The Prince's Slave

by P. J. Fox

  Donna giggled. She actually giggled. “Donna Wainwright.” She turned to Belle. “I love his accent.”

  He was standing right there.

  But Ash didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seemed charmed by the force of nature that was Belle’s mother. He was still regarding her with that bemused expression.

  And then, ogling the Dassault behind them, “some ride you hitched. Whose plane is this?”

  “It’s mine, ma’am.”

  Donna turned to Belle. “You mean that ring is real?”

  Belle blushed crimson.

  “I endeavor to care for your daughter to the best of my ability.”

  “Well you watch it.” Donna fixed him with her patented stink eye. “I don’t want you turning her head with your fancy things. She’s not some ho.”

  Ash blinked. Belle wondered if anyone had ever said such a thing to him before. “No,” he said. “Of course not. That your daughter and I are not yet married is—”

  “Undoubtedly your fault.”

  “Mom!”

  Donna deflated somewhat. “I just—oh, honey, you’ve been gone for so long and you come home from this exchange program, and might I add that I always thought exchange programs were bad enough, you could have gone to the University of Maine for free but instead you had to go south, to those hooligans, and—”

  “I went to Harvard for free!”

  “Went being the key word.” Donna sniffed. “And then even America wasn’t good enough and you had to study somewhere else and then you come home engaged to a man I’ve never met and whose mother I don’t know and what if he’s awful and—”

  “Then,” Ash interposed smoothly, “let us get to know one another better.”

  “We’re due at the funeral home soon.”

  Ash put his arm around Belle. “And then, perhaps, I can take us all out for something to eat.”

  NINETY-FOUR

  This had been, Belle decided, the strangest morning of her life.

  They rode along in silence in the limo that Alec had managed to procure. No one explained how he’d found such a thing in Portland, and Belle didn’t ask. It was a new model, too. The limo that had taken Belle to her prom had been a relic from the eighties, all boxy edges, and had smelled suspiciously of stale beer. But this…this still had new car smell.

  Ash and Belle sat on one side. Donna sat on the other, facing them.

  And next to Donna sat Frank Terriault, their neighbor.

  No one had explained what he was doing here, either. No one had explained much of anything. He acted like he had a perfect right to come along. He’d greeted Belle with some enthusiasm and Ash amiably enough, asking if he liked fishing.

  Now Frank gazed out the window, not awkward at all.

  “I’ve never been in a limo before,” Donna said. “This is so exciting!”

  And then, remembering why she was in the limo, she started to sob.

  “It’s alright, Donna,” Frank said.

  No it wasn’t. It wasn’t alright. It wasn’t fucking alright.

  They pulled up in front of the funeral home.

  Bishop and Son was an old Victorian pile that had been transformed into a wholly different kind of monstrosity. The clapboards had been painted bright red, the trim an alarming white not found in nature. It looked like the house of a macabre Santa Claus.

  “They’re a very reputable funeral home,” Donna said defensively.

  Even though no one else had uttered.

  Alec, his face impassive, opened the door.

  They got out. The sun was shining and there was the faintest breath of spring in the air. Which, this time of year, meant mainly the scent of mud. Mud that would, with time, give birth to growing things. A future that seemed impossible in early April.

  The trees were still bare, which only leant to the garish Christmas effect.

  Inside, they were confronted with a parlor that smelled of hospital and reminded Belle of nothing so much as Master John’s care home. Except the decorator here had swapped pea green for bilious rose and mauve pastels. A peon of some sort asked them to sit, and they sat. He returned a few minutes later with little bottles of water. Poland Spring, what it meant to be from Maine.

  The rape of your prized natural resources while outsiders took advantage of you?

  Yes, sounded about right.

  Belle stared at the too-shiny table in front of her and felt angry. About what, she couldn’t have said. The table, in and of itself, wasn’t terribly offensive. Cheap, yes; a Queen Anne knockoff, its machined legs lacking any of the elegance that Ash’s actual antiques possessed. Her problem was more that she couldn’t quite believe she was here. A day ago, she’d been in her own home, perfectly content.

  How had so much changed, and so quickly?

  She looked up as the funeral director appeared.

  Like apparently all funeral directors, he was white and middle aged and looked strangely smooth. He regarded the motley group. “Good afternoon,” he said.

  Was it afternoon? Already?

  Donna stood up. The others followed suit. “This is my daughter,” she said, gesturing to Belle. “And this is her fiancé. He’s not from around here.” She cleared her throat. “And this is my—our family friend, Frank Terriault.”

  “Will you all be accompanying me into my office?”

  “Yes.”

  As they walked, Donna proceeded to tell the funeral director that Belle was very sorry she hadn’t gotten here earlier, but had been somewhere else. The funeral director absorbed this statement with equanimity. He opened the door to his office. There weren’t enough chairs, so he fetched two more. Frank had sat down immediately, and didn’t offer to help.

  The funeral director took a seat behind his desk.

  “I brought the clothes we want for him,” Donna said. “They’re in a shopping bag in the car.”

  Belle almost retched.

  The funeral director glanced through his notes. “Now, you’d mentioned earlier that you wanted him cremated, is that correct?” He looked up. “Being cremated is my last hope for a smoking hot body.”

  Donna’s eyes widened.

  “Too soon? Oh, well.” He steepled his fingers, pressing the spatulate tips together. “It is more cost effective.”

  Donna looked flustered. “Well then, I suppose we should—”

  “No.” Ash cut in.

  “No?” The funeral director clearly hadn’t expected Ash to speak.

  “What’s the best package you offer?”

  The funeral director made a pretense of not knowing the answer to this most thrilling of questions. He rifled through his notes. “I, ah…our basic services are twenty-two, and then the transfer….” He licked his thumb and turned a page. “Then there’s the limo, of course…the state requires refrigeration…ah.” He looked up. “Sixty-five hundred. Not including graveside service, disposition permit, or placement in the Press-Herald.”

  Ash glared at him.

  The funeral director faltered, his smile slipping somewhat. “I, ah…naturally there is a discount. A, ah, substantial discount, when you purchase the casket with us.”

  Ash tossed a black card on the table.

  Now Frank’s eyes widened.

  “Will you require a harpist?” the funeral director asked politely.

  They left fifteen minutes later, having selected a walnut casket hand-carved by Trappist monks. Donna had decided that yes, she did want a harpist. Frank had asked if the funeral home would be serving refreshments. After a quick glance at Ash, the funeral director announced that they would be delighted to provide refreshments, with the rental of their reception room free of charge. The finest caterers in Portland would provide the mourners with lunch; he’d see to the arrangements personally.

  The viewing would be the next afternoon and the funeral would take place the following morning.

  “You can buy caskets online, now,” Frank said.

  “I’m sure we’re all edified to know that.”
Ash’s tone was cool.

  “Could’ve saved yourself some money. When my uncle died—”

  “I’m certain that your uncle was a worthy fellow, but—”

  “Well now, no he wasn’t. He ran a meth lab and it exploded on him, but—”

  They were saved by reaching the car.

  Belle wondered how she’d stand staying here through the funeral.

  “Now,” Ash said bracingly, “let’s get lunch.”

  At Frank’s request, Alec drove them to the city’s most popular old person restaurant. Or, at least, that was how Belle had always thought of the place. They all had names like The Country Squire and The Black Forest Café and vaguely Tudor façades and menu items like cold asparagus soup.

  This place was no different. Belle had never eaten here before; growing up, she and her parents—and then just she and her mother—hadn’t gotten out much. The nicest dinner out she could remember having was to the Waffle House. Maybe things had changed in the time she’d been gone, she thought as Alec pulled up to the entrance.

  Inside, the décor reminded her a great deal of the funeral home: more mauve and pink, this time with gold accents.

  A waitress who looked like she hadn’t changed her outfit since 1955 escorted them to a table and presented them with menus. She called Ash “hon,” flashing him a with a set of tobacco-stained dentures. Her hair had been rinsed a delicate lavender.

  The tablecloth was white. The napkins were mauve. The rose in the bud vase was silk.

  “Prime rib special!” Frank seemed entirely too excited for someone whose friend had supposedly just died. “And creamed spinach. My favorite.”

  Belle’s stomach turned again. The image of a slab of meat, lying limp on its plate, conjured images of her father’s casket. She decided she’d order a salad. Maybe a stiff drink, too. Or five.

  The waitress returned. She was chewing gum, and she produced a pen from behind her ear. “Y’all look miserable. Who died?”

  “My husband.”

  “Oh, God almighty!” Belle thought the woman might die on the spot. “I am so sorry. I had no idea! I was just fooling with you is all. He died? When? And if I may ask, what of?”

  “Heart failure.”

  “Well isn’t that the worst. Although I can tell you, sometimes I wish my Charlie would just drop dead. Just keel over, just like that.” She illustrated her point with a hand gesture, in case any of them missed it. Then, seeing the looks on their faces, she hurried on. “But I suppose y’all would like to order. Although how anyone could eat at a time like this….”

  Donna ordered the petit filet and baked potato plate. Frank ordered one of everything on the menu. Ash ordered steak tartare, was told they didn’t have it, and settled on a burger.

  Belle ordered a salad.

  “You should eat more,” Donna said. “I swear, you’ve actually lost weight.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Frank studied her. “You have one of those—what do they call them, disordered eating problems? Where you make yourself vomit and don’t eat nothing but lettuce?”

  “No, Frank.”

  The waitress looked back and forth between them. “Is there anything else?”

  “Yes,” Belle said. “I’ll have an old fashioned.”

  “Well now, sweetie, I’ll have to see your ID.”

  Duh. She was in America. She shook her head. “Never mind.” She wouldn’t turn twenty-one for another few months. A fact that never ceased to amaze her; she felt like she was a hundred. Two hundred. She was certainly more mature than anyone at this table.

  “I’ll have a negroni,” Ash said.

  “A—a what?”

  “Did you just order a negro?” Frank’s eyes narrowed as he studied Ash across the table. “Just what part of the world are you from? I thought all you dark people stuck together.”

  “He’s not a dark person,” Donna hissed.

  “Well, yeah, he’s a little dark.” Frank produced a toothpick from somewhere and began cleaning his teeth. “But ain’t nothing wrong with that. The President’s a little dark, too. Although he’s more the color of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and our friend here is more the color of underdone toast. You know, a little yellow-like.”

  Please earth, Belle prayed silently, open up and swallow me now.

  “But if he treats her good,” Frank added judiciously, “I don’t see what it matters.”

  “Two parts gin,” Ash said stiffly, “one part Campari, and one half part each of Carpano Antica vermouth and Martini & Rossi.”

  The waitress seemed relieved to depart.

  “You a heavy drinker?” Frank asked.

  Here was the one person alive, Belle decided, on whom Ash’s glare had no effect.

  “Because you know Owen was, God rest his soul, and I’m not fixing to see that happen to his daughter. What happened to Donna here. Now I understand you got money, and that’s alright, but a man’s got to have a little bit more than that.”

  “I agree.”

  “Oh. Well then, that’s good.”

  “So how’d you two meet?” Donna asked.

  “At…at an auction.”

  Donna transferred her gaze to Ash. “You purchase fine art, then?”

  “The finest.”

  “I seen that on Antiques Roadshow.” Frank, mercifully, discarded his toothpick. “So like, antique plates with cats and such?”

  “I’m a fan of Courbet.”

  “He on Antiques Roadshow?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’m not surprised that you were taken with my Belle. All the boys always were.”

  Which patently wasn’t true. Belle had been about as popular among the boys at Scarborough High as jock itch. Maybe even less so. But Donna had always seen things how she chose. She’d deplored Belle’s popularity, wondering what it meant for the state of her daughter’s virtue, even as Belle spent her lunches at the only open table in the cafeteria. Reading a book. Partly because she’d always been more comfortable around books than people and partly so she wouldn’t have to think about how lonely she was.

  “Billy Meyers is back in town.” Donna smiled indulgently.

  “How wonderful for him.”

  “He always loved your father.”

  Then he was the only one. But once again, they were saved by a timely intrusion. This time, the arrival of bread. And, a few minutes after that, a repast fit for—well, not a king. Maybe an especially prosperous nursing home. The obligatory vegetable sides came in little stoneware bowls. Belle wondered if the pea-carrot mix was canned.

  Frank, at least, dug into his meal with gusto. Donna stared sadly at her steak, too guilt-ridden now to eat it. Belle beamed silent hatred at the waitress.

  “This is the nicest place in Portland,” Frank told Ash. “Bet you’ve never been anywhere so nice.”

  “Indeed, the French Laundry pales in comparison.”

  “The what now?”

  Belle elbowed Ash under the table.

  “I wish you’d been here to celebrate Easter.”

  Now it began: Donna’s hit parade of recriminations.

  She turned to Ash. “What do your people do for Easter?”

  “We don’t celebrate that particular event.”

  Donna blinked.

  “I’m a Hindu.”

  “A what?”

  Frank pointed a finger at Ash’s plate. “Aren’t you kind of not supposed to be eating that? I thought your people worshipped cows. So that’s sort of like cannibalism.”

  “They don’t worship cows,” Belle interjected. “The cow represents the teaching of non-injury and also, for some, the God Krishna.”

  “Let the man answer for himself.”

  “She’s correct. And, alas, I am not particularly observant.”

  “You going to raise your children to worship cows?”

  “We’re not—we’re not ready to discuss children yet,” Belle said.

  Ash, leaning back in his chair, put his arm around her
. She recognized the look on his face and it did not signal good things. Ash might not be the kind of sadist who became a serial killer, but he did enjoy having a joke at someone else’s expense. Especially when he was upset. Which he was now. She didn’t blame him. She was, too.

  “Yes, we’re all terrible savages, prancing around in the jungle with the tigers.”

  “Frank,” Donna pleaded, “stop asking so many questions.”

  He put down his fork and turned to her. “Donna, if Owen had done his job then maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess. Hearing about your daughter’s fiancé just now and, even worse, taking money from him. A man we barely even know—”

  “And they’re living together!” She turned. “Well you are, aren’t you?”

  Belle blushed. “Yes.”

  “No wonder they’re getting married. She’s probably pregnant.”

  “Now don’t get all upset, I’m sure he was just joking about the tigers.”

  “I’m not pregnant!”

  “Well you’re certainly in no fit state for a church wedding!”

  “Mom!”

  Frank put his hand on Donna’s shoulder. “Now, sweetheart, don’t go getting all upset. It’s not good for your blood pressure and besides, I don’t think his people have church.”

  “I knew it!” Belle felt her own blood pressure spike. Her mother and Frank Terriault, who could barely string two words together without devolving into the worst Mainer patois and who smelled eye-watering. “How long has this been going on?”

  “Honey, your father and I were divorced.”

  “I am not a dark person!”

  “No,” Frank replied, “but you are kind of a racist. What’s so wrong with being a dark person?”

  “Belle, honey, a woman has certain needs—”

  “Enough!” Belle got up and stalked out, ignoring the frightened look of the waitress.

  Certain needs, her foot. Other women had certain needs; her mother had certain needs, but not Belle. Belle was supposed to be celibate her entire life and if she wasn’t, well then shame on her. In no fit state for a church wedding? She was reminded, forcefully and for perhaps the hundredth time that day, why she’d left home in the first place.

  Why she’d never wanted to go back.

  She stood on the patio, little more than a slab of poured concrete with a potted plant in one corner, her arms wrapped around herself.