Finding Home

by B. E. Baker

  “No one knew who I was,” Beth says from the corner. “And I know my German isn’t perfect, but it’s improving. I did a lot of listening in, and a lot of the women actually support you.”

  “Several of the men approached me near the end, one by one,” Dad says. “They each acted like this was a major epiphany, something they had never considered before.”

  “What?” Mom’s eyebrows are raised.

  “Alfred, Leopold, and Eugene, and right before I left, Heinrich as well, suggested that instead of changing the law to allow adopted children to succeed, that I should focus on allowing women a place.”

  Mom collapses into the chair. “But Holly wants nothing to do with ruling.”

  “Which is what I told them,” Dad says. “It’s a pointless change, for our family at least.”

  Beth’s eyes are on her tea, but I can tell they’re flashing. “But think about Holly’s daughter, if she has one, or even if she has a son, what message does it send, that women are excluded?”

  “If they’re willing to budge on that, maybe we did make some progress,” Mom says. “We just need more opportunities to talk to them, and we need to do it smaller. I think the shower was a great way to send out a cohesive message, and Holly was brilliant.”

  “She really was,” Beth says. “I only understood about 85% of it, and I was ready to go to war.”

  “War?” Mom asks.

  “I think she meant that it moved her,” I say. “That Holly appealed successfully to her sense of justice.”

  “But you’re American. And you’re adopted too,” Mom says. “So of course you support the sentiment. It’s all these people who don’t understand because they’re too selfish to imagine caring for, sacrificing for, or welcoming in someone who isn’t their obligation who worry me.”

  “I think it’s fear,” Beth says. “Or possibly narcissism, but I didn’t get the feeling it was that overt.”

  We all turn to face her.

  She blushes, but she soldiers on. “You said there are only fifty dynasts, right?”

  Mom nods. “Go on.”

  “I heard several people saying that Holly would be a fine ruler. Part of that might have been that they were impressed with how well she spoke. But even so, it doesn’t account for so many people supporting her instead of you.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  Beth bites her lip. “Well, if you allow women, the number of dynasts doubles, right? Sort of devaluing the importance of being one.”

  “Sure, probably,” Mom says. “Although we do tend to have more boys than girls for some reason, but something close to double.”

  “But if you say that you can adopt children as well, that doesn’t change much. You’d think the men would be more likely to support something that barely impacts them at all, other than perhaps Uncle Franz, who stands to take over if this proposal fails. But for the others, it adds exactly one person to the list, right?”

  Dad scratches his head. “We aren’t big on adoptions in our family—I hadn’t even thought of that, but I believe Cole is the only one. Except didn’t Alfred adopt?”

  “Okay, so maybe it adds two new people, instead of fifty.” Beth taps her lip. “Either way, it should be the more attractive option—allowing the existing dynasts to retain their power and importance. So I thought about why they would oppose it. It could be that they love their wives and daughters and wish they had fair representation, maybe. But I think nobility at its heart has always operated on the assumption that something about the ruling class made them better than everyone else. Special. Unique. Smarter.”

  Beth is a genius.

  “America was sort of hated for a long time for tossing that basic belief out the window. Maybe that’s why I’m so quick to assume this, but if you open the royal line up to adoptive children, it’s almost like you’re saying their right is based on. . . well, nothing. Luck, essentially.”

  Dad and Mom are speechless.

  “Is there anything we could do about that?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Maybe you could figure out how to circumvent their pride? Aren’t all your noble houses intermarried like 500 times? Could you say that the person must have common ancestry with, I don’t know, someone that you would meet the criterion for?”

  “Where did you attend school, young lady?” Mom asks.

  “Aveda Academy in Atlanta.”

  “It must be a very fine institution,” Dad says.

  Beth’s eyes sparkle. “I think it’s one of the best, for teaching how to cut hair and do highlights.”

  “Excuse me?” Mom asks.

  “I never went to college,” Beth says. “I take care of hair—trimming, color and so forth.”

  “You also play piano,” Dad says.

  “That too,” she says, “but as a hobby. Speaking of, I had better get ready. Apparently Jostli wants to start early today—more of a brunch performance.”

  My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Rogan, the captain of my football team. SCORED US SEATS INSIDE AT THE ADLER. YOU IN?

  “Beth?” I ask.

  She turns back toward me from the doorway.

  “How many people are actually eating over there while you play?”

  This time, she blushes much darker than she did earlier. And she swallows. “I don’t know. A few.”

  “My buddy just texted me an invite to eat there.”

  “I’m sure a prince wouldn’t want to go and eat at a random hotel restaurant with a bunch of normal people.” Her lip twists just enough that I know she’s kidding.

  “Good thing I’m not a prince,” I say.

  “Now, see here,” Dad says. “I went jogging every morning past most of the businesses in that area, for forty years or more. All of the citizens know me, and most say ‘Hoi’ as I pass. We’re not snobby here, whatever may be true over in England.”

  “Well then, if it’s not beneath you, you should take him up on it,” she says. “I hear the hamburgers are pretty good.”

  “The hamburgers?” I ask.

  Beth smiles. “They’ve been the best seller, what with the American theme they have going on over there.”

  “American theme?” Mom asks. “Isn’t it a Swiss restaurant?”

  “I think it’s because of their live entertainment,” I say. “The American singer/song writer, Beth Graham.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll see you there,” she says over her shoulder as she escapes.

  “You can count on it,” I say.

  Mom and Dad, thanks to Beth’s analysis, dive right into a discussion of whom we could contact and in what circumstance they might be most receptive. Beth comes downstairs in a light blue top and black skirt, looking like an ad for a summer women’s clothing catalog, but she sneaks past and waves on her way out. Mom and Dad go on and on and on, compiling a list of our attack plan. When Mom goes to the library and brings back two enormous tomes and begins poring over the family tree from both her family and Gerard’s, I stand up.

  “I’m willing to do whatever you want, tomorrow. Beth leaves in a day, and my entire football team wants to grab lunch there and see what the fuss is about. I told them I’d be there, and I don’t want to be late.”

  Mom frowns. “Can’t Beth bring something back for you?”

  “Dad’s the one who determines when to call for a vote, which means this planning is important, but it’s not urgent.”

  Mom’s lips compress into a thin line, but she doesn’t argue.

  Dad says, “If the hamburgers are good, bring one back for me. Adeline makes amazing soups and salads and her fish is beyond compare, but her burgers and fries taste like under-salted rubber.”

  “Rubber should be heavily salted, should it?” Mom asks.

  I roll my eyes and walk out the door before they can ask me to look up any more minutiae about Gerard’s great great grandmother’s children. I’m actually excited as I drive downtown and look for a parking space. In thirty-some years of living here, I don’t recall ever needing to park t
hree streets away from anywhere downtown.

  Beth is the reason all these people are here? My Beth?

  I scrub that thought from my brain. She’s not my anything. She’s just Holly’s friend. Actually, Holly’s friend’s sister. And she’s American, and she’s leaving in a day. So.

  My phone rings, and it’s Rogan. “Cole! Where are you? If you’re not here in five minutes, they’ll give your spot to someone else.”

  “I’m around the corner. Two minutes, tops.”

  “Oh good.” He hangs up.

  Rogan’s an amazing forward, but he’s not much for the small talk. I expect our seats to be right near the piano, since Rogan said I owe him fifty francs for mine, but when he waves at me, his blond hair flopping in his eyes from the movement, he’s in the furthest back corner. There’s nowhere inside the restaurant walls that is further from the piano. At least we’re not outside. I walk past table after table after table, all full. There are, at least, a few speakers sprinkled around, the wires taped to the concrete of the patio. Ostensibly that ensures that even out here, they can hear Beth clearly. If I hadn’t already heard her play, I’d think my people had all gone mad.

  “Beth will start playing for the lunch block in less than five minutes,” Jostli announces. “So if you haven’t placed your orders yet, you probably ought to do it quickly.”

  Our waiter takes our order, burgers all around, and I make sure that my chair affords me a view of Beth’s hair at least, if not her face.

  I’m remembering the first time we met, her hair three times as large as it is now, her face streaked with makeup, her movements perpetually startled and unsure. And I watch with awe as she welcomes everyone, easily, calmly, with such confidence. Her eyes sparkle, her arms are grace personified, and her mouth.

  I want to kiss her again. Badly.

  But when she starts to play, I don’t care about kissing her any more; I just want to be near her. When she plays a song she wrote, about Liechtenstein, when she sings about the snow on the Alps, the wind sluicing down the mountainside, the smell of fresh laurels, the playful laughter of children and the waves from the passersby, my heart soars.

  She has captured it, the essence of what makes this place home to me.

  The song is everything that made me want to be adopted, that led me to gamble my future on an impossible dream. Her insight, after being here for such a short time, is remarkable. Glancing around the room, it’s patently obvious that everyone gets it. They know that she sees them. She may not have a lofty degree, she may not have the airbrushed face of a supermodel, but she cares about people.

  She belongs here.

  And yet, she’s leaving. Soon. And I can’t even do anything about it, not when I’m already teetering on a knife’s edge. Not when my family already thinks I’m less than, not good enough, not really royal. Her words from earlier repeat in my mind.

  It’s almost like you’re saying their right is based on. . . well, nothing. Luck, essentially.

  If my mom had met Dad first. If she had waited to have children, would I have been Hans-Michael’s son? There’s no way to know, but it’s a terrifying thought, that the entire world and our position in it has nothing to do with our real, intrinsic value, and everything to do with luck. Some call it fate, but either way, it’s something entirely outside of our control.

  But life is also a sequence of decisions. Calculated gambles. Guesses. I doubt that my dad’s family, that Holly’s family, will welcome me. But I still hope they do, I yearn for it. Something about Beth’s music speaks to me, and is it any wonder? We’re both adopted, me by one parent, her by two. We both feel we don’t quite belong. But it’s not only me. Something about this hairdresser from Atlanta speaks to all of these people, to my friends, my family, and the entire staff at the castle. Like Noel, she gets people.

  And they adore her for it.

  When she finally stops playing, the applause is crazy. The people outside stand up, and then, like a wave crashing, we all do. So she plays one more song, something I’ve never heard. Something about searching and searching and finally, in the end, finding a place where she belongs. “Finding Home,” she says. “That’s what I’m calling that one. I just wrote it this morning, so it’s rough, and I haven’t even tried to translate it into German yet.”

  And all the citizens, most of whom don’t speak English, still get it, no, they love it.

  I try to approach her after that, now that she’s done, but she’s mobbed. I can’t even see her head in the middle of all the people. About half an hour later, Jostli’s gruff voice rises above the murmurs and the shouts and the chatter. “It’s time for Beth to go, but as you all know, we have one last chance to see her. Tomorrow she’ll be here for a final show. Talk to me and Hannah in the far corner booth outside, but do it quick. We only have a handful of seats left.”

  I head outside, figuring that they’ll smuggle her around back. Which is how I’m waiting at the end of the street where the alley empties when she skips around the corner.

  “A few people?” I ask. “You said a few people come.”

  She blushes again, and I love it. “Well, I never really have any idea if anyone will show up. I still can’t believe they do.”

  I shake my head. “Of course they do. That was an amazing show, and no one does anything that. . . simple anymore. It’s all drums and lights and smoke and mirrors and glitter and bangles and poles.”

  “Yeah,” she says, “we had a budget of zero. In fact, the people first started showing up when I was just practicing in the mornings.”

  “And Jostli was too pleased to capitalize on that,” I say. “That guy.”

  She glares at me. “He gave me two thousand francs today. Don’t slam him. It’s ten times what I make back home for the same amount of time.”

  “Don’t give him too much credit,” I say. “He’s raking in the dough.”

  “So what? He should. It’s his place, and his people and his initiative that made it possible.” She looks at her feet. “I don’t think I’ve ever had this much fun before. I hope the tour is like this.”

  “Oh, it’ll be way more exciting,” I say.

  But secretly, I hope it’s not, because even more than Jostli, I wish Beth would stay.

  11

  Beth

  I’m shocked when Cole is already up, dressed, and waiting in the kitchen at six a.m.

  “Uh, hi,” I say. “I was going to grab a muffin and be on my way. Margaret said she’d leave some—”

  Cole extends a basket in my direction. It’s full of muffins.

  “Thanks. I hope I didn’t wake you.” I don’t know how I could have. I showered last night to avoid waking Paisley this morning. She gets so little rest, I didn’t want to cut it short in any way.

  “Oh please. Holly’s puking is way more likely to wake me up than you, tiptoeing around like a little mouse.”

  “Thank goodness it wasn’t me.” I snag a large blueberry muffin with a crumble topping of some kind. “It’s a good thing I’m leaving. I think I’ve gained ten pounds while I was here.”

  “You look exactly the same.”

  “Exactly the same?” I cock one eyebrow. “I certainly hope not.”

  He laughs. “Well, maybe not exactly the same. You weren’t really at your best when I drove through Frankfurt. In case I haven’t apologized, I’m sorry I was grumpy about picking you up.”

  “You had a right. I checked it out on a map, and you had to completely reroute to go by Frankfurt. I didn’t realize how much of a nuisance I was being. It added at least an hour and a half to your trip, maybe more.” I stack my bags so I can head for the front drive.

  “Not that way,” Cole says. “You need to go through the garage.”

  “Paisley has your driver, Roger, taking me,” I say. “She said it wasn’t a big deal, that you guys didn’t need him today. She said to meet him out front.” I glance at my watch. “In about four minutes.”

  Cole smiles. “I’m afraid Roger w
on’t be able to take you.”

  My heart races. “Oh no, then I need to call an Uber or something. Gosh, how long do you think that’ll take?” I try not to panic. I wonder what Henrietta will say if I’m late.

  “Calm down. I told him his services weren’t necessary, because I’m going to take you myself.”

  I shake my head. “Oh no, I can’t let you do that. The tour is moving right along to our second stop and that’s Milan. It’s more than three and a half hours away, and then you’d still have to drive back.”

  “Why do you think I took my car to Antwerp when we have a private jet?” he asks.

  I shrug.

  “I love to drive. It’s calming, and it lets me think. I have a lot to think about right now.”

  I can’t be sure, but he seems to stare right at me when he says that, almost like he’s thinking about—but that’s ridiculous. We already talked about this, and we aren’t a fit, in any way at all. He’s eight years older than me—Paisley’s sly smile when I asked was nearly insufferable—and he’s far more educated. Plus, he’s an actual titled noble, whether he’s accepted as a prince or not. Or he was, anyway. And he lives in Europe, and he can’t date an American or it will ruin all his plans.

  Silly or not, I wish he was thinking about me.

  I’ve been thinking about him altogether too often. When I sleep, when I eat, even when I play. He’s creeping into my songs, into my dreams, and if I’m being honest, into my heart. I wish his path and my path weren’t headed in opposite directions. Which reminds me that today, finally, after twenty-five years, I’m going to be spending time with my birth mother. That’s the whole reason I came in the first place.

  My purpose is clear, my course set, but I certainly don’t mind his company for the drive. “Alright, well, thanks then. I’m paying for gas.”

  Cole’s eyes sparkle. “Here, we call it petrol, but fine. You can pay when we stop for petrol.”

  “Petrol? Seriously?”

  “When I first began studying English, I learned the word ‘gas’ for a bodily emission. The first time a human used it to mean fuel for the car, I was mightily confused.”