Their Highnesses King Alfred and Queen Charlotte agree to allow HRH Prince Geoffrey Bere Hale to live in the United States until he reaches the age of thirty, at which time, the prince will return home. Upon his marital engagement, he will acquire the additional title of the Earl of Chantry. If the prince does not wish to return, he will forfeit his titles, inheritance, and all familial connection.
The only part of this document that’s ever made me uncomfortable is the part about forfeiting familial connection. It sounds alarmingly like I’ll be disowned. When I mentioned this to my parents, they assured me it was the doing of the government. Then they told me that while they’d be horribly disappointed if I didn’t honor our agreement, they would always be my parents. Okay, so not disowned as much as what, disinherited? My parents aren’t ogres, but the truth is that the majority of what they own is actually owned by the crown. They are merely the caretakers until the next generation takes over.
I grew up in a household rich in tradition and protocols. Even if that weren’t the case, I would never go back on my word. I decide it’s a good thing Claire and I will only be working together for a couple of months. If I were forced to be in her company for any significant length of time, I might be in real trouble.
When I finally go to bed, I toss and turn for what feels like hours. My brain won’t shut off. I make mental lists of things that I need to do at work, the biggest being giving Ruby my notice. I try to imagine what it will be like moving home after being gone for over a decade. And just as my consciousness starts to give up the ghost and drift off to sleep, I dream about Claire.
My parents are throwing a ball to introduce my future bride to our people. I’m full of pride and joy to be back in Malquar, ready to start my new life with Claire. I knock on her bedroom door, but when she answers, she’s wearing rags, not unlike something Cinderella would have worn.
“Why aren’t you ready for the ball?” I ask her worriedly.
“What ball? I have to clean out the fireplace.” She turns her back on me and her room suddenly fills with enough ash that all the furniture is covered under the piles.
“I’ll get your fairy godmother to help you get ready,” I tell her before hurrying out the door.
Except I can’t find her fairy godmother. I look for her in the ballroom, but I immediately get swept up in the festivities and forget what I was doing.
At midnight, my father, King Alfred, stands up and announces, “I am honored and thrilled to introduce you all to Prince Geoffrey’s intended. This young lady is not only lovely and refined, she brings several thousand goats to the union.”
Goats? I look at my dad like he’s lost his mind. Claire doesn’t own goats.
My dad gestures toward the giant double doors at the end of the room. As the liveried footmen open them, a stampede of goats floods the great hall. Instead of screaming like you’d expect, the guests welcome the animals and start to dance with them. I stand horrified watching my aunt, the Duchess of Trefale, dance to Billy Idol’s “White Wedding” with a billy goat a quarter of her size.
I search the crowd for Claire, but I don’t see her. Instead, a giant figure in a shepherdess costume steps forward. I don’t know what her face looks like because there’s a heavy black veil covering it, but there is no doubt in my mind that it’s not Claire.
The shepherdess makes her way through the throng and stands next to me. My dad shouts, “Friends, I give you Lady St. John!”
I turn to lift the veil from her face, still wondering why Claire isn’t here. The sight that greets me causes me to gasp like some heroine in a romance novel. I’m staring at a man’s face. His full beard, mustache, and wildly black curly hair makes him look more like a sasquatch than a human.
In a deep gravelly voice, he steps toward me, puckers his lips, and says, “Give us a kiss, Geoffrey.”
I take a giant step backward and look at my father with panic in my eyes. He doesn’t seem to notice my discomfort and encourages, “Kiss your lady, son.”
“This isn’t my lady!” I practically shout.
“Of course, it is. Lilly is the girl your mother and I chose for you when you were born.”
First of all, even though I’m from a royal family that has some seriously weird rules—like I can’t ride in a convertible lest I be decapitated if there were to be an accident— this is not the middle ages and royal parents no longer betroth their children at birth. It just isn’t done.
Secondly, this burly man in a shepherdess costume is named Lilly? I’m not buying it. “Where is Claire?” I demand.
My mother steps forward and claps her hands, signaling the doormen to open the doors once again. Claire shuffles in, still in her rag of a dress, looking confused and disoriented. When she gets to my mom, she drops into a deep curtsy and mumbles, “Your Highness.”
The queen gestures for her to stand before announcing, “Claire, the goats have made a horrible mess. Please clean up after them.”
Claire hurries away and starts shoveling great piles of goat manure into a tiny wastebasket. While Lady St. John turns to me and opens her (!) mouth only to release a giant belch.
I wake up in a cold sweat. While my dream can in no way be interpreted as prophecy, it made one thing perfectly clear. Claire Choate is not of my world and there is no way she and I have a future together. I need to remind myself that she is only my friend.
Wish me luck.
Chapter Eleven
Sharon
“Did you have a nice time at Geoffrey’s last night?” Sharon asks her daughter over coffee and muffins at the kitchen table.
“We did. We talked a lot about the events we’re going to be hosting at the lodge. In fact, Geoffrey asked us over tonight to watch some old show Ruby wants to base a singles’ mixer on.”
“What show?” Sharon asks excitedly.
“I think it was called Speed Date or something like that.”
“I loved that show! It was on in the eighties and the host would cut to commercials, saying, ‘If you have enough time to grab a brewski, you have enough time to fall in love!’”
“That’s dumb,” Claire announces.
“It was clever and fun. The couples all had to sit at tables in a restaurant. A bell rang, signaling them to start talking. Then two minutes later another bell rang. The men moved to the table to their right while the woman stayed put.”
“It sounds like plain old speed dating,” Claire says. “I can’t imagine it was exciting enough for television.”
“It was plenty exciting. If more than one man showed interest in the same woman, they had to fight a battle of wits over who got to have a real date with her.”
“Give me an example.”
“They were asked questions like, ‘How many planets orbit in the opposite direction of earth?’ or ‘What language do they speak in Nigeria?’ Stuff like that.”
Claire shakes her head. “I’m surprised anyone won.”
“They based the extravagance of the prize on how many people were left standing at the end. The goal was for only one couple to win so they could go someplace fabulous,” Sharon says.
“The eighties sound like a scary time,” Claire only semi-jokes.
“Honey, you haven’t lived until you’ve teased your bangs up a solid six inches and then cemented them in place with half a can of Aqua Net. The eighties was the best decade I’ve ever lived in.”
Claire
While Mom works at unpacking my kitchen, I throw on a pair of tennis shoes to take a walk around my new neighborhood. I think I saw a market nearby. I decide to kill two birds with one stone by getting a feel for Spartan while picking up some groceries.
The block I live on is half-full of ornate Victorian homes like the one I’m renting—lots of gingerbread and cutouts. The other half is American foursquare, brick homes with straight lines that are a lot less fussy. Geoffrey’s house is foursquare. It fits him perfectly.
I walk slowly past hi
s place, staring at the front door as if I’m willing it to open. When it doesn’t, a wall of emotion hits me like a Mack truck. If only Jack could have been more like Geoffrey, I might be still happily living my life in LA. That’s not me bargaining, either. Divine intervention wouldn’t have been enough to change Jack.
I know I’m making a snap judgment that my new neighbor is a good guy, but I think he’s one of those people who are exactly as they portray themselves to be. Not many men would hold you in your arms while you cried without so much as pulling you a little too closely or nuzzling your neck or something. The male species as a whole tends to give into their animal instincts when it comes to members of the opposite sex.
I walk past a few different people who all smile and say hello. A woman pushing a baby stroller slows down and asks how I’m doing. That would never happen in LA. People are either leery of strangers or too preoccupied with their own importance to bother greeting someone they don’t already know.
The market is only three blocks from where I live. As soon as I walk in, I’m greeted by a friendly woman standing at a cash register. “Welcome to the Quick Stop, my name is Cheryl. Let me know if I can help you find anything.”
The last time I was in the grocery store in LA, I was nearly run over by another shopper who was determined to get in line before me. I let her win lest an ambulance need to be called. But I was highly annoyed she didn’t let me go first—I only had two items while she must have had close to a hundred.
I grab a basket, so I don’t buy more than I can carry home. While perusing the organic apples, I hear Cheryl flirtatiously call out, “Good morning, Geoffrey. You’re looking fine today.”
“Thanks, Cheryl,” he responds, sounding oblivious. “Do you have any ginger root?”
“It’s back by the jicama, next to the fresh horseradish.” What kind of small-town store carries fresh ginger, horseradish, and jicama?
Geoffrey walks right by me on his way to his destination. “Hey, friend.” The words fall out of my mouth sounding warbled because I have a bubble in my throat. Sexy.
He spins around and replies, “Hey, Claire. How are you?” God, he’s tall and good looking. He must be at least six-foot-two. He’s wearing a tight t-shirt which gives me an eyeful of his drool-worthy torso. Broad shoulders, pecs that would make Captain America jealous, and those abs …
“Doing a little shopping?” he asks, pulling me out of my daze.
“Yup.” I point to my empty basket. “Just getting a few things for lunch. I’ll come back and stock up when I bring my car.”
“I have my car,” he says. “Get whatever you want, and I’ll take you home.”
Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Did I just growl out loud? I must not have because Geoffrey is still smiling nicely and not looking like he’s getting ready to make a run for it. “Thanks,” I tell him. “I’ll just trade my basket in for a cart.” There’s no way I’m going to pass up an opportunity to have some extra time with my neighbor. I know we’re just friends, but there’s nothing in the friendship handbook that says we can’t spend time together. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s encouraged.
“You can use my cart. I’m only picking up a few things for supper tonight.”
“Are you cooking for me again?” I blurt out before wondering if that sounded like I was inviting myself for dinner. I know we’re watching that dating show tonight, but I’m not sure the invitation included a meal.
“I sure am,” he says. “I’m making you a meal we’re known for on Malquar. I thought your mom might enjoy that.”
“How thoughtful,” I tell him. In the whole two years I was with Jack, he never once suggested we invite my parents to anything. I was always the one to bring it up and then push to make it happen. Tip to all you ladies out there, if your boyfriend isn’t interested in getting to know your family, he’s not planning a future with you.
I put my basket in the back of Geoffrey’s cart and ask, “Do you shop here often?” I realize my question sounds like a cheesy pickup line some doofus would use in a bar the very second I say it. Happily, Geoffrey doesn’t seem to notice.
“I order a lot of my personal groceries through the lodge. I get a better selection that way.”
“I’m surprised you bother to cook for yourself on your days off. You’d think you’d be sick of it and just want to order in.”
He laughs. “Yeah, well, our choice of take-out food is pretty limited in Spartan. I love living here but when I crave decent Chinese, I have to make it myself.”
I walk next to him, occasionally throwing a bag of lettuce or a tomato into the cart. The whole scene is pretty domestic, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to feeling a bit giddy. “I make great brownies. If I can find my pan, I’ll bring some tonight.”
“That sounds delicious, but don’t stress it. I can always whip up something sweet if you’re in the mood.” I bet he can. My legs quiver at the thought.
We continue to shop together like an old married couple. Getting into Cheryl’s line at checkout, I watch as her eyes dart between me and Geoffrey curiously. “Who’s your friend, Geoffrey?” she asks while weighing my bananas.
“I’m Claire Choate,” I tell her myself. “I’m the new event coordinator up at the lodge.”
“Oh, hey! Welcome to Spartan!” She sounds downright relieved that I didn’t introduce myself as Geoffrey’s girlfriend. I think Cheryl might have her eye on him for herself.
Cheryl makes small talk while we pay for our groceries, and as we’re walking out the door, she shouts, “Come back again soon!” I don’t think she’s talking to me.
Chapter Twelve
Ruby
“I wonder how soon we can get our first speed dating event up and running?” Ruby asks her friend and lodge manager Chris, while enjoying their breakfast of blueberry crepes in the dining room.
“I think we could do it pretty quickly. We’ll put it up on our social media sites and I bet I could get the local paper to run a story about it. I’m guessing Claire will have ideas as well.”
Their server comes over to fill their coffee cups and Ruby asks, “Helena, would you be interested in coming to a speed dating event here at the lodge?”
“Heck, yes!” the young woman announces eagerly. “I haven’t been on a date since I moved back home to help take care of my dad.”
“How’s he doing?” Ruby asks gently.
Resting her coffee pot on the table, Helena’s shoulders sag as she answers, “Not great. His tremors are getting worse and the doctor says we should investigate hospice care. Mom and I are pretty shaken up by that.”
“Oh, honey,” Ruby places her hand on the younger woman’s. “I know how hard this is. Please take all the time you need to be with your family. Make sure and let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
Helena nods her head sadly. “I will and thank you.” Then changing the subject, she says, “Let me know if I can be of any help with your dating event. I could get the word out to some of my single friends in town. I’m sure they’d be interested if it isn’t too expensive.”
When Helena walks away, Chris says, “Money is going to be a factor with the local crowd. You could charge more for people coming in from out of town if you wanted.”
“I say we make it affordable for everyone and then those who have more can come to one of our other events on a date.” Ruby pours milk into her coffee and adds, “Love is something everyone needs, regardless of the depth of their pocketbook.”
Geoffrey
Growing up in Malquar, I was always treated with reverence. It was, “Your Highness this” and, “Your Highness that.” The only people who didn’t bow and scrape were family members and a handful of close friends. Although those friends were still required to act deferentially in public.
It was pretty easy to leave my country without the people demanding to know where I’d gone. All the palace press had to do was say that I preferred a private life. Wit
h six other siblings to focus on, I just sort of slipped out.
Occasionally, they photoshop my head onto someone else’s body to give to the press. The last letter from my mom included one of those news articles with a picture of me attending Bavaria Fest in Munich. I was wearing lederhosen and knee-socks. I also appeared to be rather short.
When I called her on it, she said, “Once you come home, you can oversee your own calendar. But as long as you’re across the world from me, I’m going to have some fun at your expense.” And she does. She’s had me attend an assortment of events that I would have never chosen myself. Clog Fest in Holland, Yodel Fest in Austria; she’s painting me as the festival king of our family.
While she’s laughing it up, I’ve enjoyed my years in the US pretending to be an ordinary person. Sitting in my car with Claire next to me, I feel the familiar pang that this period in my life is quickly ending.
“Why are you so quiet?” Claire wants to know. “You’re making me nervous.”
I force a laugh. “Just wool-gathering. I have a FaceTime meeting with my family in a bit and I’m making a mental list of things I want to talk about.”
“How many siblings do you have?”
“There are seven of us,” I tell her. “Three boys and four girls. I’m third in line.” I don’t add “to the throne.”
She releases a low whistle. “That must have been one noisy house. There were only three of us, and that was plenty chaotic.”
“I miss my siblings,” I tell her. “Childhood was crazy, but it was good crazy.”
“Do you ever think about moving home?”
I feel the intensity of her gaze, but I don’t turn to look at her. With my eyes focused on the road ahead of me, I answer, “All the time.”
“Oh.” She sounds disappointed. “I’m just now moving away from my hometown. I guess I’m late leaving the nest.”
“I think everyone owes it to themselves to live apart from their family. It makes coming back together that much nicer.” As I pull up Claire’s driveway, I change the subject and suggest, “Why don’t you and your mom come over at six?”
It's My Party: A Royal Romantic Comedy (Seven Brides for Seven Mothers Book 3) Page 6