
Having seen the monkey parade, Prince didn’t doubt it for a minute. But his pulse quickened at the thought. He wasn’t sure he could do it.
A little child’s shaky voice echoed his thoughts. “I can’t do it.” He looked down to see a small boy with shaggy blonde hair in a wheelchair. No leg cast for this child, like the last time with Mary Beth. This child’s legs were thin and twisted. His voice was wispy, resigned. “I can’t be in a train.”
Prince’s heart took another hit. He looked up at the adult behind the boy’s chair. “Can I lift him?” he whispered to the small woman, and her nod made his decision for him.
“Well, yes, we can do a train. But I’m not a good engine.” Prince pointed to one of the bigger kids. “How about if you are the engine? A nice, slow engine?”
The taller boy jumped up, grinning with excitement, like he had won an Oscar.
Leadership, Princeton smiled to himself, is sometimes inborn. “And this young man and I,” he said aloud, as he reached over and picked up the young boy from his wheelchair, “Will be the very important caboose. Can you help me be the caboose?”
There was a nod, and a loud giggle.
Prince put the young boy up on his shoulder, steadying him firmly, and took his place at the end of the line Mr. Engine had already organized.
“I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.” The parade made its way around the library, chugging and chanting. At the end, breathless, they laughed and shouted “I THOUGHT I COULD!”
The parents clapped, and shook his hand with thanks.
“Thanks, Mister,” said the little blond boy as he settled him again in his chair. ”I had a really good time being a caboose with you. I’m Jacob.”
“You were the best caboose ever. I’m Prince. Thanks for helping me.”
Jacob laughed with delight, his cheeks turning rosy. “I thought you helped me. Did I help you?”
“More than you’ll ever know, Jacob. You take care now.”
His mother smiled and blinked, tears in her eyes. “You are a prince,” she said. She blew him a kiss as she left.
Within minutes, all the families were gone.
He turned, still filled with strange emotions, and found Gladys standing behind him, arms crossed, looking stern.
“There are rules in this library about yelling,” she said, pointing a finger at him. “There was an awful lot of noise coming from back here.”
He couldn’t believe it, but he was blushing.
“Gee, Gladys, I didn’t think. I’m sorry.”
Then her face let into an unaccustomed smile, like the skin had to stretch to turn her mouth upward. “Nothing to be sorry about, Mr. Prince. I was just teasing. Your rendition was delightful. And helpful. And quite a surprise.”
He grinned, amazed at the pride he felt. “No one is more surprised than me,” he admitted.
“I rather figured that,” she said, pursing her lips. “Sometimes we can all surprise ourselves.”
When Gladys turned and walked away, he thought he heard humming. What had happened in those minutes of sitting on that little stool? Somewhere between the “woo woo” of the train, and that cute little kid’s reaction to being hoisted in the air and joining the parade, he had made a crucial step.
The cab drive to the clinic was very quick, probably because of the foreign cabbie’s stated belief that one day he wished to be a NASCAR driver. Prince was glad the man’s driving skill level was pretty good, and that his luck was even better. After three near misses, they pulled to the clinic door in one piece.
Prince tipped twice as much as he needed to, jumped out, and rushed in to see what was going on.
The waiting room of the clinic was quiet but full. The fluorescent lights overhead were over bright, bouncing off the garish gold walls of the waiting room. A few kids sat on the worn green carpet in front of the receptionist desk, playing with a doll house. The orange and green chairs lining the walls held a variety of waiting patients, some tattooed, some grey headed, faces dark and light. With lightning speed, he scanned the room. No Cindy in sight.
A few strides brought him to the desk, which was piled high with files. Almost hidden behind the stacks was a tiny young woman, with narrow dark glasses and short, spiky hair.
She opened her mouth to address him, but he beat her to the punch. The nervousness he had suppressed through the library story and the heart-stopping cab ride came bursting through.
“Cindy Castle. Morgan Castle. Are they here?” Prince heard the bark in his own voice, but couldn’t stop it.
“Wow, Mister. Chill,” said the girl in an airy voice. “They’re here. Little tyke is getting some stitches. They’ll be out soon. Have a seat.”
Prince stared, a thousand retorts fighting to come out his mouth. He used his better judgment and snapped his lips shut. He’d sit. He’d wait. She was right, even if she was aggravating. He had no business charging into the treatment room, demanding to see Cindy, to see Morgan. Even if he wanted to. Which he did. He took a long slow breath.
“Cindy said you’d be coming
. I’m assuming you are Princeton,” she said. “A nice guy.”
She looked at him quizzically as if he couldn’t possibly be the “nice guy” Cindy had told her to expect. “I’m Princeton. And I’m usually a nice guy. Just not when I’m upset and worried. Sorry. I’ll sit.”
“Cool,” she said, going back to sorting files as he turned.
He searched the room again, looking for an open chair. Suddenly, his gaze locked on a familiar little face in the far corner.
“Prince!” Hannah climbed off the lap of the woman who held her and charged him, chubby legs pumping, arms up in the air.
“Why Miss Hannah, it’s you!” he exclaimed, scooping her up, lifting her high in the air. He crossed to the woman who had been holding her, remembering her from the first day he had met Cindy. The babysitter, Mrs. Polly. He introduced himself, and sat down in one of the aged orange plastic chairs. It squeaked and groaned in protest.
Prince learned Morgan had fallen on the play ground, cutting his leg on the edge of a large rock. He was being stitched and bandaged, and would be ready to go home soon. The relief pouring through him was startling and deep as he took in the news. As Hannah giggled and bounced on his knee, his pulse returned to normal.
He looked around at the families huddled in the crowded little clinic. No fancy decor here. The place was clean, but worn to the point of being “worn out.” This was not like the doctor’s office near the Highfield estate, where money and prestige were the assumption. This was the real world, with the struggles and challenges came along with it. Some of the clients dressed with pride in their appearance, others with the ragged look of those who have given up the battle. This was humanity, reality, and the truth hit him in the gut.
The door from the street opened, and a vaguely familiar woman backed in, pulling a wheelchair behind her. His eyes widened with a soar of recognition. He saw the passenger in the chair was Mary Beth, his little bear buddy friend from the library, with her foster mother.
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