by Rachel Hauck
“Well, as I live and breathe, Corina Del Rey,” Daisy said, pulling her Mercedes SUV alongside Corina.
“Daisy Blackwell, as I live and breathe.” Corina forced a bit of cheer in her words as the lovely, tan, and fit Daisy slipped from behind the wheel. She was southern from the top of her blond head to the tips of her pedicured toes.
“Why didn’t you tell a body you were coming?” Daisy wrapped Corina in a great hug, the fragrance of Chanel chasing around them.
“I’m only here for a few hours. I’m flying out tonight.” Seeing her old friend tied another knot in her tangled emotions.
How many hours they’d spent up in her room giggling, dreaming, getting ready for cheer practice, football and basketball games, homecoming, prom, Saturday night dates, and their first pageant? Thousands of hours. Thousands of blessings.
“I swear to goodness it’s been a coon’s age since I’ve seen you. Girls”—Daisy leaned into the driver’s side open window—“you remember your Aunt Corina, Mama’s best friend in high school.”
Corina peeked inside and waved at towheaded little girls buckled into car seats. “Hey, Anna.” She was four and cuter than a speckled pup. “And hi, Betsy,” Corina said. At two, the younger of Daisy’s daughters was the image of her beauty. “They’re gorgeous, Daisy.”
“I know.” She sighed, turning to Corina, arms folded. Dressed like every upperclass Georgia belle, in her pleated shorts and matching top, wearing bedazzled sandals, Daisy was everything she had dreamed of being. A country club wife with a lawyer husband. And a mom of two. “But they’ll be the death of me. Travis says we just have to get them to college. Then they’re on their own.” Her chortle flirted with the breeze. “So, how’s life with the great Gigi Beaumont?”
“Crazy as usual. She’s sending me to Brighton on assignment.”
“Well, lucky you. I love Brighton. Wish I could get Travis to go, but he hates long trips with the girls. And he won’t go so far away without them. They’re so young. If anything were to happen . . .” Daisy raised her blue eyes to Corina. “I’m sorry, I forget sometimes.”
“I wish I could forget.” More and more, Corina craved speaking the truth. She drank up honest conversation. Mama refused to talk about Carlos. And Daddy never seemed to be around. “You’re allowed to talk about your life, Daisy. It makes sense you’d not want to leave the girls.” If she had two beauties like Anna and Betsy, Corina wouldn’t let them out of her sight.
“So, you’ve returned to the dark plantation.” Daisy glanced toward the house. “Your Mama still hasn’t been to a Daughters of Dixie meeting. And Daddy said your daddy has yet to hit the golf course or attend a church meeting.” Daisy bit her lower lip. “I’m sorry, I know it’s all so painful, but we miss your parents around here.”
“You know it’s why I had to leave. They can’t get out of mourning.” Corina scooped her hair off of her neck, releasing the Georgia heat trapped next to her skin. “I’ve come to grips that life will never be the same.”
“But you’re the Del Reys. The best family in town. Y’all will come around, I’m sure of it. Horatia will show up at a Dixies meeting one day with an agenda a mile long. Ole Donald will be on the golf course with my daddy and Reverend Pike, ready to talk a new church addition.” Daisy squeezed Corina’s arm as if she could infuse her with the same enthusiasm.
“You’re a bigger dreamer than I am.”
“No one will argue with you there.” Daisy’s laugh brought Corina around the bend, closer to her journey home. “So tell me what’s in Brighton? And why did you come home first?”
What’s in Brighton? Perhaps true love. “I came for the Luciano Diamatia.”
Daisy slapped her hand to her heart. “Be still. Oh, I looove that dress.” Then she cocked an eyebrow at her friend. “What sort of event needs the Diamatia? I mean, really Corina, it has to be one of the world’s rarest and, may I say, least-worn designer gowns.”
“Not my fault he didn’t finish it in time for my debut. I’m wearing it to a movie premier. King Stephen I.”
“Oh girl, you have all the luck.” Daisy shoved her slender hand through her hair. “We saw the trailer last night and it looks fantastic. Braveheart meets King Arthur. And Clive Boston . . .” Daisy closed her eyes and exhaled. “A more gorgeous man never lived.”
“I’m interviewing him.” Well, supposedly, if he shows, but this was the most fun Corina had had in a while, so why spoil it?
“Get out.” Daisy shoved Corina’s shoulder. “You’re interviewing Clive Boston? Remember when you met him a few years ago at that indie film fest? He was such a snob, but oh, who cares? I could just stare at him for hours.”
Corina laughed, unhindered by the hiccup of grief. “He was downright rude until he found out Daddy was one of the film backers. Then he was all like, ‘Miss Del Rey, can I call you Corina?’ ”
The friends laughed in harmony, like they used to, when they held the tiger of life by the tail. The breeze moseyed between them as the Georgia sun eavesdropped through the summer leaves.
Daisy sobered. “I miss you.”
“I miss me too.”
“I wish you’d tell me what else bothers you.” Daisy drilled Corina with her gaze, one friend detecting another’s sorrow. “I can’t help it, I just see something else in your countenance. Is it because you left a twin? Does that make it worse?”
“Yes, twins . . .” There. Nice and safe. And true. But with no need to expose her journey with Prince Stephen.
“Corina, I cannot imagine . . .” Daisy gripped her hand. “You know I’m always here for you.”
“And I love you for it.”
Daisy had been patient since Carlos’s death, giving Corina space, filling her days with her own life and family. But always, during the dark years of grieving, Daisy popped around the house a few times a year, trying to draw Corina out.
But Corina found it hard to shower Daisy’s joy with her dark rain.
“I had a dream about you,” Daisy began, slow, staring off, remembering. “You were . . .” She laughed. “You’ll love this . . . A princess.”
Corina made sure she laughed. Loud and quick. “Oh, that’s rich.”
“I mean, what made me have such a dream? But it was so real.” Daisy’s merriment faded as she turned a serious eye toward Corina. “You were so happy. Your eyes radiated this glow . . . of joy. You were married to Prince Stephen of Brighton.”
Daisy’s last words sucked the air out of Corina. She faltered backward, trying to breathe, chills racing down her arms despite the Georgia heat.
“Oh my!” She jammed her hands on her waist and tried to laugh, but the thin air in her lungs only produced a shallow exhale. “Th–that’s something . . . a nightmare . . . that’s what. Me, a princess? All those photographers chasing you about, blogs and newspapers picking on your clothes and hair. Duchess Kate is a saint if you ask me.”
“No, Corina,” Daisy said, more somber than before. “You’d be a perfect princess. You’re practically one now. But what struck me was how happy you were. I woke up in tears, really.”
From inside the SUV, one of the girls screamed while the other called, “Mama!”
Daisy angled down to see through the open window. “Betsy, sugar, I told you not to open your juice lid.” Daisy smiled at Corina. “She spilled it all over herself, and she hates being wet. She’ll cry all the way home.”
“Go, you have better things to do than stand here with me.”
“I don’t know about better, but . . .” With a smile, Daisy pulled Corina into a hug. And for a fleeting second, Corina cradled her cheek on her friend’s shoulder and left a piece of her burden there.
Daisy gave her signature horn toot as she crept down the drive. Corina waved, her bags at her feet, the reality of Daisy’s dream the first kiss on her heart that God heard her prayers.
Did it mean she’d reconcile with Stephen? She had no idea, but for now she had an ounce more courage, and that was worth somethi
ng.
Ida Mae, Mama’s maid, with her tan, fleshy arms pumping, opened the door, a smile on her broad face. “Land sakes alive, get in here, girl.” She snagged Corina in a bosomy, vanilla-cinnamon hug. “Why didn’t you call ahead? I’d have made dumplings.”
“I’m only here for a few hours.” Corina peered into the aging woman’s snappy brown eyes. “How about when I get back? Dumplings and apple pie.”
The maid’s eyes misted. “I’ve been missing you.” She wiped her tears with the edge of her apron. “Tell me, how’s Florida? It’s just not the same since you’ve been gone.” She paused for a silent beat. And Carlos.
“Florida is fine.” Corina looped her arm around her old friend. “I’m here for my passport and the Diamatia. I’m flying out of Atlanta to Brighton tonight.”
“T–the Diamatia, you say?” Ida Mae’s eyes enlarged and she angled away from Corina. “W–well, ain’t that nice? I–I could’ve sent it down to you.”
“Just found out I needed it on Monday and it’s been crazy . . . You okay, Ida Mae?”
The woman nodded, inhaling deeply. “What you be needing the dress for?”
“I’m covering a movie premier in Cathedral City Monday night.” And winning back my husband.
Ida Mae sighed, folding her hands over her heart. “I sure do miss our summers on Brighton’s shores.”
The maid had been a part of the Del Rey family since Daddy and Mama were newlyweds. Never married, she traveled with them to their homes in Hawaii, Colorado, and Vermont, and the every-other summers in Brighton. She was family. Mama’s best friend, if her mother was honest.
More than the aristocratic society ladies with whom she luncheoned and ran charities. Because in Mama’s darkest hour, Ida Mae had been her comfort. Her friends were nowhere to be found. Grief manhandled some folks.
“I miss Brighton too.” Truth? She did. “And oh, Ida Mae, you’ll like this. I’m working on an interview with Clive Boston.”
Ida Mae paused in the kitchen doorway and feigned a swoon, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead. “Clive Boston is one of my favorites. I met him at that premier of your daddy’s.” Daddy’s hobby of Hollywood films benefited them all. “What about him for a beau?” Ida Mae wiggled her eyebrows, taking a tall pitcher of golden brown tea from the refrigerator.
“Clive?” Corina curled her lip. “He’s not my type.” Dark-haired, rugby-playing princes were more her speed. “And he’s like, forty-five.”
“Oh I see, a Methuselah, is he? I’ll take forty-five. Shoot, darling, I’ll take fifty-five.” Ida Mae snorted a laugh as she poured Corina a glass of tea and filled bowls with chips and salsa. “Eat up. You’re looking too skinny.”
“I don’t have you to cook for me.” Corina dipped the chips in Ida Mae’s homemade salsa and sighed. Simply heaven.
“Got cookies in the jar too.” The maid set a blue-and-gold ceramic cookie jar on the counter.
Corina lifted the lid, a surprise splash of tears in her eyes. Since she’d been old enough to shove the kitchen stool across the tile floor, she’d found the ceramic blue-and-gold jar full of cookies. But it was a tradition that got lost amid the grieving and coping.
“I decided it was time,” Ida Mae said.
“Does Mama know?” Cookie baking was one of the family traditions she’d discouraged after the funeral.
“She does, but I’ve never seen her eat one. I eat them or carry them over to my family dinners on Sunday. But once, I’m not sure, I thought I heard the lid clanking one afternoon when I was downstairs tending laundry.”
“Wow.” Maybe there was hope for Horatia Del Rey after all.
Ida Mae went to the library door. “Horatia, darling, someone’s here to see you.” The maid sounded more like a kind mother than a lifelong servant.
“Yes, I know,” Mama said, her voice coming from deep inside the light and shadowed library. “I saw you outside talking to Daisy. Corina, what brings you here?”
She saw her? And didn’t come to the door? When Corina and Carlos came home for Christmas their first year of college, Mama had the high school band waiting for them in the front yard.
“Hey, Mama.” Corina washed down her last bite of chips with a sweet swig of tea and moved into the library. The white brick fireplace in the center of the room was where she learned her letters. Where she curled up on winter nights and read her first book, Little House in the Big Woods. “I’m leaving for Brighton tomorrow. I came to get a few things.”
“I see.” Mama looked beautiful, as always, impeccably dressed in her silk blouse, linen skirt, and string of pearls resting at the base of her throat. Any other time she might think Mama was on her way to a luncheon or returning from a charity meeting.
But her gaunt cheeks accented by the dark circles under her eyes told a different story.
“How’s Daddy?”
“Off to Birmingham. Overseeing the construction of a new golf course.”
“Good for him.” As chairman of the Del Rey family fortune, Daddy mostly managed investments and sat on the board of a dozen companies. But when she and Carlos were teens, he developed a passion for designing and building golf courses.
“There’s another one after this one.” Mama sighed, smoothed her skirt, and sat in the Queen Anne-Marie chair she’d inherited from Corina’s great-great-grandmother Thurman. “What’s in Brighton?”
“A movie premier. Gigi received an invitation from the palace and decided to send me in her place.” Corina inched farther into the room, as if Mama’s question gave her permission to do so. Leaning against the couch, she ran her hands over the wool-and-silk upholstery. “Clive Boston is the star, and I’m supposed to interview him. But he’s notorious for not showing up.”
“Oh? Give Clive my regards.”
“Mama, say, why don’t you come?” On the spot. Spur of the moment. It felt like a good idea. She’d have to figure out how to explain Stephen, but details, details. “I’m staying at The Wellington.”
Mama laughed. “Goodness no. What would I do in Brighton?”
“What you used to do in Brighton. Shop. Go down to the shore. Walk the art festival. Have tea with Lady Hutton. Take in a rugby match.” Be with me, your daughter.
Mama picked up her book. “I don’t need to shop. I’ve got more clothes than I can possibly wear. I’ve no need for art and I’ve not talked to Lady Hutton in . . .” Her voice faded. “I’m fine right here.”
“Don’t you want to—”
“Corina,” Mama said with a sharp sigh and warning glance. Don’t push.
“I’m going up to my room. I need my passport and the Diamatia. I want to wear it to the premier.”
Mama swept imaginary lint from her skirt. “Ida Mae, Corina came for her passport.”
The faithful maid came to the library door, her expression dark. “Horatia, you might as well tell her.”
“Tell me what?” Corina said. “Mama?”
Mama pursed her lips, exchanging glances with Ida Mae. “I made over your room.”
“You what?”
“I needed a project, so I turned your room into a quiet room.”
“A quiet room? This whole place is a morgue.” Corina’s voice carried, and her words were sharper than she’d intended. “How can you possibly want quiet?”
Mama didn’t respond but sat in her chair, staring out the window toward the garden.
Corina knelt next to her. “Mama, I’m sorry, but why my room? We have a ton of spare rooms to make over.”
“Yours was across from Carlos’s.” What little light lived in Mama’s eyes shone when she said his name. “I don’t want to argue with you. Ida Mae can take you to your things.”
“Mama.” Corina squeezed Mama’s thin arm, fearing she was losing more of her every day. “For the life of me, I—”
“You know what your problem is, Corina?” Mama said, chin resting in her fingers, her gaze cold and vacant. “You don’t know when to give up. When to realize life has you
beat.”
“I’m thirty, Mama. You had Carlos and me by my age. I can’t believe that life defeated me at twenty-five. What would I do with myself otherwise?” She’d hung around, trying to draw Mama out, get her to live again. “Mama, don’t give up. You have so much to live for yet.”
“I lost my son, Corina. And for what? A war that our government made sure we could never win. Killed in a firefight? What does that even mean?” Shaking, Mama pressed her hand to her forehead. It was as if the news of Carlos’s death had just arrived. “My baby . . .”
“You’re not alone, Mama. I lost my brother, my twin.” Corina ached to draw Mama into a hug, but she would only shrug her off.
“But yet, look at you, moving to Florida, attending movie premiers.”
“I couldn’t sit around here another day, Mama. Five years, just existing and not living. You know darn well Carlos would hate it.”
“We don’t know what he would think or want, do we? Because he’s not here.” Mama shot to her feet and paced to the window, the southern light accenting her dark hair and narrow frame so she appeared angelic. “By the way, the Diamatia is not here.”
“Not here?” Something in Mama’s tone carved a dark pit in Corina’s belly. “Where is it then?”
“I donated it,” Mama said, brushing her hand up and down her arm as if she were chilled.
“You donated it?” A ticklish heat flashed over Corina and flared her temper. She thudded toward Mama, taking hold of her arm. “To whom? When? And might I ask, why?”
“We no longer had need of it.”
“We? No longer . . . had need of . . . it? Who’s we, Mama? It was my gown.” Anger fueled Corina’s tears, but they were too hot, too thick to slip down her cheeks.
“Which I purchased for you.” Mama turned from the window, hands on her hips. “By hunting down the most elusive, exclusive designer in the world.”
“So you have the right to give it away? You moved heaven and earth to convince Luciano to design a gown for me. How did you suddenly feel the need to give it away?”