Myrtle cleared her throat.
“KING ALEX TO ABDICATE THE THRONE?”
“What? Is that the headline?” Sara’s head popped up over the top of her mug, her eyes landing on the bold print. Though it was upside down from her vantage point, she could read it quite clearly.
“Oh, that’s nothing. Listen to this.” Myrtle was now squinting at the finer words and shaking her head.
“Alex Fleming, England’s undisputed King of Shakespearean theater, and more recently, star of the epic Beekeeper series, has announced his intention to wed his very own Wallace Simpson, one Sara Evans, American.”
“Oh my, they make it sound like a deadly disease, don’t they?” Her dimples deepened, unable to keep a straight face. “What paper is that Myrtle? Surely not a serious journal? Although I think the story could be improved if you fold it up and set it at the bottom of your bird cage.”
“No, not a serious journal, unfortunately; that’s what makes it so popular. It’s read by more people than the London Times.” Myrtle’s face lightened at Sara’s undisturbed disposition.
“But why are you reading it if it is so trashy?”
Myrtle’s face took on a reddish hue. “It is trash, alright, but they do catch a lot of gossip that turns out to be true. I’m just looking out for anything that might be harmful…”
“Yes, I see,” Sara’s eyes twinkled. “As much as you despise it, you feel it is your duty to be on top of any brewing scandal.”
Myrtle answered her smile with one of her own, albeit a slight bit sheepish. “Well, that and who doesn’t love a juicy story?”
“We all do, until they start writing about us,” she snorted. “Go on.”
“Well, the next few paragraphs list the mister’s films and other theatrical accomplishments. That’s nice. At least they are giving him the free publicity.” She scanned her finger down the page.
“Very generous,” Sara said, rolling her eyes.
“Oh, here we go.” Myrtle’s stubby appendage stopped its search. “In recent years Fleming has aligned himself more frequently with the Hollywood community, bringing about rumours that he will soon leave his native home of London and become another of the growing number of British expatriate thespians that now reside far across the pond.”
Sara gave a scornful gasp, breaking into a gleeful laugh, the hideously worded text ringing in her ears. “Gosh, and I wonder which paper it was that started those rumors?”
“You seem to be quite good natured about this,” Myrtle murmured, shooting her a look of surprise. “I was a bit concerned that this would upset your day.”
“Come now, Myrtle. You and I know the truth. Alex isn’t going to leave his home and relinquish his citizenship, or do any of the silly things that they are chattering about. Except marry me, of course, which they’ll all just have to deal with. Why would I be particularly upset?”
“Oh well,” Myrtle sighed, her eyes now darkening. “I’ve been through this before with Miss Ellen. She would have been very disturbed at this article, what with her being such a private person and all.”
“But it doesn’t say anything that terrible about me. It’s not yet a crime to be an American, is it? And the comparison to the Duchess of York? Come now, Myrtle, who is really going to believe that old chestnut?”
“Shall I read on?”
“Please do.” Her curiosity was now truly peaked.
“The bride to be is a housekeeper at Fleming’s home, situated on the outskirts of London. Fleming, never before married, resided with his partner of several years, Ellen Moulden (nee Bingham), until a few years ago when they decided to part ways. Mrs. Moulden is now married and resides in Belgium with her husband who is a banking executive, and not affiliated with the theater community.”
“All true,” Sara said, with a shrug. “Well, true enough, I suppose. I don’t know a thing about her husband or where she resides, but I imagine they’ve gotten the details correct. And I was Alex’s housekeeper, past tense, but that’s a minor error. ”
Myrtle held up a finger and continued.
“Although it is unclear as to whether Miss Evans was involved in the breakup, it certainly would give one pause to understand just how a housekeeper found her way into Mr. Fleming’s heart. Or might we say ‘broken and vulnerable heart?’”
“ACK! That’s libelous!” Sara shouted, banging her hand on the table. “Not to mention, very, very bad writing!”
“Yes, those are the kinds of stories they would print about Miss Ellen, back when. The more she withdrew and hid from the photographers and the journalists, the worse the stories they invented. They painted her as a cold hearted snow queen, when in fact, she was quite warm and approachable.”
“You knew her well, then, Myrtle?” Despite Sara’s resolute conviction to avoid stories of Alex’s former life, her curiosity won out.
“Oh, yes, I did. They were together for several years. Not as many as me and Mr. Alex, but I’ve been his housekeeper since he first moved into this home.”
“He hasn’t brought up her name to me ever, so I suppose I shouldn’t really be discussing her with you.” Sara vacillated, still curious but not quite comfortable with this topic that always brought her thumbnail to her mouth.
“Well, he wouldn’t, would he? It was quite painful for him when she left. We all blamed the tabloids, because certainly they caused additional problems, but things had started to go badly long before. Miss Ellen…”
“Perhaps I should let Alex tell me these things,” Sara broke in.
“Oh, it wasn’t anything of a personal nature, not like you might think,” Myrtle continued, never one to be discouraged from telling a good story once she was on a roll. “It’s just that when Miss Ellen met him, he wasn’t yet a film star. He was a local theater celebrity, yes, and he was making a good living. But then Flanders Fields came along, and he found himself swamped with other film offers. She much preferred the quieter life and hoped that he would return to it.”
“But Myrtle, that would have been impossible, like trying to stuff the genie back in the bottle. Flanders Fields was a major box office success.”
“Yes, and with it started the interviews and the paparazzi, the premieres, and the screaming girls at the rope lines. Miss Ellen hated it. And the mister was gone for long periods at a time, often to other countries. She worked in a genetics laboratory, and of course couldn’t take the time off - very dedicated to her work, so she didn’t ever consider leaving it.”
“And of course Alex was committed to his as well,” she nodded.
“Oh, bless him, yes. And he deserved the fame and the recognition. He’d worked hard at it for years.” Myrtle frowned at the memory. “No, I could see the collision coming. And of course, the nosy journals sniff those things out very quickly. They jumped on it like foxes on a chicken, until finally Miss Ellen wasn’t able to deal with it any longer. She left with only a letter…”
“Myrtle, let’s stop there. I really don’t want to get into that personal part.”
“Well, he never revealed it, did he? Only sat in silence for a month or two. I suppose he thought about following her, but I believe that he knew they were at a crossroads, so to speak. It was never going to work for them.”
“Alright, well, that is now part of history. She is married to someone else, and soon Alex will be as well,” Sara said, ending the conversation that had now come a bit too close to the bone for her. “But for right now, I think perhaps it’s time to learn from history, as a very wise man once said.”
“Would that be Churchill?” Myrtle asked.
“No, that would be Stuart.” She chuckled at Myrtle’s surprised face, but remembered clearly his warning many months ago on their river ride on the Thames.
Forewarned is forearmed, he had said.
“So, Myrtle, tell me? How do I find these paparazzi?”
“Find them?” She threw her frizzy, gray hair back and laughed. “Well, dear, they aren’t lost. I would wager that th
ere are a few right now hanging close to our front door step. Every time one of these articles appears, they gather to try and catch a photograph of any activity that might occur. Miss Ellen would have to wear a scarf and sunglasses to hide her face. There are quite a few photos of her leaving and entering the house in that condition.”
“Do you mean to say that you think there are some out there right at this moment?”
“I would bet my best hat on it,” Myrtle chortled.
“But it is sweltering out there. This sudden heat wave has wilted all the flowers in the garden. They must truly be desperate for a story.”
“Oh yes, they always are. Poor devils are a nuisance, but I suppose if that’s the way they make their living, it can’t always be pleasant for them either.”
“Myrtle, I’m going up to shower and change. Would you do a favor for me and make a very large jug of lemonade? No, on second thought, make that two.”
“I made a pitcher this morning; it’s in the refrigerator.” Myrtle eyed her with curiosity.
“I think I’m going to need more for the job I have in mind,” she grinned, exiting the kitchen and leaving poor Myrtle in suspense.
If there was anything that Sara had learned in her year with Ian, it was how to handle people in the celebrity business. She had had a few dealings with paparazzi, as well as journalists and interviewers, almost on a daily basis.
Picking up the phone, she dialed Alex’s private cell.
He answered immediately, recognizing the number. “Ah, it’s the love of my life. Is she calling to beg me to come back to her bed?”
“You would be blushing if it was Myrtle on this end, wouldn’t you?”
“What?? You aren’t Myrtle? Well, this is embarrassing!” His laugh rumbled in her ear.
Sara blew out a silent breath. To all appearances, he had not as yet read the story in the squalid rag.
“I can put her on,” Sara joined with him. “But first I have a question for you.”
“No, I won’t wear cowboy boots to the wedding. Anything else?”
“Ha Ha. And I won’t wear underwear.”
“I didn’t know you owned any. At least I’ve not seen…”
“Alex, shush. This is serious,” she said, although the giggle gave her away
“Alright. Talk to me.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Oh, darling, you know I do,” he said, his voice loud and sincere, “as far as I can bloody throw you.”
“Tosser.”
“Woo Hoo! Two years spent on teaching her the finest King’s English, and what one word does she finally remember?”
“Alex, have you read any tabloids today?”
Suddenly his voice was serious. “No. What’s wrong?”
“Absolutely nothing, but I want you to promise me not to.”
“No problem there. I have no interest in that trash. I have a heavy schedule today, and I plan to knock it out as quickly as I can, and be home in time for dinner.”
“Good man.”
“Yes, a good man is hard to find,” he started, on track to one of his favorite, bawdy punch lines.
“No-o! No Alex jokes right now please. I have things to do.”
“See you tonight then. And, uh, you could wear that little…”
“Bye.”
She hung up and chuckled, then turned to the shower.
“Time for a little southern hospitality,” she murmured, grinning to herself.
Although the outfit she wore wouldn’t have been quite up to Miss Scarlet’s standards, it was only because she lacked the crinoline petticoats to make it properly flounce and swirl. The robin-egg-blue, summer dress perfectly matched her eye color and was cinched tightly at the waist, but flared and swayed at the hips with her movements. The neckline was scooped and rounded, accentuating the mounds of her pale breasts. Although Sara would have preferred to wear a flat sneaker, she decided to choose high heeled sandals that showed off her shapely ankles.
As she walked down the stairs, she spotted the fresh flower arrangement in the foyer, broke off a white blossom, and tucked it behind her ear.
Exiting the front door, she had to smile at Myrtle’s words, reminding herself to tell the housekeeper that her best hat was still safe. Two men stood near the front gate, cameras in hand, and she thought she noticed another across the residential street from the house.
“Miss Evans, you look lovely,” the closest one called out, obviously hoping to catch her attention and relax her with flattery. “Could I please have a photo?”
“I’m sorry; you have me at a disadvantage.” Sara smiled at him, her dimples glowing brightly. “What is your name?’
“Gerry.”
“Gerry. What a nice thing to say - although I think you’re just being kind. It is so hot today and I feel like I’ve positively melted.” She fluttered her fingers against her cheek in a fanning gesture, then turned to the other man. “And your name is…”
“Uh, erm, well…” he muttered, looking in the distance.
“Oh, you’re shy! That’s rather charming; but I didn’t think people in your profession were allowed to be timid.”
“No, it’s not that,” the man named Gerry explained hurriedly. “It’s just that his name is Tom. We get a lot of ribbing because we’re friends. You know, Tom and Gerry.”
“Ah, of course. Well, Tom and Gerry… or perhaps you’d be more comfortable with Gerry and Tom,” she teased, “I don’t really mind if you want to take a picture or two. But I’m not very photogenic. I doubt you’ll get anything worth printing.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s true,” the until now silent Tom spoke up. “I’ve been a photographer for years. You have excellent bone structure. I think you would photograph very well.”
“Bone structure? How interesting. Yes, I suppose as a professional photographer, you would have to have a sharp eye for detail. Do you mainly photograph people?”
“No, no, I’ve done a great deal of work for a variety of magazines; still life, animals, architecture, food, boats, birds. You name it.” He smiled proudly, his palms stretched in the air.
“Really?” she said, her eyes wide with curiosity.
“Oh, yes,” Gerry jumped in. “Tom’s the best. He’s taught me a great deal.”
“I would love to see some of your…” she started, then stopped abruptly. “Hey, aren’t you fellows just dying standing here in this scorching sun? Wouldn’t you like a glass of lemonade?”
They sat on the circular, concrete benches under the shade of the tall elm tree in the side yard, a pitcher of lemonade on the small table before them.
She waved at the third man standing on the sidewalk who had been peering curiously at the gathering, camera slung over his shoulder.
“You might as well join our impromptu party,” she said, as he approached the open gate cautiously, “before you faint in the heat.”
His name was Earl and Sara quickly caught a familiar American accent.
“Boston?” she asked, pouring out another glass of lemonade.
“Cape Cod,” he nodded, appreciatively accepting the glass, and swilling a deep gulp. “A little town called Truro.”
“Earl! I’ve spent many wonderful days in Truro!” She was genuinely excited at his revelation. “My uncle has a summer home there! John Evans. Do you know him?”
The man’s eyes lit up, and he grinned widely. “Oh sure! John and Marie Evans. They are neighbors, well once were. I used to mow their lawn as a young teenager.”
“Oh, well, you might not know then. Marie passed away last year.” She patted his arm, sincerely sad to be revealing this loss of a mutual friend.
“I’m sorry to hear that. She was a nice woman, a real lady,” he responded in kind.
“Thank you Earl. I’ll pass on your condolences to my uncle. I’m certain he’ll remember you, and will appreciate your words.”
They all chatted comfortably for some time, the icy lemonade, and gentle, shaded breezes adding to
the relaxing ambience.
“Nice to bump into someone from your country then, especially so unexpectedly?” Gerry asked, smiling at both Earl and Sara.
“Yes, well, contrary to some opinions, Americans aren’t quite the ogres that we are sometimes painted as,” she frowned.
“I’ve never thought that,” Tom spoke up. “I find Americans to be very approachable and friendly.”
“Mm. Well, be that as it may be, but apparently that is not the opinion of some of the local tabloids. They’ve already started their attacks on me.” She lowered her eyelashes, her voice tiny and slightly nervous. “Tell me guys, will it get worse? Should I be frightened?”
Gerry reddened noticeably. “Yeah, I read that. It’s a bloke who works at a paper I’ve done work for occasionally. He’s a right plonker.”
“Plonker?” she asked.
“Ignorant prick,” the Cape Codder explained, undisturbed by his blunt definition. “Yeah, I read it too. Cheap shot.”
“You’ve got nothing to be frightened of, not with us anyway.” Tom patted her hand in a protective gesture. “I have a bit of pull and input at my job. I’ll set the record straight.”
“Well, this isn’t really getting my work done.” Earl sighed, draining his glass. “Would you mind if I took a photo? Everyone is naturally curious to see your face, and I promise that I’ll only use the most flattering shot.”
“Not a bit,” she said honestly. “But let me call Myrtle. I think she would love to see her picture in the news as well. She’ll tell you that she’s shy, but I know better. It will please her if you make a fuss.” Sara spotted Myrtle at the window, and crooked her finger in invitation.
“Who is Myrtle?” Gerry asked, his eyebrow raised in curiosity.
“That would be Mr. Fleming’s housekeeper.”
“But, I thought you were his housekeeper?” Earl scratched his head.
“No, I’m only the fiancé,” she dimpled. “Myrtle is his real true love.”
She stood on the massive terrace that overlooked the vast lake in front of her. Even though she had traveled all around Europe with Ian, she had never before been to Italy.
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