The Royals Next Door

by Karina Halle

  I clear my throat. Having his hand on me is making me feel even more off-balance somehow. “A donut and a lavender oat-milk latte. Please.”

  Amy nods and puts the order in with the other workers.

  Harrison gives my shoulder a squeeze.

  I can feel the strength coming back to me. I take in a deep breath through my nose and exhale slowly. Harrison is already paying and I’m not about to make a fuss about it here, the fact that I was supposed to buy him a coffee, not the other way around, and I bring my eyes over to Joey.

  He’s staring at me unsurely, like he wants to ask me something else but can’t find the words.

  When Harrison is done paying, he puts his hand at the small of my back and guides me over to the wall to wait for our coffees, while the next people in line step up to order.

  Joey watches us for a moment, then shrugs and heads out of the café without saying anything.

  “You good?” Harrison leans in and whispers to me. His tone is gruff, but I appreciate his asking all the same.

  I nod, pressing my lips together into a thin smile. I have too many thoughts to process, too many feelings, none of them good. It feels like the whole café is staring at me, even if they aren’t, and I hate that even though I keep to myself as a self-proclaimed hermit, my situation with Joey is what I’m most known for on this rock.

  It feels like forever before our order is up. Harrison isn’t one for small talk, and it’s not until I’m outside in the fresh sunshine that I feel myself relax even a little.

  “Want to talk about it?” Harrison asks me as we cross the road to the parking lot.

  I stare at him in shock. “About what?”

  His brow raises. “About what happened in there?”

  I shake my head. I should explain what happened between Joey and me, what led to my leaving him at the altar, but it suddenly feels too raw.

  “It’s none of my business,” he says quickly. “I understand.”

  “It’s not that . . . ,” I tell him, but we’ve already reached the car, and he’s opening the back door for me. His expression is grim and made of stone, back into bodyguard mode.

  Conversation over.

  Eight

  “Okay, the moment of truth is upon us,” my mother says, wiggling her fingers together like Mr. Burns. “Are you ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  My mother bends down and opens the oven, sticking her mitts in and pulling out the cake.

  I’m prepared for the worst, so when I see that it’s retained its shape and looks brown and fluffy, I sigh in relief.

  “It looks lovely,” I tell her.

  “Doesn’t it?” she asks proudly, sliding it onto the rack. “The hard part is yet to come.”

  She brings out the icing she had made earlier, icing that had hardened slightly into chunks in the fridge. “Hmmm, seems a little stiff,” she says. Then shrugs. “No matter.”

  I watch as she frosts the cake, but I’m no longer thinking about the fact that the frosting is spreading on like chunky concrete, and more about what happened earlier.

  After we got our coffees, Harrison had the driver take us back home. The cul-de-sac was swarming with more of the media, and we pulled in through the gates just as Bert in his RCMP vehicle showed up, hopefully to get everyone to move.

  When the SUV dropped us off on our driveway, Liza seemed beyond confused. The weirdest, longest non-walk she’d ever been on.

  Harrison then said, “See you at seven.”

  And that was it. Door closed. Off they went.

  When I got back in the house, my mom was just starting to get up. I didn’t want to worry her with my paparazzi woes, so I said I had just taken Liza for a walk. Then she brought up the fact that I needed to go into town to get ingredients for the cake.

  The last thing I wanted right then was to leave the premises, so I told my mother we could easily make do with whatever ingredients we had left over in the house.

  So if the icing looks a little chunky, and if the cake tastes a little weird, it’s probably my fault.

  My mother, thankfully, is in a great mood, which is why she’s happily slapping that frosting on without a care in the world. She’s not nervous at all about the dinner, just excited, which she’s told me at least every hour.

  “Shouldn’t you go get ready?” she says to me. She has frosting on her cheek.

  I motion for her to wipe it away, but her attention goes back to the cake. She’s right, anyway. Despite the frosting on her face, she’s wearing a nice beaded blue tunic with matching slacks, and her hair is smooth.

  I, on the other hand, am still wearing what I was wearing earlier. It wasn’t a good look for running into my ex, and it’s not a good look for dinner at the royals’.

  I go into my bedroom and stare at the clothes in my closet. I know I was over there just the other day, but this feels more formal, seems more special. Eventually I settle on a yellow maxi dress with tiny white flowers, a flattering neckline, and billowy sleeves. If I pull my hair up into a topknot and wear some makeup, I might just look elegant, enough to fool them anyway.

  When I’m ready, I throw Liza a treat to keep her occupied while we’re gone, and we head outside, my mother holding the cake. It isn’t until we’re at the fork of our driveway that we’re able to see the cul-de-sac. I see the cop car, but I don’t see any of the media, so maybe Bert scared them away, or maybe they’ll only stay away as long as he’s there. My mother doesn’t even look that way, keeping her eyes focused on the landscaping as we head up their driveway, oohing and aahing at the flowers.

  Obviously I can’t hide the media chaos from her forever, and she’s not stupid. She’s going to understand and most likely expect all of that to come with having royals next door. But even so, I’m protective over her, maybe when I shouldn’t be, and just want to keep everything about our lives at an even keel for as long as possible.

  Even though we’re about to have dinner with British royalty.

  “I never got a good look at this place before,” my mother says in awe. “It’s beautiful. And it’s so light and airy.” She briefly turns around and aims her face at the evening sun, her eyes closed. “Hard to believe we live just a few feet away.”

  Seeing my mom outside like this makes me want to take her on more hikes, get her out of the house more often, even if we have to deal with the paparazzi when we do so. Maybe Bert could be an escort or . . .

  Before I can vocalize this to her, the door opens and Agatha appears.

  “Good evening,” she says to us. “Please come in.”

  My mother and I take off our shoes in the hallway and then follow Agatha down the steps to the living area, where Monica and Eddie are standing beside each other, smiling.

  Monica, of course, looks gorgeous in a pastel-orange dress not too dissimilar to mine, her hair pulled into a smooth low bun, her face with barely any makeup, and Eddie is wearing a navy polo shirt and dark jeans. I exhale when I realize that this dinner isn’t going to be too fancy for us.

  “I am so glad you came,” Monica says, clasping her hands at her stomach, looking at the both of us.

  But my mother is starstruck, this time by Prince Eddie.

  I mean, how can she not be? He grew up before her very eyes on the television, and now he’s standing right in front of her.

  “She baked you a cake,” I say, taking the cake from my mother’s hands and handing it to Monica. “Sorry, she’s catatonic.”

  Monica laughs. “I’m used to it. People are always so enchanted when they first meet Eddie. Can’t say I blame them. I felt the same way.” She pauses and gives him a sweet smile. “Still do.”

  Argh. They are the cutest.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Evans,” Eddie says, reaching out. He grasps my mother’s hand between both of his, looks her warmly in the eye
, and gives her a hearty shake.

  My mother died a little inside. She makes a squeak that sounds like “thank you.”

  “Now if you will pardon me,” Eddie says, “I have to tend to the lamb. I hope that’s all right with you? I made a vegan casserole if not.”

  Oh my god. This prince is full of surprises. “You did the cooking?”

  He grins. “I had a little help, don’t worry. With some luck, it will be edible.”

  Eddie walks off to the kitchen, while Agatha waits patiently beside us.

  “What would you like to drink?” Monica asks, gesturing to the chairs.

  “Whatever you’re having,” I say, noting the glass beside her.

  I swear she blushes. “This is just sparkling water. Do you drink wine, Mrs. Evans?”

  “Please call me Evelyn,” my mother says. “And actually, I’ll go for a sparkling water too.”

  I’m proud of my mom. She’s not supposed to drink on her medication, though she often reaches for wine when she gets upset or nervous, and it hits her hard and makes everything that much worse. Tonight she’s showing restraint, which makes me think I should do the same out of solidarity.

  “I’ll have the same,” I say.

  “Piper,” my mom quickly says. “Please. Have your wine. I’m fine; so is Monica.”

  “A nice cab sav would go really well with the lamb,” Monica says.

  “Then I’ll have it with dinner,” I concede. “Sparkling water is fine for now.”

  Agatha goes off with our order, and I glance up and down the halls. “Where is Harrison?”

  Usually he’s hovering over me by now.

  “He’s down by the water,” Monica says. Her face softens. “I heard about what happened today. Harrison told me.”

  “What happened today?” my mother asks. “You’ve been home all day.”

  I glance uneasily at Monica, who looks slightly embarrassed. I guess it serves me right for keeping secrets from my mother.

  “Actually, it happened this morning. When I took Liza for a walk . . .”

  My mom waits expectantly for me to go on. I look down at my hands, not wanting to look at her or at Monica, who must feel bad for bringing it up. “There was a media circus outside the house. On the road. I was lucky that Harrison was heading to the grocery store at that time. Was able to rescue me, I guess.”

  “I feel awful,” Monica says. “I know how the press can be, and for you to be subjected to that . . .”

  “It’s okay,” I tell her quickly, giving her a reassuring smile. “I’ll get used to it. And just now I saw Bert’s car out there, the cop. It was just him, no one else was there.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this?” my mother asks softly, obviously hurt by the omission.

  “Because I didn’t want you to get upset.”

  “But I’d find out eventually, wouldn’t I? Is that why you didn’t want to go back into town? You were afraid?”

  “Really, I’m so sorry,” Monica says. “When we decided on this place, I didn’t think that it would affect anyone but us. I had hoped the media would stay away.”

  I give her a wan smile. “You’re the biggest news to happen here, ever. More so than when a pod of orcas swam into the harbor, or when someone’s herd of llamas got loose and took over the town.”

  “Don’t forget the Fall Fair, when Buzz McClaren grew that giant watermelon,” my mother points out. “Bigger news than that.”

  “I’ll deal, is what I’m saying,” I tell Monica. “Besides, so far they all seemed local or at least Canadian. They were annoying, but I can’t imagine they’re any worse than what you had to deal with back home.”

  “And I’ll gladly tell those buzzards to go fly a kite,” my mother says. She’s on her best behavior now, so when my mother says go fly a kite, what she’s really going to say is fuck off. The media will go nuts with that.

  “I think I should talk to all the neighbors on this road,” Monica says, looking flustered, her brow knitting together with worry. “I would hate for this to become a problem for them too.”

  “I’m sure everyone can handle themselves,” I tell her. Since I don’t know the people on this road very well, I have no idea if that would be a good idea or not. “I’m sure things will die down.”

  “I hope so,” Monica says after a moment, giving Agatha a stiff smile as she hands us all sparkling waters from her tray.

  “Well, cheers to this, to my new neighbors,” Monica says, raising her glass. “I’ll try to keep the conversation lighter.”

  But as we finish our drinks and then head over to the dining room table, with candles glowing from gilded cages and a driftwood centerpiece, and Agatha starts to bring out the food, the conversation turns serious again.

  “So, Eddie,” my mother asks between bites. “Sorry.” She gives him a quick smile. “Prince Eddie.”

  He gives her a dismissive wave and smiles. “Don’t worry about it. My closest friends call me Eddie, not Prince Eddie. I prefer to hear the former these days. Makes me feel like we really did escape from that world.”

  My mother nods. “I was curious as to, well, if you miss anything about back home?”

  “Not yet,” he says. “But give it some time.”

  “The press has been awful to you, especially you, Monica,” she says. “Bunch of racists.”

  “Mom,” I warn her. “Let’s not talk about it at dinner, please.”

  “It’s okay,” Monica says. “Really. There are lots of microaggressions in the press—”

  Eddie lets out a derisive snort.

  “What?” Monica says. “It’s true.”

  “Some of the tabloids are just out to fucking get you, my dear.” A flush of anger comes across his fair cheeks. “My apologies. I should be used to it. I am used to it. But not this. Not the way they hound you, write slander about you, all because you don’t fit what their idea of a bloody royal is.”

  “Sounds like a lot of them need to catch up to the current century,” my mother comments.

  “You can say that again,” Monica says. “But I knew it would be like that. I may be new to the monarchy, but it’s not my first rodeo when it comes to the press and the public’s expectations of you. Racism, microaggressions, it’s nothing new, and I still decided to be with Eddie because our love is worth all that strife.”

  “But we also deserve a damn vacation,” Eddie says. He gestures to the view. Then he gestures to my mother and me. “And we deserve to have a good dinner with new friends. How about we make another toast, then?”

  We raise our glasses.

  Soon after, dessert is served. My mother’s cake actually turned out okay, considering, and both the royals eat at least half of theirs. I finish the whole slice, just so my mother won’t have a complex.

  I get up, head over to the window, and see Harrison down at the dock, the sun reflecting gold off the water. His back is to me, his hands clasped behind him, and he’s facing into the distance. I know he has a job to do, but it doesn’t feel right to have him all the way down there, especially after we had that beautiful meal, one that he contributed to in some way, even if it was just to get the groceries.

  “Is it against the rules if I bring Harrison some cake?” I ask, turning around.

  Monica laughs. “The rules? No. I’m sure he’d appreciate that.”

  “The man has a sweet tooth like you wouldn’t believe,” Eddie says with a boyish smile.

  Interesting.

  I head into the kitchen, where Agnes is putting dishes away, and she helps me put a slice of cake onto a plate. I slip out of the sliding doors onto the deck, then go down the stairs to the stone path that weaves through the sun-browned grass to the dock.

  He still hasn’t turned around, even as I step on the dock and it jostles a little from side to side, water splashing as I walk.
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br />   “It didn’t seem right,” I say, stopping a few feet behind him.

  Slowly he turns around and glances at me, then at the cake in my hands. Not surprised to see me at all. Guess there’s no sneaking up on him. Probably recognizes the sound of my footsteps or some weird shit like that.

  “What didn’t seem right?”

  I gesture with the cake toward the house. “You not being there at dinner. Usually you’re all up in my business, tailing me like I’m a shoplifter.”

  He looks back to the water. “Have to keep my eyes here. With the police up on the road, the media will try new tactics.”

  “How long is Bert supposed to stay there?” It sounds like an easy gig, but it’s not like this island is free of crime. There’s definitely a dark underbelly to this place.

  “As long as he can. We’re bringing another member from London over to take that duty, but it will be a few days.”

  “Jeez. How many people do you even have here already? It’s hard to keep count, you’re all so sneaky.” Like, hiding-in-trees level of sneaky.

  “Enough,” he says firmly.

  “Am I bugging you?” I ask. “I mean, am I distracting?”

  He lets out a rough chuckle. “You’re definitely distracting.”

  Even though he laughs, I have no gauge at how serious he is, since he’s always so damn serious.

  “Should I go? I just came to bring you cake.”

  He turns slightly, and though I can’t see his eyes beneath the sunglasses, I can tell he’s eyeing the cake. Or maybe he’s looking at me.

  “That’s for me?”

  I raise it up in his face. “They gave me permission and everything. I checked—it’s not forbidden.”

  At that I see the corner of his mouth lift, and I’m momentarily transfixed by his lips. They’re so full and pouty, and I’m . . .

  Jealous. Jealous of his lips, that’s all. Not at all turned on by them, not at all wondering what they’d be like to kiss, not at all wondering what they’d feel like on my—

  “I see,” he says. He reaches out and takes the plate from me. “Shame it’s not forbidden cake. Always find it tastes sweeter that way.”