by Rachel Hauck
With glistening eyes, Melinda escorted them to the door, asking about the rest of their day, agreeing that showing Reggie the city and taking tea at the Fence & Anchor, a favorite pub of the locals, was a splendid way to get a feel for Hessenberg. Reggie was about to start down the stairs when Melinda snapped her fingers, her eyes bright with an idea.
“Want to have some real fun, Mr. Burkhardt? Walk about the city unhindered?”
He narrowed his gaze. “What do you have in mind?”
Melinda turned to Reggie. “Your Majesty, are you game?”
She liked the woman’s enthusiasm. “Sure, I’m game. Tanner?”
He hesitated. Then, “Y–yeah, I–I guess.”
“Oh, this is marvelous. I’ll be right back.” And Melinda ran off.
Tanner emerged from the loft’s side door with Regina’s laughter ringing in his ears. She’d laughed when Melinda came out of her storage room. Laughed while the designer presented her idea. And while wholeheartedly agreeing to the entire scheme, completely ignoring his protests.
“Regina, I can’t do this.” Tanner peered down the sidewalk, praying no one saw him.
“Yes you can. This is hilarious.”
Clarence and Todd exited the SUV, smirks on their broad faces.
“Excuse me, but we were waiting for the Minister of Culture and the Princess of Hessenberg,” Clarence said, walking around the back of the vehicle and stepping up on the curb. “We’re going to need to see some ID.”
“But it’s obvious, Clarence.” Todd crossed his arms, his feet in a wide stance. “It’s Sonny and Cher.”
Regina started to sing “I Got You, Babe,” but lost the melody in her laughter.
Next to her, Tanner growled and frowned, his straight, bad-bangs wig twisting in the soft breeze. “We are going to look more conspicuous than if we didn’t have on this getup.” He shook the fringe of his suede vest.
“Don’t be a rotten egg.” Reggie flipped the long, silky black ends of her Cher wig. “What do you think? Do I make a good brunette?”
“No, your red hair is marvelous.” Tanner turned back to the door, holding up the bags with their real clothes. “I’m going to change.”
“No you’re not.” Reggie motioned to Clarence with a flip of her hand. “Grab him and let’s go.”
So now she steps into her authority. Fine. But this was a foul way to do it. Mumbling to himself, Tanner walked around to his side of the SUV. How could Melinda do this to him? Just last month he’d given her first go at organizing Hessenberg’s first fashion show in decades.
“So,” Reggie said, continuing to explain to Clarence and Todd, “Melinda had this ’60s thing in the spring and kept the costumes, thinking she’d need them again. So here we are, Sonny and Cher.”
“Not really, we just look like a couple of ill-dressed hippies with bad hair.” Tanner peered down at Reggie, who was doing no wrong in that bodysuit and striped, multicolored hip-huggers.
“You don’t have to wear the wig if you don’t want to, Tanner.” She curled her lip at him. “You’re such a fusspot.”
“Drive on, Clarence.” Tanner was sure the big man was snickering, but he didn’t care.
He wanted to move, get into motion, and leave his creeping, yearning thoughts behind. Every molecule in his formerly rugby-trained body wanted to grab that Cher imposter and kiss her until one of them couldn’t breathe.
No mistake, she could be as annoying as a rain drip on a steel pipe. And she made it very hard to play by his own rules. To not get his heart involved.
“Where to, sir?”
“City center. Wisteria Park.”
Regina peered out her window as Clarence steered the motorcar through the midday traffic. Tanner exhaled, easing the grip on his heart.
His king sent him on a precarious mission and he’d found . . . her. And maybe a little piece of himself.
“What’s that building?” Regina tapped her window. “It’s gorgeous.”
“St. John’s Chapel.” Tanner knocked on the back of the driver’s seat. “Clarence, can we park, walk a bit?”
It took a few passes for Clarence to choose a parking situation, but once he did, Tanner stepped with Regina out of the dark SUV and into the blue, crisp day.
Clarence took point while Todd watched the rear. Tanner walked beside Regina, negotiating the bustling sidewalk. Their strides hit the same rhythm, and everything he hated about his costume evaporated because he was walking with her.
“What’s the population of Hessenberg?” Regina sidestepped a hustling lass in a yellow coat.
“Five hundred thousand in Strauberg. Four million on the duchy.”
“What’s the GDP?”
“GDP?” Impressive.
“You can take the girl out of accounting but you can’t always take the accounting out of the girl.”
“Last report of our gross domestic product was around three hundred billion.”
She stopped. “And the country has financial woes?”
“Ah, clever, you understand what so few do.”
“Well, I paid attention in a few of my finance and econ classes.”
“Our financial relationship with Brighton has not been handled wisely. We’re like codependent sisters, taking each other down. We’ve lived beyond our means, as well. Much like America.”
“Touché. That is a problem.” And she walked on.
Around the corner, St. John’s Chapel came into view again. Regina pressed toward the gothic-styled columns, jumping into the street nearly ahead of Clarence.
“Can we go inside?”
“I believe we can.” Tanner started down another narrow side street.
“What’s the story of this place?” Regina skipped along beside him.
“St. John’s?” Tanner knew the history from the time his father served here. “It was founded by a Dutch missionary who came to the island in 1682. He had a vision of Jesus telling him to start a church that prays.” They stopped at the short, thin chapel steps leading to the narthex. “He built a thatched dwelling where we now stand, and three hundred some odd years later here we are, with this grand structure built late in the nineteenth century.”
“The real question is, do they still hold prayer meetings? Let’s go inside and see.” Regina dashed up the steps, and her excitement charged him to see his city, his country, his life with fresh eyes.
The narthex was a simple, pure area with a red marble floor and white walls. No paintings or religious symbols.
Tanner tiptoed toward the sanctuary doors. But Regina held back.
“Can you feel it?” She breathed deep, eyes closed.
“Feel what?”
“The millions of prayers. The peace. The presence.”
Tanner closed his eyes, trying to feel what she described. But nothing. All he got was a blast of hot air from the overhead vent for his trouble.
“This was the official church of the royal family,” he said, reaching for the sanctuary doors.
Regina stepped in with a “Wow” and awe, her white go-go boots a stark contrast to the deep-red carpet. “Tanner, this is incredible.”
As he followed her, his shoes, which were his own because he refused the horrid ankle boots Melinda offered him, sank into the plush floor covering.
Hands tucked in her coat pockets, Regina walked the red-carpeted aisle, gazing up at the ribbed trumpet beams of the nave’s arching ceiling.
“Look at that.” She pointed overhead. “It’s like the architect had in mind that they’d blast a sound to the heavens.” She slipped her hand over the top of the pews. “Stained glass. How old do you reckon these windows are?”
“Not awfully. St. John’s was hit with bombs during both wars.” Tanner trailed after her. “Most of the windows were blown out except that one right there.” He gestured to the image of a resurrected Christ at the end of the nave, behind the pulpit.
When Dad served here, Tanner used to stare at the image the whole service, imagining the re
turn of Jesus, seeing him in the clouds, and Tanner nearly scared himself out of the faith.
What if he wasn’t worthy . . . well, he wasn’t now, was he? Not that God couldn’t or wouldn’t forgive him. Tanner just didn’t see how he had the right to ask.
“What are these?” Regina bent next to the gold plates on the sides of the front pews. “Ciphers? Here’s one like the one in Gram’s fairy tale. GD PF I R.”
“Grand Duke, Prince Francis the First, Regent. St. John’s is the coronation abbey.”
“Gram’s coronation would’ve been held here?”
“Most likely.”
A forceful whisper came from the back of the sanctuary. “Might I help you?”
“Begging your pardon, we’re just looking.” No way was Tanner going to introduce himself to the bishop as the Minister of Culture wearing a bad wig and psychedelic bell-bottoms.
“Yes, you can.” Regina skirted around Tanner and toward the bishop. “Do you still have prayer meetings here?”
“We do, yes. Every morning at six and seven. Every evening at nine and ten.”
“Good.” Regina nodded with a sigh, hands back in her coat pockets. “That makes me feel good.”
Tanner couldn’t confirm it—he wasn’t even sure Regina knew—but he had a subtle feeling some part of her heart had just made a decision about her future as Hessenberg’s regent.
NINETEEN
Along about sunset, Reggie sat on a knoll in Wisteria Park, still dressed as Cher, watching a serious rugby pickup game with a bunch of college dudes. The breeze through the trees was cold on her face, but the setting sun on her back warmed her heart.
It had been a fun day. Touring the city, seeing the business and shopping districts. Eating something called puffs at a bakery not far from here.
“What was the name of the bakery? Where we got the puffs?”
“Loudermilk’s Bakery.” Tanner, still dressed as Sonny, jumped up, hands cupped around his mouth. “Pass, you blooming ox, pass.” Then he moaned and sat down. “Everyone wants to be a star.”
“Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Want to be a star?”
“I want to go for supper. I’m famished.” Up on his feet again, shouting instructions to the team with the ball. “Call a ruck! Call a ruck!”
Regina laughed, reaching up and tugging him back toward the ground. “You’re like Dad when he watches the Seminoles play.”
“I used to be out there with the lads. But now all I do is mostly watch on the telly or from the sidelines of a park. Most depressing is that I get to spend all day cooped up in an office wearing a suit and tie.” Tanner returned to his seat on the knoll. “I really need to get in a city league. Play on the weekends,” he murmured. More to himself than to Reggie.
“Tanner, what’s with you and your dad?”
“What do you mean, what’s with me and Dad?”
She thought he might not like her asking, but she couldn’t help herself. “You know, the archbishop? Burkhardt. The one with the same last name as you. The one who tried to talk to you in your office this morning and you were all like”—she lowered her voice, trying to sound masculine—“ ‘Anything else, sir?’ ”
“I’m sorry, but such questions are not allowed.”
“Not allowed? May I ask why not?” She leaned to see his face, but he focused on the rugby game.
“That-a-way, lads. That’s how to score.” Tanner applauded the scoring team.
“Tanner?”
“You hungry?” He stood, reaching for her hand, helping her up. “The Fence & Anchor has the best stew and warm sourdough bread. Just a few blocks this way.” He led her down the knoll and across the park.
From the corner of her eye, Reggie spotted Clarence moving in front of them, and when she glanced back, Todd was only a few feet behind her.
“What happened? Did he misunderstand your youth? Was he a mean father? What?”
Tanner stopped short, causing Reggie to bump into him. “Don’t go analyzing my relationship with my dad from a sixty-second exchange.”
“He was trying to talk to you in your office and you all but ignored him.”
“He was prying.”
“No, he was asking you about a party that your mum is super excited to attend. Is this a family event or something?”
“Regina, let’s just say I have a different relationship with my father than you have with yours.” Tanner headed around the side of the park toward another tree-lined avenue.
“One where you are rude when he’s being kind?”
“I know my father. Don’t try to second-guess me. He wasn’t being nice.”
“Wow, really. Then I’d hate to see what you consider cruel.”
“Change the subject. I don’t care to bother with this conversation. We are supposed to be having fun and all that.”
“Sometimes it’s fun to, you know,”—she mimed pulling something from her heart—“let go of stuff, air it out, get free.”
“And you are an expert on this?” A certain edge sharpened his words.
“No, but, boy howdy, I’ve had to do my share of letting go. Can’t hang on to stuff when your mama is there in the morning and gone that night.”
“Then let me ask you . . . What’s with the chap, the one with the dark hair and capped teeth? Mark Harper, was it?” Tanner moved out of the park, stopping at the corner light.
“What about him?” He noticed the thing between her and Mark? “Nothing. Well, not much. Just an old friend. And his teeth aren’t capped. I know. Crazy. Those are his real choppers.”
The light changed, and Tanner charged into the street with his Sonny wig flopping about his angular jaw. Reggie scurried to keep in stride.
“Tanner, why do you ask about Mark?”
“Are you honest with him? He’s into you, Regina, in case you didn’t know.”
She laughed. “I know, but the question is, how did you know?”
“I’ve got eyes.”
“Are you jealous?”
“Certainly not,” he barked.
“Hallo, Sonny and Cher,” a male voice boomed from the direction of the waiting cars. “I got you, babe.”
Tanner sprinted to the curb while Reggie swung around to see an older man hanging out of his car window, waving. She smiled and waved back. But Clarence and Todd closed ranks fast and escorted her out of the street.
“Regina, don’t draw attention to yourself,” Tanner clipped.
“I wasn’t. I was drawing attention to Cher. I’m sure she’d thank me.”
Tanner muttered under his breath. “I’ll get Melinda for talking me into this.”
Reggie stopped. Smack in the middle of the sidewalk. “If you’re going to be grumpy, let’s just forget this.”
Grumpy faced the street, hands on his hips, his jaw tense. “My apologies.” He fixed his blue gaze on her. “Nothing but frolicking fun from this moment on. Frown gone.” He forced a smile while adjusting his attitude. “Grumpy to happy.”
“Just like that?” She grinned and started down the walk with him. “You’re a zero-to-sixty kind of bloke, aren’t you?”
He sighed with a slight shake of his head, adding in a light laugh. “Regina, I do believe you’ve solved a mystery I’ve been trying to unravel for thirty-two years. Yes, I’m zero to sixty.”
The Fence & Anchor sat on the corner of Gilden Avenue and Fleet Street. The exterior was of hewn stone and stained wood with multi-paned windows shaded by a green awning. When Tanner opened the door for her, the wind kicked up around the corner and skirted in ahead of her, causing the place mats on vacant tables to flutter to the floor.
A male voice commanded, “Close the door, you bloomers.”
Reggie squinted through the dim, yellow light toward the sound of the voice. A wiry-haired man at the bar was flagging them in with his hand.
“Let’s sit back there.” Tanner lightly touched her elbow, leading her to a corner booth.
Scanning the
room, Reggie felt she’d been here before, the same sense she’d had in the chapel sanctuary. Like a home. Warm and cozy. As if she’d been invited into some inner club or sanctum.
Scooting into the booth, Reggie removed her coat. “I love this place already.” Up front, Clarence and Todd had taken a table by the door and were already engaged with the server.
“Wait until a match comes on. The place will fill up and you won’t be able to hear your own thoughts.” Tanner hung his coat and hers on the rack behind the booth. “And I’m losing this thing.” He slipped off his wig. “Good-bye, Sonny Bono. No more American hippie for me.”
“Can’t say the costumes didn’t do the job, Tanner. We walked around all day without being harassed.”
She watched him as he took his seat across from her, combed his fingers through his hair, then removed the faux suede, fringed vest. He was so controlled on the outside, but something untamed boiled beneath, trying to be free.
He caught her staring and she glanced away. His eyes, so blue, so intense, disturbed her. “Do you want tea?” he said.
“No . . .” she croaked, removing her wig. “Um, yes, tea. Hot for a change. Sweet.”
“Welcome to the Fence & Anchor.” The server stepped up to the table. “My name’s Gemma.” She was short and round, wearing a lifetime supply of blue eye shadow and pink lipstick. She squinted at Reggie, wagging a pencil at her. “I know you, right? But from where?”
Reggie shifted in her seat, shooting Tanner a look. What do I do?
“She’s from the telly . . . Talent Factor . . . the American dancing juggler.” Tanner spoke without even a hint of a smile. “I’m her, or rather his”—he chuckled and winked—“talent agent, Malcolm Jabberwaller.”
“You don’t say?” Her blue-lidded eyes widened. “You’re that dancing juggler? I loved your act. Can I have your autograph?”
Reggie made a face. What now, genius?
“Actually, we’re . . . . shh,”—Tanner touched his finger to his lips—“on the down low. We’d appreciate it if you’d keep this to yourself.”
“Oh, right-o, naturally.” Gemma lowered her voice and leaned toward Reggie. “I thought you were really good.”