by Rachel Hauck
“Not sure.” Robert held up a hammer, ready to open the crate. “Shall we?”
“We shall.” Stephen motioned for him to open it, helping lift the lid when it was free, then sliding the painting from inside, breaking away the packing paper.
He knew what it was without looking. The Pissarro. Setting it against a chair in the living room, Stephen stood back, and the magic of the golden gas lamps reflecting off the rain-stained Rue du Roi made his hunger for Corina burn.
“My, sir, what an exquisite painting. Camille Pissarro is one of my favorites.”
“Mine as well.” Corina. This was her handiwork. In the painting’s muted brown, rust, and gold colors of the Rue du Roi, he was with her, walking along the avenue arm-in-arm among the other lovers. Her kiss on his lips awakening his heart.
You love her.
Stephen glanced at Robert as he exited the room. “Send it back.”
“Send it back to whom, sir? I–it’s a Pissarro. Are you sure you don’t want it for your collection?”
“What collection, Robert?” Stephen faced him, holding his arms wide.
“Perhaps one day you’ll start a collection, sir.”
“Perhaps. But I’m not starting with this piece.” Was she trying to break him? “Return it to the Galaxy. Better yet, donate it to a museum. But it’s not staying here.”
You love her. He pressed his hands against his ears, starting for the kitchen. He’d confront this archbishop, this man of God—“Why did you marry us?”—sort out this love business, and be done with it.
“There’s a note on the back.” Robert’s voice roped Stephen to a halt.
Stephen glanced down the curved staircase at his butler. “Bring it here, please.”
Robert handed him the greeting-card-sized envelope and Stephen removed the card. The butler-valet-aide went on his way as Stephen sank down to the nearest chair and read.
To say I love you is more than mere words.
’Tis a truth in my heart.
I love you, my darling, and you’ve married me.
And we will never be apart.
The words were distant, but he knew them. From the card he bought at the shop the night they married. He crumpled the card in his big hand, dropped it to the floor, then smashed it with his foot. Now she played dirty. Unearthing tender memories he only planned to review as an old man, gumming his breakfast, mumbling of a love no one knew about, and they’d think him senile. The babbling Prince of Brighton.
Stephen glanced back at the painting. It was beautiful. But what were her intentions, sending him the Braithwaite painting? Did she intend to torture him, remind him of what he could never have? His heart palpitated at the idea of hanging that painting, her memory, in his apartment.
Shoving to his feet, he returned to his room for his walking boot, phone, and wallet. Twenty minutes later, through the light Sunday morning traffic, he parked his motor at the south bay and caught the morning ferry to Grand Duchy of Hessenberg, the island nation south of Brighton, just as she pulled from the docks.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Corina peered out the cab window as the driver turned down the long driveway toward her parents’ home, exhausted. She tried to sleep during the long flight home, but the moment she drifted away, the fullness of Stephen’s embrace jolted her awake.
Then she realized she wasn’t in his arms, so she tried to sleep again. But rest never came.
She hadn’t planned on coming back here, but she’d miss her flight home to Melbourne. She needed to talk to Daddy anyway, tell him the truth about Carlos face-to-face.
She was grateful for the light traffic and quick drive from the airport to Marietta. For the driver who didn’t ask too many questions. For when he pulled past the front gate and down the long, live-oak-shaded drive of home.
She was even more grateful for Adelaide and Brill, her guardian angels, if not in reality then in theory, who said good-bye with sad looks on their angelic faces.
“I told him I forgave him, Adelaide. And I meant it. I–I think that’s the core of loving well, don’t you?” she asked, wanting truth, wanting confirmation that she’d succeeded in her mission.
Adelaide caressed Corina’s arm. “Indeed I do.”
“Maybe I should stay? He might come around.”
“Leave it to the Father, lass. You needn’t fret so. You’re in his gracious hands.”
“Adelaide, I wish I had your confidence.”
Then the taxi arrived and there was no time for more discussion. She was going to miss those two. Whoever they were.
Adelaide and Brill watched her go in the thin light of dawn, and Corina captured the image of the old inn with its single-pane window filled with gold light and the odd and ancient proprietors waving good-bye.
Halfway over the Atlantic she realized she’d not taken one photograph of them. She pulled out her laptop and journaled her thoughts.
The cab driver curved around in front of the veranda and stopped. He popped the trunk as Corina stepped out into the early afternoon heat. Mid-June promised a sweltering summer.
Had it only been a little over a week since she was here? It felt like a lifetime.
“Here you are.” He set her suitcases by her feet.
Corina paid him and he bid her a good day. She picked up her luggage and started for the house. She missed Stephen. If she’d stayed longer, could they have started over, fallen in love again, and repaired their annulment?
She wondered if he’d let her know when he received the Pissarro. She wondered if he’d keep it but well, that was up to him. She’d done all she could to remind him of who they were. Who they could be.
She swished up the porch stairs through pockets of cool shade, her stomach rumbling for home cooking, for some of Ida Mae’s chicken and dumplings.
At the door, she tried the handle and the front door eased open.
“Hey y’all.” She deposited her suitcases in the airy grand foyer then crossed toward the kitchen. “Anybody home?”
“Hello?” A masculine voice boomed from the foyer hall.
Corina spun around. “Daddy!”
“Welcome home, Kit. How was Brighton?”
“It was . . .” She sighed. “It’s a long story. You’re home. I’m glad.” Corina fell against the man who’d been her first prince, her rock, her harbor.
He kissed her head. “I came home to check on a few things.” He was somber, and when he motioned with his folded paper for her to sit in the formal living room, dread coated her joy.
“Daddy, what’s wrong?” She sat on the edge of the sofa while he perched on the arm of the wingback chair.
“I’m going to live in the Atlanta condo for a while.”
“Daddy, don’t do this.”
“Your mom and I need some space.”
“Daddy, you don’t need space. You need to come home. She needs to leave home. You two need to go back to being Donald and Horatia Del Rey.”
“Darling, I’m not sure we can ever find those people again. By the way, our accountant called. Said you took ten million out of your Del Rey trust.”
“I bought a painting. A Pissarro.”
He looked impressed. “Well done.”
“I left it there.”
He regarded her for a moment, then nodded. “Are you planning on going back then?”
“No, I don’t think so.” If she told him it was a gift, then he’d ask for who and she didn’t want to tell him like this, when she was tired, when he was telling her about moving out. But none of this surprised her. “Daddy, are you and Mama moving toward divorce?”
“At the moment, no.”
“Because you know this is not what Carlos would want.”
“He’d not want to be dead either, but he is.”
“But you and Mama are one of the great love stories.” Corina heard Adelaide’s sweet, “It’s a gift.” “How can you not be there for each other?”
“We are, Corina. In our way.”
“Wha
t way? From a distance? By letting Carlos’s death drive you apart? Drive us apart? What about me? I’m out here all alone. It’s like I died too.” One sob broke loose and the tears followed. “Isn’t there any hope for true, lasting love?” She shot up from the sofa and paced toward the fireplace. “This ticks me off.”
“Corina, are we still talking about your mama and me?” Daddy unfurled his paper. “Or this?”
On the front page, under the Sunday Post masthead, was a full-color picture of Corina and Stephen from the King Stephen I premier. The headline read:
PRINCE STEPHEN MARRIED!
Gigi!
Corina snatched the newspaper from Daddy’s hand. “How in the world . . . Where in the world . . . I’m going to kill her.”
Daddy hooked his arm around Corina’s and walked her through the living room into Mama’s library—her chair was oddly vacant—and steered her to the kitchen. Corina trembled the entire way.
“She’s a scoundrel.” She slapped the kitchen island. “A news hound if there ever was one. Daddy, I want to sue her.”
“No you don’t.” Daddy retrieved two glasses from the cupboard and started to fill them with ice and sweet tea. “And she’d cop to all of those names. With glee.”
“Why can’t I sue her?” Corina spread the paper before them. “She just told the world my business. Stephen’s going to think I did this. To get back at him. The phones in the King’s Office will ring off the hook.”
“Corina . . .” Daddy took the paper away from her and handed her a glass. “Calm down. Forget the press. Tell me about you and Prince Stephen.” He sat on the stool next to her, cupping his hands around his own glass. “I take it the headline is true?”
“Was true. We were married six years ago. Before he deployed.”
“I knew he was Carlos’s friend. Never thought of him as yours.” Daddy toasted her with his raised glass. “The prince has splendid taste in women.”
“I signed annulment papers yesterday. We’re no longer married.” She tugged a napkin from the center dispenser and wiped her eyes. “The Archbishop of Hessenberg married us in secret.” She recounted the story of the midnight wedding, the secrets, the hidden marriage certificate, and Stephen’s surprise trip to Florida. “When he came back from Afghanistan, he didn’t want to be married, so I came home. I wanted to be with you and Mama anyway.” She yanked another napkin from the dispenser.
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
She shrugged. “We wanted it to just be our secret for a while. We didn’t feel we could tell you and Mama without telling his parents and—”
“That came with complications.”
“A few.”
Daddy sipped his tea, leaning his elbows on the counter, being available to her for the first time since he walked off into the dusk after Carlos’s funeral. “So why did you go to Cathedral City?”
“Gigi sent me to cover the premier—”
“This is Dad you’re talking to, Corina.”
“I wanted him back.” She ran her finger along the etching of her glass. “I thought God wanted us together.”
“But he had other ideas?”
Hearing the hard, concrete fact dried her tears. Surprisingly. But Daddy’s voice carried a certain tone of authority and comfort. “Pretty much.” She turned toward him, shoving her tea aside. “He was with Carlos when he died, Daddy.”
Daddy took a long sip, averting his gaze. “Yes, I know.”
“You know?” Her eyes followed his broad back as he went to the fridge for a refill.
“I’ve always known, Kit.”
“Then why didn’t you tell us? I thought you hit an information desert at the Pentagon.”
“I found a way around it. Had a connection in Senator Smith’s office.” Daddy returned to the island, this time sitting next to her, adjusting the open collar of his Polo, his eyes glistening as he looked into hers. “He put me in touch with the Joint Coalition, who told me only under the condition of utter silence, after they investigated me for six months.”
“Considering what happened, I don’t blame them.”
“I only learned the news last year. I didn’t tell you or your mother because it wasn’t prudent. First, I had to get clearance to tell you. Second, it didn’t comfort me to know he died saving Prince Stephen’s life. How would it comfort you or your mother?” Daddy’s dark gaze locked onto hers. “They looked into you, too, Kit. Never came back that you were married.”
“I told you, it was in secret.”
“Hats off to the Archbishop Caldwell.” Then, “How did you find out Carlos was with the prince that day?”
“When Stephen came here telling me about the annulment, I wouldn’t sign it. Since he was also with the Joint Coalition, I demanded he use his influence as a prince to find out about Carlos.”
“Did you know they were on the same crew?”
“No, I just figured he was the brother of the king, he ought to be able to do something besides host charity functions and cut ribbons. It was just too strange to me we didn’t have details—that you couldn’t find out anything.”
“Did he tell you the suicide bomber was a mate of his? From uni?”
“Yes.”
“And that based on Stephen’s recommendation, he was assigned to their unit as an interpreter?”
“It’s why he blames himself. He said he’s not worthy of the lives given for his.”
“For the longest time, I agreed with him. I didn’t consider him worth my son’s life.”
“For the longest time? What do you mean? Did you change your mind?”
“When I read the article in the Post this morning, I pondered if Prince Stephen was the kind of man worthy of my daughter. Would he love her and treat her kindly, be faithful, and be a good father? Then I realized he was the man my son willingly gave up his life to save.”
Corina lowered her head to his shoulder, curling her arms about his strength, a blend of weeping and sobbing.
“There, there,” Daddy soothed, his hand over her head. “It’ll be all right, Kit.”
“I still love him, Daddy.” She raised up, reaching for another napkin.
“The heart wants what the heart wants.” Daddy’s smile seemed a bit brighter, but still, the sadness haunted his eyes. “It’s good to have someone to share this with now.”
“Are you going to tell Mama? Speaking of, where is she? Where’s Ida Mae?”
“Your mom left the house right after breakfast. Ida Mae scooted out of here a half hour ago, said she had to go to Publix.” Daddy finished his tea and set his glass in the dishwasher. Multimillionaire or not, Ida Mae did not abide anyone leaving dishes in the sink when the good Lord gave them hands to load the dishwasher.
“Work it out, Daddy. It’s worth it.”
“Give us time, Corina.”
“Daddy, I bought the Pissarro for Stephen. For him to remember. That’s what you and Mama need to do. Remember who you were when you fell in love, when we were all together, happy and loving life.” Corina drank down her tea and stowed her glass in the dishwasher.
“How did you get so wise, Kit?”
“Listening to my father.”
Daddy laughed, and Corina heard a small echo of the man he used to be. “What about your job?” He reached again for the Post. “I hear she’s having financial struggles.”
She sighed, looking over Daddy’s shoulder. With an objective eye, it was a fantastic scoop, and Corina rocked that Melinda House dress even if she said so herself. But Stephen? Oh, he was a prince of a man, rugby strong, smoldering, and handsome. “I don’t know. I haven’t had time to really think about it. My gut says to quit. Gigi broke that story with no regard for me.”
“When Carl Hatch read the story, he called.” Carl was Daddy’s lawyer and partner in the golf courses. “He said Gigi wouldn’t risk a libel suit unless she was desperate. So he did some digging, made a few calls. She’s in trouble. If you’re interested, we can buy the Post, relaunch the brand, a
nd—”
“Daddy,” Corina said, patting his hand. “I love you for believing in me this much, but I just started back into the workforce, learned the truth about my brother’s death, and got an annulment. I think I’ll lay low for a while. Get my bearings. Besides, I’m no Gigi Beaumont, conqueror of media empires.”
“Could be fun, Kit. We can hire the best in the business.”
“Like Gigi?”
“Sure, why not?” Daddy’s dark eyes danced a little. He was lean and handsome for his fifty-nine years, without grey in his hair or a spare tire around his middle. “She can stay on as news director. We’ll hire someone like Fred Kemp as CFO. He’ll have the Beaumont Post in the black within a year.”
“Oddly enough, Gigi gave me some wise advice once. She said, ‘Don’t confine yourself to a life of insignificance.’ I think that’s why she runs so hard through life, trying to be significant. I don’t want to mimic her. I want to mimic . . . Jesus.” She cleared her throat and peeked at Daddy. Did she sound corny?
“Now that’s the best plan of all.”
“Have you come back to the faith, Daddy?”
“Not as far as you, but I’m making my way.”
“Well hurry up.” Corina started out of the room, tossing her papa a glance. “Who knows what First Baptist will look like in another year without you.”
Daddy laughed and she paused at the door. “I love you, Daddy.”
“I’m sorry about your prince, Kit.”
She leaned against the doorway. “It’s not easy to catch a prince, even harder to keep one.”
“Seems you didn’t lose him, darling. He chose to walk off.”
“Either way, my love for him wasn’t enough to conquer death.” She shoved away from the counter. “But then you and Mama already know that, don’t you?”
“Kit . . .,” Daddy said.
“Right, give you time. What does Mama think about me marrying a prince?”
“She never said. All I heard was a gasp from her library. Then she was on the phone and, I don’t know, ran out shortly after breakfast. Haven’t seen her since.” Daddy tapped the newspaper against the kitchen counter. “Shall I fly to Brighton and have a talk with your young man?”