by B. E. Baker
Jostli’s eyes light up. He repeats my words, but in German, and applause breaks out.
“My German is really bad, but I tried to write a German version, too.”
“We want to hear it both ways,” Jostli says, “Yes?”
A few dozen people cheer.
He repeats it in German and everyone claps. “There you have it,” he says. “Let’s start and end with the new song.”
“It could be really bad,” I say. “What if they hate it?”
He rolls his eyes. “They don’t hate any of your music, and this is about them. They will adore it.”
He’s right. When I sit down to play, the talking quiets to a low murmur. And when I begin to play the bright, cheery song I wrote about this stunningly beautiful country, nestled in the Alps, people stand up outside and crowd around the doorways. Their faces press against the windows.
When I finish, they cheer and clap and hoot and howl, which makes me cry.
I almost can’t sing it in German. I butcher at least three words, and my voice wobbles, and my heart races, but they don’t seem to care. “Noch einmal, bitte,” they shout. “Play it again, please!”
And I do, but only one more time before moving on to other songs. It’s an unbelievable high that they prefer my songs to “Hey Jude,” and “Sweet Home Alabama,” and “Piano Man.”
But they do.
It’s hard to drive back to the palace that night, to tell their eager faces that I need to stop playing, but I don’t dare stay out past ten. I have no idea whom I might inconvenience.
“I am charging them a cover,” Jostli says once I finally duck into the kitchen. “And so I decided to pay you more.”
“A cover?” I ask. “For watching me through windows and doorways?”
He shrugs. “We don’t get concerts here, and we love music.”
“It’s okay, you don’t need to pay me more than we agreed.” Having people who love to listen is enough.
“They paid an extra fifty francs per person to be inside for two hours, and you stayed an hour and a half later than we agreed—which means I got to charge that for everyone inside twice.”
“Fifty francs?” I realize my mouth is dangling open and snap it shut.
“So I think a thousand francs is fair.”
“Uh, yes, I think it’s generous, even. Thank you.”
“Are you sure you can’t stay longer?” he wheedles.
I shake my head. “They won’t be this excited for very long, not if I’m a permanent fixture.”
“I was thinking of making this very fine dining. Nights out. Then citizens from high country, the Oberland, and the low country, the Unterland, will all come.”
“It’s a very kind offer.” I hug Jostli. “But I’m afraid my answer hasn’t changed. I came to Germany to be near my birth mom. I only came to Liechtenstein to visit a friend when the tour was delayed. I’m really sorry.”
He hangs his head. “Alright, alright.”
The next morning, Paisley’s family barely notices when I escape to do my lunch performance, and it’s at least as packed as it was last night. I’m pretty sure Jostli is helping things along with fliers or emails or calls, but I don’t mind. He pays me a thousand francs again, and it takes forever to escape. Dozens of people want my autograph on napkins, which is beyond baffling. The only thing I’ve ever signed before was a credit card receipt and my report card—and then I was forging my mom’s signature.
When I finally arrive back at the palace, everyone’s loading into cars for the baby shower.
“I’m sorry to have taken so long,” I say.
“Don’t worry,” Paisley says. “And if you’re tired, you don’t have to come. I’m sure I’ll have a real shower back home, and I’ll make you come to that.”
“After everything you’ve done for me, I should host that one,” I say.
“It’s a deal.” Paisley starts for the door to the garage. “You’re welcome today, but it’s going to be pretty boring, I’m afraid. All in German, and a lot of snooty people even I hardly know. If I told James he could skip it, you’d see a blur headed upstairs.”
I glance down at my simple brown skirt and cream blouse. “Is what I’m wearing okay? I would love to come, but I don’t want to embarrass you.”
She shakes her head. “You look just fine, and believe me, James will be giddy to have another American there.”
“Other than Aunt Andrea, you mean?”
“Someone who doesn’t have her claws out,” Paisley says. “Yes, other than her.”
I follow her toward the door. “Great, then let’s go. I’ll stand in the corner and be James’ security blanket.”
We all pile into Cole’s Range Rover, which puts me knee to knee with his mother, who’s wearing a very elegant, very expensive suit. Cole is wearing a black suit, and his father’s wearing a dark grey suit. I’m terribly worried I might be underdressed—although Paisley said I’m fine. Maybe they’re all dressed so nice because they’re the hosts.
“It’s a good thing you got the sport version,” James says. “Or we’d have to take two cars.”
“Maybe we should take two cars,” Paisley’s dad says. “Then we have an escape vehicle.”
“It can’t be that bad,” I say. “And I know for sure the cake will be amazing.” No one refutes me, so I assume they agree. But when we pull up to the Government House of Liechtenstein, there are far more cars parked in the exclusive lot out front than I expect.
“How many guests will there be?” I should have paid more attention during the planning. I’ve been to dozens of baby showers, at least five in the last two months. Even the ones thrown for Geo and Mary, whose husbands are practically billionaires, featured silly things, like memory games with trays of baby items, baby food tasting, and the diapering of dolls. It’s just a baby shower, I remind myself. It will be fine.
I quash my fears and follow them inside.
But I should have gone with my gut. Because this baby shower is nicer than my high school prom, and we held that in the capital building. Everyone milling around has a fancy drink of some kind in their hand and is wearing some kind of designer dress or suit.
I’ve never seen this many diamonds gathered in one place. At least, not since Rob’s gallery opening. Instead of freaking out, or badgering Paisley on her big day, I slowly work my way toward the back of the room. I find a small table with two tall seats and claim one. A few minutes later, as she said he would, James sits down next to me.
“You found the American bubble of shame,” I say.
He chuckles. “That I did, and may we both stay safe in here as long as possible.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be up there, chatting with the fancy people and supporting your wife?”
“I have no idea what any of them are saying. Your German may not be perfect, but at least you can follow the conversation. All I hear is block snock ach bon blickenheim.”
“You just told me that my nose is ugly.”
His eyes widen.
I laugh. “I’m kidding. You said nothing—which you know, because Paisley already told me you speak pretty decent German.”
He sighs. “I can speak pretty well, but I struggle to understand, especially when they start talking a kilometer a minute.”
“I should be listening in,” I say. “Practicing.”
“I could too, I guess, but this whole thing is really about Cole, not about our baby. I refuse to feel guilty.”
“How’s that going?” I ask. “Any new allies?”
“I have no idea.” James leans toward me, his elbows on the table. “You know, maybe you should wander around and listen in on what people are saying. No one knows you, and they have no idea you speak German.”
“An American spy?” I ask. “Pass.”
“Spoilsport.”
“So are they going to have any games?” I ask. “Or, like, have baby-themed anything?”
James shrugs. “I’ve never been to a baby shower in
my life. I managed to avoid Luke’s and Trig’s by setting up big meetings in New York.” He spreads his arms. “The difficulties of commuting.”
“I’ve been to loads of them,” I say, “but this is the first I’ve ever attended with an open bar.”
James laughs. “They went back and forth on that one. Apparently the family really gets along better with a little social lubrication—plus.” He lowers his voice. “They want everyone to be in a good mood when they start talking about Cole and the house rules or whatever.”
“How are they going to broach that subject?” I ask. “I mean, it’s not really an easy transition.”
“We’ve spent hours and hours discussing that one,” James says, “and—”
But the clinking of a glass distracts me.
Paisley’s standing at the front of the room, gently tapping on a wine glass. “Don’t worry,” she says in German. “It’s only orange juice.”
Soft laughter.
“I know this is a little early in my pregnancy to do a baby shower. Mom and I went back and forth, back and forth. But since I don’t come to visit as often as I’d like, and I don’t come even half as often as Mom would like, and there’s no way to know how long I’ll be able to fly as this little parasite grows inside me, we figured we’d better take this chance to celebrate the expansion of our little family with all of my big family.”
Several people clap, and others tap their glasses. It feels more like a wedding toast than a baby shower.
“I know it’s not typical for a mother-to-be to give a speech at a baby shower, but I’ve been thinking a lot as I prepare for motherhood. You all know that in the corner over there—” She points. “Mom set up a table where you can leave me advice and tips. Today I wanted to share some thoughts with all of you as well. You’ve probably heard by now that Dad has adopted my older brother, Cole. Mom and Dad married when Cole was three years old, and he doesn’t have a single memory of his birth father. In reality, Hans-Michael, my dad, is also Cole’s dad. For years we avoided putting that in writing out of fear.”
Murmurs. Lots of murmurs.
“What fear, you ask? Well, let me tell you. As the son of Gerard, the last Marquis of Béthune, Cole had a significant inheritance, a title, a beautiful property in Belgium. But thanks to the way the Liechtenstein House Law works, as my father’s legal son, he has. . . nothing.”
Paisley pauses.
I had no idea she was such an impressive speaker. She’s leading us all right down the path.
“I’ve been living in America, and you all know I basically ran away to hide there ten years ago. When Noel died, it broke my heart and shattered the path I saw for myself. I should have stayed here and helped Mom and Dad, but I didn’t.”
She pauses again. No one says a word.
“Do you know who did stay? Do you know who bore up under all his sorrow and also carried others? Can you guess who sacrificed his plans and ten years of his life for no pay, and no real thanks?” She clears her throat. “Well I can tell you. Cole did. My brother. And last week, when my dad said he wanted to adopt him, Cole declined. He felt that it was time for him to move on, to try and find a new place to belong.” She sets her glass down and folds her hands across her mostly flat belly. “My brother already belongs. My brother already has a home. My brother should be my father’s heir. And what I learned from spending years in America is that when things like this rear their ugly heads, when injustices become glaringly apparent, we can’t simply kick the responsibility on down the line. We need to do something to fix them. So I’m asking all of you, on behalf of my dad who has served tirelessly, on behalf of my brother who is the most worthy ruler I’ve ever met, to vote to change the House Law so that an adopted child can inherit and take over in title what he has already been doing in reality.”
Almost the entire room bursts into applause.
“Okay, fine, I’ll do it,” I whisper.
James blinks. “Do what?”
“I’ll walk around and spy on them.”
“I couldn’t follow all of that, but it sounded pretty moving.” He beams at me. “I helped her write some of it in English last night.”
“Have you seen Braveheart?” I ask. “Next to that freedom speech that Mel Gibson gave, her little message was just about the most motivational thing I’ve ever heard. And my pastor at church is phenomenal—since we live in the South, that’s saying something.”
“People mistake Paisley’s joy and energy for a lack of intelligence sometimes,” James says.
“Those people are stupid,” I say.
James leans a little closer to me. “I love when that happens. Her brilliance always rolls back around to bop them on the nose.”
“Well, if any of them were listening, I bet they support Cole.”
I hop off my chair and begin to walk around, but the more I listen, the angrier I get. Some of the women agreed with Paisley—most of them in fact. But every single man I pass smiles and shakes his head. They say it’s a slippery slope. They say an adopted child is not the same as a blood relative. They say it’s not about them, but about the future. They say they’re going to vote the way they need to—for their sons.
I expect to be angry.
Instead, I’m profoundly sad. Not just for Cole, but also for myself. Because maybe they’re right, and if they are, it confirms every single time I’ve felt uneasy, felt left out, felt like I don’t quite belong among my own family. I know they love me, but maybe, just maybe. . . Like Cole, like all adopted kids. . .
I don’t really belong anywhere.
10
Cole
After last night’s party, I’m thinking this was an epic mistake, but it’s too late to take it back. I dial the number.
“Hello?” Karl answers.
“It’s Cole,” I say. “Can you talk right now?”
“Sure,” my cousin says. “Let me step out of this cafe so I can hear you. Is everything okay?”
“Yes, we’re all fine, although I hate to interrupt your lunch. We can talk later.”
“I was just grabbing something to take back to the office. It’s fine.”
“Right,” I say. “Well, I have some news to share.”
“News? Your dad’s fine, right?”
“It’s good news, Karl. Relax.” Karl is kind, considerate, hard-working, and bright, but he panics over paper cuts. “My dad decided that even if the odds of my ruling after him are slim to none, he wanted to formally adopt me.”
“Adopt you?”
“We took care of all the paperwork earlier this week, and it’s final. I’ve been preparing the paperwork to transfer the title to you.”
“The title?”
If I didn’t know Karl fairly well, I’d think he’d had a stroke. But he’s always like this with anything even remotely shocking or strange. “This is where you say, ‘wow, what great news.’”
“Well, is it good for you? I mean, if you can’t rule, you’re giving up your family home and estate and everything. For nothing.”
A good summation of my epic mistake, yes. “Right, and that’s probably what I’ve done. Nevertheless, it is done, and you will benefit. Your joy won’t hurt my feelings, I assure you.”
“But you’re such a good person. It can’t be good karma for me to take your inheritance from you.”
I grit my teeth. It’s like he’s won the lottery and he won’t take the money. “Karl, I don’t even have a say, not now. It’s all yours.”
“Why don’t you hold off on the paperwork? I would be fine with not filing it, if say, things go badly. Then you can just reverse the adoption. I’m sure your dad could do that. Isn’t that the benefit to being a prince?”
First my old friend holds my job, and now Karl doesn’t want a ten million dollar home and title. Is this a message? Providence? God telling me not to keep aiming for something that won’t happen?
Beth.
If I wasn’t doing this stupid thing. . . that kiss.
B
ut I think about how it felt, signing the papers to be adopted by Dad. Signing my name Cole Michael Alois of Liechtenstein. Knowing that, legally at least, I’m Dad’s child. If fate thinks I’m an idiot, well, maybe I am. I don’t care. For the first time in my life, I’m an idiot with a family—even on paper. That’s worth more than a sprawling house with too many gardens and a ridiculous title I never wanted.
“I appreciate your consideration for my future,” I say. “I genuinely do, but holding off isn’t necessary, I assure you.”
“Well, if you’re sure, alright then. Mum is going to be over the moon. I bet she’ll start packing her bags this very second.”
His mother has never forgiven me for being born. Perhaps now she’ll finally smile at me at family functions. A thought strikes me: I don’t have to go to my dad’s family functions anymore. I’m not obligated to host them, or appear, or anything. I genuinely liked Karl, but he was very nearly the only one. “I wish you and your mother every happiness at Château Solvay. Truly.”
“I will be praying for your success, Cole, and so will Mum.”
I’m not sure I’d stretch her goodwill that far, but perhaps she won’t be lighting candles against me either. “Thanks. Keep an eye out for a certified letter, alright? Don’t want to throw that one away.”
“Will do. And next you’re in Belgium, please let’s do lunch. We may not have the same last name anymore, but you’re still my favorite cousin.”
“Mine too.” Surprisingly, I mean it.
I force myself downstairs to confront Mom and Dad. Holly will be puking, more than likely, but the rest of them will want to do a post mortem. No one said anything last night after the shower, but I could tell by the forced smiles from all the cousins and uncles and great uncles that in spite of Holly’s amazing speech—the outlook is bleak.
Mom’s waiting in the kitchen to offer me fresh squeezed orange juice.
“That bad, huh?” I take the glass.
“We have some work to do,” Mom says.
