by B. E. Baker
“It’s almost eleven now. Can you play until one?”
“I need to check with the friend I’m staying with to make sure it’s alright.”
Jostli shrugs and walks toward the kitchen, presumably to talk to his kitchen staff while he waits to hear my answer.
I whip out my phone and text Paisley. No reply after five minutes. Which I take to mean that she doesn’t need me. This random two-hour lunch gig would double my cash on hand, and it’s fifty bucks more than I make for three hours at Parker’s. I’d be a moron not to do it. I wave Jostli down. “I’d love to stick around, but what do you want me to play?”
Jostli shrugs. “Whatever you want.”
I start by playing the songs from Henrietta’s new album, and then I play a few fan favorites, like “Piano Man.” But the stakes are so low here. Everyone in the room keeps smiling at me and bobbing their heads in time with the music. It appears Jostli wasn’t kidding. They love music. I’m in a foreign country, surrounded by people whose language I barely know, and they’re as kind an audience as I’ve ever seen. It’s now or never, really.
I’ve been secretly writing my own songs for years. One or two a month, melodies and lyrics, but I’ve never played them for anyone. Until today. I start with the lightest one, “She Skates,” a song I wrote about Paisley, actually. She’s the first adult I’ve ever met who didn’t care what anyone else thought. From mixing four kinds of ice cream, to wearing roller skate sneakers as an adult, she always breezed through her life, happy, carefree, unfettered. I’ve always admired that about her.
When I finish, the patrons break out in a round of applause, which startles me.
But it encourages me, too. So I play another. “Why Cry,” about finding the sunlight after a storm, the sugar at the bottom of your tea. It’s light too, and they clap again. It’s not the “Piano Man,” but I’m playing my music, and they’re, seemingly, enjoying it.
I play a dozen more songs, growing progressively more angsty as I go, but the diners don’t seem to mind. When I glance at the clock, I realize it’s half past one. I played too long. I stand up, but before I can take a step, Jostli’s by my side. “That was even better than I expected, and you played for extra time. Thank you.”
“I wasn’t paying attention,” I confess. “Sorry about that.”
“What songs were at the end? None of us have heard them.”
I swallow. “That’s because they’re my songs.”
His eyes light up. “Several people asked if you might have an album for sale? Or can we download your music online?”
I shake my head. “Sorry, no. You were the first people to have heard it. Ever.”
“Will you be here again tomorrow?” a ruddy-faced man behind Jostli asks in heavily accented English.
I shake my head. “I haven’t even been asked.”
Jostli presses money into my hands. “I would love to have you here any day, for lunch or dinner. And I’ve packaged up some food for you to take. That was very, very good.”
“And we’ve had double the patrons we usually have,” Hannah, the hostess says in German. “Good for business.”
“Even on the patio,” Jostli says.
“You should ask for more money,” Hannah stage whispers. Then she winks.
“Oh hush, you,” Jostli says. “I was already going to offer her more. How is a hundred and fifty an hour?”
“Um, well, I’ll only be here for a few days,” I say. “I’m going to be touring soon, remember?”
“With whom?” the ruddy-faced man asks.
“Henrietta Gauvón.”
Startled gasps and murmurs.
“Can I get your number and let you know?” I ask.
Jostli beams again. “Absolutely you can.” He writes it down on a napkin. “And any morning you need to practice, feel free to come here.”
“Maybe we should start selling pastries and coffee,” Hannah says.
“Perhaps we should.” Jostli winks at me. “And if we do, you’d definitely get a cut.”
I count the money once I reach my car, and I’m startled to see that it’s three hundred francs, not the two hundred we agreed upon. It’s nice to have more than doubled my cash—for a few hours work. Plus, the sandwich and cucumber salad he packed for me is amazing.
Paisley’s awake and sitting at the kitchen table when I reach the palace.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“Much better, thanks.” A half dozen plates with varying types of cake cover the dining table in front of Paisley and her mom.
“Finally sick of Subway?” I ask.
Paisley’s mom smiles at me. “I also think the daily Subway sandwiches are humorous.” She points at a chair. “Do you have time to help us?”
I sit down quickly. “What kind of help involves cake?”
“We decided to throw a very small baby shower,” Paisley says. “For family exclusively. Only because it will be a good chance to mention Dad’s adoption of Cole, which is being finalized today.”
“Today?” I raise my eyebrows. “Didn’t he decide he wanted it done like twenty minutes ago?”
Paisley smiles. “One of the benefits to being the supreme member of government is that you can expedite things. Also, Dad had the paperwork drawn up weeks ago.”
“Ah. And the cake?”
“We need the food to be quite excellent,” Paisley’s mom says. “Because I want everyone in a good mood when we start asking how they feel about revising the House Law.”
“Could I recommend alcohol, instead?” I laugh. “Although. Maybe not for a baby shower.”
“Oh, there will be an open bar with cutesy themed drinks.” She winks and shoves two plates toward me. “Try this one, it’s hazelnut and chocolate. The other is mint and chocolate.”
I pick up a fork. “How could the family members really oppose allowing legally adopted children to be included?”
Paisley’s eyes widen. “Do you have any idea how many things in Europe are done a particular way, for no reason other than it has always been done that way?”
“No.” I take a bite of the hazelnut. It’s amazing. “But I’m assuming you expect some resistance to the idea.”
“There’s very little chance this will succeed,” Paisley’s mom whispers. “But we have to do our very best. Cole deserves it.”
I taste the mint next. “This is good, but not as good as the hazelnut.”
Paisley swaps those plates out for two more. “Now try the vanilla and honey, and the white chocolate raspberry.”
I feign a frown. “Are you trying to fatten me up?”
Paisley laughs. “You can’t fault me for trying. Even with all the puking, I’ve gained six pounds already.”
“Well, as it happens, I’m always willing to eat cake of pretty much any flavor.” I try both. “Vanilla and honey is much better than I expected. Light and airy, but still fresh. Almond flavoring?”
“I think so,” Paisley says. “Which kills it for me—too bad, because I’m not a huge chocolate fan either.”
I shake my head. “It’s my favorite by a wide margin.”
“Which is fine,” her mom says. “Because we will have three different options.”
“Three?” I grab two more plates and dive in. “So what can I do to help? Anything that I need to say or not say, you know, as the bumbling American?”
Paisley and her mom exchange a look.
“We’ll work up some talking points,” Paisley says. “It’s not a bad idea. Liechtenstein and America are on excellent terms and do quite a bit of trade. They would likely value the American view on this. A reminder of the importance of maintaining the family image in the midst of modern views wouldn’t hurt.”
“Liechtenstein is a very modern country,” I say. “From what I’ve seen.”
“I agree,” her mom says.
“Well.” Paisley pokes her fork into the remains of the hazelnut cake over and over.
“What?” I ask.
; “Women could vote in the United States by 1920, but here, they couldn’t vote until nineteen-eighty-four. And—”
“Holly, that’s quite enough.”
“I’m just saying, Mom, we’re not exactly progressive.”
“The concern with the adoption and the women as dynasts is the same,” her mom says. “If they begin to expand who can inherit, where does it end? My husband could conceivably adopt anyone.”
“So add a requirement that the child be raised for at least ten years in the home of the adopting parent—but allow the adoption to be formalized at any time, or it’ll be too late for Cole.”
Paisley’s mother tilts her head at me. “You’re smarter than you look.”
“Uh.” I decide to take it as a compliment. “Thanks.” I stand up. “Well, I left the house pretty early and then spent most of the day practicing. I ought to shower and actually make myself presentable, unless you need me for something else.”
“Not at all,” Paisley’s mom says.
I feel like I ought to curtsy or something, but in the end I just walk out. I’m halfway up the stairs when Paisley catches up to me. “Hey, thanks for this morning. Did you actually work at Adler’s?”
“It was so fun.”
She continues up the stairs, so I follow. “Look at you, more work than you can handle.”
“Actually, he wants me to go again tomorrow. It would be great for me to earn a little more cash, if it doesn’t bother you.”
“Please,” she says. “Go ahead. I’m glad you’ve found something to do here. Mom’s scoffing aside, Liechtenstein is really small. It’s not a good fit for most people.”
“Most people being you?” I lift my eyebrows.
She shrugs. “Yes, definitely including me. Now that I’ve been elsewhere, I could never live here. I love the hustle and bustle and variety and energy in America.”
I get her point, but there’s also something wonderful about a small place, where everyone knows you, and where you have a real community. “Do you think Cole has any chance?” I hate the idea that he’ll give up his plans and job and probably be left with nothing. “Or if he doesn’t succeed, can he get his job again?”
Paisley laughs. “You’re so American.” She waltzes through my doorway and sits on one of the embroidered armchairs in my room. “But no, I doubt that he has any hope at all, no matter what we do. That’s why I didn’t argue with him about his decision to go to Antwerp in the first place.”
“I think this is about more than winning,” I say. “I think maybe he needs the adoption to feel like he fits in.”
Paisley freezes. “Cole has always known he’s as much Dad’s child as I am.”
“Really?” I shouldn’t say anything else, but I’ve never been one to keep quiet. “He mentioned a brother who played piano. I got the distinct impression that he felt like he was a poor replacement now that he’s gone.”
Paisley flinches, and I wish I’d kept quiet.
“I’m sorry. I have a big mouth.”
“I shouldn’t have kept his existence a secret,” she says. “I think ignoring his death kept me from really recovering from it. Talking about him hurts, but it also feels good, like lancing a boil, maybe.”
“Nice image,” I say. “I bet your brother appreciates being compared to a boil.”
She cocks one eyebrow. “I’m not comparing Noel to. . . Well, maybe I am.” She laughs. “That would have killed him, actually. He had the best sense of humor.” And between one second and the next, she’s bawling.
I crouch down next to her, but she waves me away.
“It’s the hormones,” she says. “I’m a complete mess all the time.”
I’m not sure that’s it, but I don’t argue. “I don’t mind.”
“You’re a really good person,” she says. “Which isn’t a surprise. Rob is solid gold.”
“He really is.”
Paisley inhales and exhales several times until she’s not crying anymore. “You know, Noel was just as good a person as Rob, and I don’t say that lightly.”
“What happened?” I ask. “You don’t have to answer, but I’d like to know. Cole just said he passed.”
“He got sick, cancer. He went into remission, but then. . . it came back. He was so young, too. Twenty-one. He just couldn’t go through it all again.”
“Not enough energy to fight?”
Paisley closes her eyes. “Actually, he committed suicide, I guess.”
She guesses?
“I mean, he didn’t, like, blow his brains out or leap off a building. But he needed this medicine, and it was miserable, and he just stopped taking it. Everyone blames me for not realizing that he was hiding it.”
“You couldn’t possibly—”
She opens her eyes and glares at me. “I should have. I blame me, too. He would have told me, if I’d paid enough attention to ask.”
“Paisley. It’s not your fault he died, and that is not suicide, either.”
She sighs.
“And you have no idea what would have happened if he took the medicine. The result might have been the same.”
Tears roll silently down her cheeks. “I would give every dime I have for an extra month with him, but you’re right.” She places a hand over her belly. “Now that I’m pregnant, I’ve been thinking about this a lot. If my baby were sick, I would do everything that could be done. I would try anything, endure anything. But I think time is a little bit like a pile of coins, the currency of life. We all get a pile when we’re born, but some of us have larger piles than others. But that time can be good time, like if you’re healthy and happy and learning and growing, or it can be bad time. For instance, if you’re stuck in prison, or if you’re being abused, I bet you don’t value the time quite the same. And Noel.” She sniffles. “We all wanted to ration out his last weeks, days, and hours. We wanted to stretch them as far as we could.”
Paisley dances and sings and spins. She occupies all the energy in every room. Every eye is usually on her, like she’s a movie star. . . or a princess, I guess. But seeing her like this, listening to her, I realize that I undervalued her depth and her insight. “I like that. Time as a currency that we all share.”
“I missed Noel so much that it caused me almost unbearable pain. And as much as I loved him, I guess I hated him a little bit too. For not fighting, for not telling me when he gave up, and for dying and leaving me behind to suffer with a world I didn’t recognize, a world where all the joy had disappeared.” She wipes her eyes. “But maybe he spent that money the way he should have. Since he wasn’t taking his medicine, we had a picnic the week before he died. He played piano most mornings. He sat in the garden and read. I don’t know whether he could have done any of that while struggling with the medicine’s side effects. So maybe he was right, and we should have forgiven him and accepted his decision long ago.”
“The world would be a much happier place if we could all forgive a little more.”
Paisley stands up, and I hug her tightly.
“I know it has been hard for you,” she says. “But I’m glad your birth mom’s tour got delayed. Maybe I needed you here a little bit.”
And maybe I needed it too.
8
Cole
“We need to leave right now to go over the details with the caterer,” Mom says.
“Do you really need me for this?” I check my watch. “I’m supposed to meet Adrian later to give him the signed treaty and review a few details of the process we need to follow to execute it properly.”
“Cole Gerard Béthune, your sister only agreed to this baby shower to help you.”
I hold up my hand. “I think you need to rethink what you call me when you’re upset.”
Mom’s hand flies to her throat, and a smile spreads slowly across her face. “Cole Michael Alois of Liechtenstein, you will come with us, and you will smile, and you will not complain about it.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, fine.” I follow Mom and Holly to the garag
e. “I notice that Dad’s not being badgered into coming.”
“Your father doesn’t feel well today,” Mom says.
My phone rings and I hold it up to ward off any protests. “This is my boss. You know, the one I have called twice, asking him to call me back so I can tell him that I’m not actually going to be working for him like I said I would.”
Holly waves at me. “Take it. Stay here. We’ll be fine.” She slides into the car and closes the door.
Mom exhales and does the same.
And I hit talk. “Russell, thanks for calling me back.”
“Cole, I hope everything’s alright.”
I clear my throat. “Actually—”
“Don’t tell me you aren’t coming.”
“I wish I could do that.”
“What’s going on?” Russell asks.
Russ and I went to school together years ago, before I went back home to help Dad and he set out to conquer the world. “Dad’s adopting me, and we’re going to push to change the House Law so I can take over for him.”
Russell whistles. “What are the odds it’ll work?”
“Not great, probably,” I say. “But Dad asked, and I couldn’t tell him no.”
He swears. “I doubt I’d pass up the chance to be a prince either, if it came to that.”
“It’s not about that.” I mean, it kind of is, but not in the way he means.
“Well, here’s what I can do.” He groans. “I really need someone soon, but I can lean on my boss to let me keep using his assistant for another month. Maybe that’ll buy you some time.”
He’s willing to hold the spot for me? “I don’t want to make your life harder.”
“If you had seen the imbeciles who came in for the interviews.” He huffs. “When I heard from you, it was a Godsend, believe me. I’m just trying to figure out how to keep you.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“Good luck,” he says. “I mean, if I prayed, I’d be praying for it to fail, but as your friend I hope it works out.”
Typical Russell.
Of course, the second I hang up, my doubts set in. What are my chances? Fifty-three dynasts. Dad will vote to change the law, but he may be the only one. Clearly Franz won’t, and I’m guessing that his son Alejandro won’t either. Dad called Josef this morning, and that’s when he started to feel lousy. If his two sons vote against it too, that’s already five against. One hundred percent of the people we’ve approached have refused to support the change.
