They leave, quiet. Dumfounded, probably. And I lock the door behind them, refusing to let myself watch through the peephole.
The instant they’re gone, Gillian rushes down the hall, throwing questions at me faster than I can think to answer them, but I still have one of my own: why does he want me?
The man didn't just shatter my heart that summer, he obliterated it. It took me years to piece it back together and even then, it was never fully right after that. Never quite whole.
I meant it with every fiber in my soul when I swore I would never marry him.
I meant it then.
And I mean it now.
Chapter 2
Julian
“Julian.” Emelie’s mother, Delphine, greets me the next morning with open arms and wistful, glossy eyes. “It’s been too long. How are you?”
We’re standing in the sweeping entryway of the two-hundred-year-old Briar Cove, North Carolina colonial the Belleseaus have always called home, only instead of fresh flowers in cut crystal vases, imported rugs, and dazzling chandeliers, we’re surrounded by stacked moving boxes.
Not only that, but I can’t help but notice all of the light fixtures have been stripped from the walls, and in the parlor, a couple of gentlemen are hoisting up a velvet settee.
It turns out Mr. Belleseau had been struggling financially for several years before his untimely passing and nobody knew. His business was struggling, so he borrowed against the equity in his home, and because things were so tight, he let his life insurance policy lapse. When he died, he left behind a wife and three daughters, a mountain of debt, and an empty bank account.
Pierre Belleseau was a proud man. I can’t say that I fault him for not wanting to worry his family. I’m sure every part of him believed he would reverse their situation all in due time, so there was no need to stress the others. How was he to know he was going to fall asleep behind the wheel after working a sixteen-hour day in the office?
“You have no idea how good it is to see you,” Delphine says, still embracing me.
I had phoned her the other day and explained everything, including my plan to convince Emelie to marry me. We had a laugh about it at first, and then Delphine realized I was serious. Without pause, she gave me her blessing and told me how happy it would make Pierre to know that Emelie ended up with me. It was always his wish, she said, and then she informed me that Pierre always thought of me as the son he’d never had.
Delphine had also mentioned briefly over the phone that she was moving, but I didn’t realize until now that she was taking all of their antique light fixtures as well. On second thought, I imagine she sold them for cash.
"How long will you be in town?” she asks. “Isabeau and Lucienne will be driving home from Duke tomorrow. They’ll be here for the summer, though Isabeau has an internship in Charleston next month.”
“I’m afraid I won’t be in town more than a few more days,” I say.
“When do you plan on visiting Emelie? You know it’s her birthday today. I was planning on taking her out for brunch. You should join us!”
“I spoke with her last night, actually,” I say. “I’m afraid she’s not exactly open to my proposal. At least not yet.”
I can’t say that I blame her.
I’m not an imbecile—I knew I wouldn’t be leaving there with a yes.
I just needed to plant the seed.
Now Delphine’s going to water it for me.
“Excuse us,” one of the movers says as he hoists a box onto his shoulder.
We step aside, and I manage to steal a glance into her kitchen, which is void of appliances, nothing but wooden cabinets and empty spaces where shiny metal objects used to reside.
We spent most of our summertime at their country house by the lake, but occasionally we’d head to their city house for a change of scenery or when Pierre had a work obligation he couldn’t reschedule.
Delphine follows my gaze before realizing what it is I’m looking at, and then she covers her heart with a hand.
“My apologies. I don’t mean to stare,” I say.
“It’s been hard,” she says. “In so many ways ...”
“You don’t have to say another word, Delphine.”
Growing up, I never had extended family. Both of my parents were only children. I didn’t have aunts or uncles or cousins. My grandparents weren’t exactly the fun-loving, spoil-you-rotten type. They were typical stuffy royals and they passed when I was quite young. To be honest, I hardly remember them at all. If it weren’t for the royal archives, they would be strangers to me.
The Belleseaus were the closest thing to extended family I ever had, and I loved them like family.
Still do.
It kills me to see Delphine shouldering all of this. I imagine she’s selling this house piece by piece just to keep the lights on and maybe cover some of Luci and Isa’s tuition. Pierre never would’ve wanted to see his family like this.
“Where are you going from here?” I ask Delphine.
“Brunch with Emelie,” she says. “Remember? I told you it’s her birthday today.”
“No, I mean, where are you going to live?”
“Oh.” Her shoulders fall and she peers out the open front door to the moving van parked on the browning grass of her once-immaculate front lawn. “I found a little apartment halfway between Durham and Emelie’s place in Fayetteville.”
For as long as I can remember, Delphine was a stay-at-home mother, and she relished in her role. She lived to take care of her family. It was her sole purpose, and her three daughters were her biggest pride and joy. Unfortunately her circumstances have left her much too young to retire, much too inexperienced to land anything beyond an entry-level job.
“If Emelie marries me, your family will be royal-by-proxy,” I say, half thinking out loud.
“I beg your pardon?”
“There will be a small stipend allocated for you and the other girls,” I explain. “It’s mostly to cover travel and other official engagements, but once I’m in charge, I can increase those allocations.”
“Julian.” Delphine’s hand claps across her mouth. “You’re incredibly thoughtful, but I couldn’t take advantage of your generosity like that. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Nonsense. It wouldn’t be right for me to turn a blind eye to your situation, Delphine.” I take her hand. “It pains me to see you like this.”
She swipes at a tear that falls from her left eye before tucking her chin against her chest.
“This is a very humbling moment for me, Julian,” she says, voice broken as a breeze rustles her wavy blonde hair.
“What happened was a tragedy,” I say. “But I would be honored to help. You’re family to me. All of you. I want to help.”
“Julian ...”
Delphine’s eyes lock on mine, and I can’t help but notice how hers match Emelie’s fleck for fleck — green with the tiniest bits of gold if you look close enough. And they share the same sort of modern Grace Kelly poise. The way they move, the way they talk. The occasional flicker of a coy grin. My people would adore Emelie as their queen.
And secretly, I would too.
But for reasons of my own.
Chapter 3
Emelie
A small bouquet of red carnations rests between my mother and I at brunch Sunday morning. It’s always been a tradition of hers—flowers on our birthdays—only they used to be elaborate in their presentation, bordering on ostentatious at times.
Her motto was always, “The bigger the better,” and that applied to most things in her life, but especially flowers. This year, the five wilting carnations in the small vase between us serves as a reminder of our family’s reversal of fortune.
We’re seated outside our favorite café when a tranquil breeze catches my hair. I tuck the wayward strands behind my years and adjust my dark sunglasses. The Advil I took an hour ago is finally kicking in. Ironically, I’m not hung over today—I’m sleep-deprived. It’s almost worse.
For several hours last night I tossed and turned, replaying my conversation with Julian again and again, trying to make sense of it all.
He claims he “needs an American bride,” but me? Of all people? And after what he did?!
“You’re looking radiant as always,” Mama says in her sweet Southern accent, blowing across the top of her coffee mug before smiling. “Twenty-four looks good on you. How was your night with the girls? Run into anyone you know?”
She flutters her mascara-painted lashes, but I know better.
“I see you heard Julian is in town,” I say, cutting to the chase. We might as well.
“Busted.” Mama sips her coffee and winks. She thinks this is cute. I wonder how cute she’ll think it is when she knows why he’s really here …
“He stopped over last night,” I say, quick to add, “At one in the morning.”
She freezes mid-sip, a skinny blonde brow arched. “Oh?”
“Strange little chat we had, Julian and I.” I clear my throat before rearranging the silverware in front of me. “He wants me to marry him.”
I brace myself, prepared for some kind of Delphine-sized, overdramatic reaction … that never comes.
“Oh. Mm, hm. And what did you say?” she asks, her tone as casual as if we were discussing the weather forecast.
“What did I say? Mama, please tell me you’re not in on this. I find your calmness about this concerning.”
“Julian’s a fine young man and he’s always had a thing for you. I’m honestly surprised this didn’t happen sooner,” she says. “Then again, you two had that terrible falling out. I suppose you needed your space … but don't you think it’s been long enough?”
She knows nothing about what happened … just that something happened.
If she knew the truth, I doubt she’d be so chipper about any of this.
“Anyway, you know how much your father adored him.” She pauses to grab a paper napkin before dabbing at the inner corners of her eyes.
“Mama … please don’t bring Daddy into this.”
“You would be taken care of for the rest of your life,” she says. “You would have opportunities afforded to you that you would never have otherwise. Do you know how happy that would make him? I’m sure he’s up there worrying himself sick about us all the time ...”
I’m pretty sure that’s not what happens in heaven, but I don’t tell her that.
“You know Julian stopped by this morning and made the sweetest offer,” she says, pouring the tiniest splash of creamer into her black coffee before giving it a stir.
Julian … nice? “Enlighten me.”
“Well, he stopped by when the movers were doing their thing,” she says, clucking her tongue and waving her hand. “And he saw the house.”
I cringe.
My mother has had that house all but stripped down to the studs over the past year. It started with a couple of chandeliers. Then an antique piano. A few pieces of art. Then it was the light fixtures and the plumbing fixtures. She sold everything she could, and then she waited until the bank was about to kick her out for not making payments. In her eyes, she had no choice. My father left her with nothing but mounds of debt and no way to pay any of it.
“Julian mentioned that if the two of you were to wed, we’d be … royals-by-proxy? Something like that? Anyway, he said we would be given a stipend to cover our expenses and then some.” Mom clinks her spoon against the side of her cup. “The girls’ college would be paid for. Can you imagine what a load that would take off my shoulders? And well, I could take my time finding a good job. Maybe do some vocational training. You know I submitted eighteen resumes last week alone and didn’t get a single call back on any of them? Not one.”
Our orders arrive, but I can’t stomach to look at mine.
I’m well aware of my mother’s financial situation, and to be honest, some nights I lie awake in bed worrying about her … particularly how she’s going to make ends meet if she doesn’t find a job.
For the past year, I’ve been covering her utilities and I’ve added her to my cell phone plan, but I teach third grade at a public school and my faithful Volkswagen is approximately two-hundred and thirty-four miles from losing its last leg.
I’m not exactly rolling in the dough.
“Mama, I can’t believe you would put this on me,” I say, leaning in and whispering. I’ll be damned if I’m that Southern diva throwing a tantrum in a public establishment.
I love my mother more than life itself, but this isn’t fair nor is it right.
“I don’t understand your reluctance, Emelie,” she says, keeping her voice hushed. “He’s an incredible young man and he is wild about you.”
She doesn’t get it.
But I can’t hold that against her. I never told her what happened, and I never plan to. Only now that complicates things because all she sees is a wealthy, handsome prince who wants to marry her eldest daughter and provide for her family for the rest of their lives. I don’t blame her for having stars in her eyes, especially after the year we’ve all had. On paper, it’s a dream come true.
But it’s not that simple.
“Your food is getting cold.” My mother changes the subject as she slices into her eggs. “And I’m only going to say one more thing about this.” She chews before pointing her fork at me with emphasis. “I didn’t ask Julian for help. I tried turning him down, but he insisted. Even if the offer wasn’t there, I would still push you to marry him because I think the world of him and I know your father would approve. Daddy adored Julian and you know that. Anyway, forgive me for being a mother and worrying about my child’s future.”
She sets her fork aside and reaches across the table, past the small bouquet of drooping carnations, and places her hand over mine.
“I love you, Emelie,” she says. “I’m behind you no matter what you choose to do.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, and one more thing,” she says, winking. “He’s staying at The Palmetto in town for a few more days if you change your mind.”
“Mom.”
She lifts a hand. “I know, I know. I said one more thing and that was two. But I’m done now. And I meant what I said. I support you either way. Now eat.”
***
My third graders are at recess and I’m grading papers Monday morning alongside my assigned teacher’s aid, Afton. I’ve just finished filling her in on my situation when she says, “No offense, and please don’t hate me for saying this … but what is wrong with you? A prince—a freaking prince—asked you to marry him and you said no?! And it’s not like he’s some hairy, seventy-year-old sheik who asked you to be in his harem. We’re talking about Prince Julian. His name alone makes my ovaries ache.”
Afton places her hand on her lower belly for added theatrics, but I focus on the current paper beneath my red pen.
“Prince Julian,” she says his name with extra emphasis on each and every syllable, as if that alone would be enough to prove her point. “Prince Julian of Chamont. Duke of Montcroix.”
I’ve never understood the multiple title thing or why a prince would also need to be a duke, but I suppose it has something to do with tradition, and those Chamontians are nothing if not traditional.
“It’s complicated,” I say as I draw a smiley face and mark 98% at the top of Harper Denzil’s multiplication quiz and move onto the next.
“Enlighten me.” She peers up at the clock above the door. “We still have six minutes and I’m all ears.”
It’s going to take a lot more than six minutes to give her the rundown, so I keep it short and sweet.
“Our fathers were friends. We grew up vacationing together. He was the bane of my existence for years—until he wasn’t. There was something different about him the summer after my sophomore year of high school,” I say. “He was sweet. He didn’t tease me. He even apologized for making my life a living hell all those years before. And then he told me he thought I was beautiful …” I hang my
head for a second, gathering my thoughts. “I was sixteen and this handsome, real-life prince was telling me how much he adored me.”
“Lucky you ...”
“Yeah, well. Not so much. Things moved pretty quickly. And to be completely honest, for a while it was kind of magical,” I say. “But it turns out he hadn’t changed at all. He was still a liar and, as it turns out, an amazing actor. He deserves an Oscar for his performance that summer, I’m telling you.”
Afton frowns before grabbing another math quiz from the pile. “How so?”
My lips move, but nothing comes out.
I’ve never repeated the story to anyone.
Shaking my head, I decide to downplay it. “He was a teenage boy who did a stupid teenage boy thing.”
Afton studies me. She’s curious, but she’s too polite to pry.
“It’s kind of a long story.” I glance over my shoulder at the clock. “The kids will be back from recess any minute.”
Afton rises from the seat across from me and places her stack of graded quizzes on top of mine. “Who wants to be a princess anyway, right?”
We exchange soft smiles, and I’m not sure if she knows just how much her support means to me.
“Right,” I say.
The recess bell rings from the hall and the sound of trampling, giggling elementary students grows louder by the second.
Rising from my chair, I head to the whiteboard in the front of the room and wait for my students to come in and take their seats.
In these small, quiet moments, my mind conjures up a conversation I had with my father a couple of years ago. He was working late in his office and I was home from college. The keen first-born child in me chose to lecture him on the health perils of working too many hours at a sedentary desk job. As I sat across from him and watched him devour my mother’s beef burgundy from a Tupperware container like a man who hadn’t eaten all day, I couldn’t help but notice how exhausted he looked, like he’d aged nearly a decade almost overnight. His shoulders were slouched and his belly was beginning to pooch over his waistline. In the dim light of his office, he was hardly recognizable, a shell of the man he once was.
The Complete P.S. Series Page 57