His Majesty's Measure

by Pamela DuMond

  Vivian: Leo – R U still at bitch’s interrogation?

  Leo: Yup.

  Vivian: TG. We’re still at the hotel. Update me.

  Leo: Daira’s singing like a canary.

  Vivian: What about Royal Weddings Consultants and Famke Kegan?

  Leo: I’m no expert. But I think she’s complicit.

  Vivian: Word on Max?

  Leo: Daira thinks they’re holding Max at one of their locations.

  Vivian: They took my Maximillian?

  Leo: I think so.

  One hand to my chest, my heart pounding in my ears.

  Vivian: OMG.

  Leo: Vi?

  Vivian: What?

  Leo: I told U he wouldn’t stand U up.

  Vivian: Thanks.

  Leo: Vi?

  Vivian: What?

  Leo: I want to find someone like U some day.

  Leo: Someone smart. Feisty.

  Leo: Someone who takes my breath away.

  Leo: Someone who makes me laugh my ass off.

  Vivian: I— you—I mean—

  Leo: Just listen.

  Leo: I want to find someone who loves me in spite of it all.

  Vivian: You’re a catch, Leo.

  Vivian: You will find the perfect girl. I promise.

  Leo: Will I? ’Cause I think I’ve already found her.

  Leo: But she’s already taken.

  My ladies and I turned a corner in the back of the establishment. We were armed with new information as to Max’s whereabouts. He was probably back in Friedricksburgh, not that far from where he was taken. It was well after midnight, and we were all exhausted. “What do we do now?” I asked.

  “We grab some much needed shut-eye and fly out at 8 00 hours back to Friedricksburg, Bellèno,” Esmeralda said.

  “Shouldn’t we send troops right now to rescue Max?”

  “We don’t know where he is yet. We’ll know more tomorrow.”

  “Ugh. And yet I get it. Where are we staying tonight?”

  “Royal Nana and Duchess Edith co-own a penthouse condo on the Carré d’Or. Her Royal Highness loaned me the keys before we left her chateau this afternoon. No wait staff on such short notice, I’m afraid, but she called in a maid service, had the kitchen stocked and the linens changed. It’s just a few blocks from here. Captain’s radio-ing for a car to be brought around.”

  “Good, because I’m exhausted.” I saw a sign high on the wall for a Ladies Room. A security guard in a black suit leaned against the wall outside it as he worked his phone. “I’ll meet you all at the front.”

  “Aren’t you worried about the paparazzi?” Joan asked.

  “You’ve been concerned about them the whole night,” Bea said.

  “Oh come on,” I said. “We successfully pulled off a Diana Ross and The Supremes cover band set at a mid-list Monte Carlo casino. Someone even requested an encore.”

  “That guy was ninety years old if he was a day and he had hearing aids in both ears,” Joan said.

  “He’s alive. It counts,” I said. “Besides, if they were going to nail me, they would have done it already. Go. Give me a second.”

  The beefy bodyguard stationed at the bathroom door eyed me suspiciously. I flipped him my All Access Backstage Pass. “I have to pee.”

  I headed for the stall on the far side, sat down on the throne, and leaned back against the wall because I desperately needed some alone time to think.

  I stared up at the harsh fluorescent lighting. I found it a touch sad that I had to find solace in an overly-perfumed, air freshened ladies room in a casino in yet another foreign country, after crooning into a microphone while strangers jeered my singing voice. Okay, technically it was my friends who made fun of my singing voice.

  I missed Maximillian. I missed his handsome face, missed talking with him, his silly sense of humor, and the way he kissed me. I wished we had flown out tonight to rescue him, but everyone needed to take a few hours to reset their internal clocks, refuel the tanks, and better hone in on his location. I prayed he’d survive another night wherever they had him stashed.

  I whispered to him under my breath and prayed that my words would find him. “Wherever you are, Maximillian, wherever they’ve hidden you, I will track you down and find you. I hope you still love me, Max as I love you. I pray we can make this work. I hope you still want me, that you still do want to marry me, because I still very much want to marry you.”

  A gorgeous pair of black, Christian Louboutin pumps thumped down onto the floor of the bathroom stall next to me, and their owner began weeping.

  Oh crap. I’d upset someone yet again. I mean, who hangs out in a ladies’ room at two in the morning other than tipsy girls, partying girls, down-on-their-luck girls, or sad girls? Whoever owned those beautiful shoes had to be one of the aforementioned. “Are you okay?”

  “No,” she said, sniffling.

  “Do you need help of any kind?”

  “I need a lot of help. I’m sure you’re a nice enough woman, but I don’t think you can solve my problems.”

  “I hear you. Maybe you should go home, or back to your hotel room. Get some rest. Tomorrow’s another day. Maybe things will look a bit better for you tomorrow.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Oh, honey.” My heart went out to her. “Things are darkest before the dawn. You sound like a sweet girl. You obviously have something going for you because you have fabulous taste in footwear. Are things really that bad?”

  “They’re so bad that my stupid face is plastered even more than it usually is in gossip rags, and my privacy is completely invaded.”

  “I know that one.” I exited the stall, dug my lipstick from my glittery purse, leaned into the mirror, and swiped crimson onto my lips.

  “Not only is my heart breaking but I can’t get a moment of peace,” she said, tapping her fancy shoes on the marble floor.

  “That’s why I came in here.” I pulled off the stupid wig and scratched my head until my hair stood on end. “Men always wonder why women go to the bathroom together. Big reveal: it’s for a much-deserved moment of peace. Respite from the crazy world we all live in.” I raked my fingers through my natural locks, bent forward, and tossed them behind me. Not bad for wearing a cheap wig for a couple of hours, going undercover as a Supremes wannabe, and realizing my fiancé’s brother had a thing for me, not to mention it might be reciprocal.

  “You’re going to be okay,” I said. “Life might suck right now, but when you feel your crappiest, sometimes it’s just a sign that you’re that much closer to getting better. People rebound like boomerangs, you know. Take a deep breath. You’re going to be okay.”

  “I hope you’re right.” She exited the stall, plopped her purse on the counter, and pulled out a tiny, sleek makeup bag. She leaned into the mirror, dabbed on concealer, and applied her lipstick.

  I followed those Louboutins all the way up her legs, past her elegant dress to her pretty face and realized I was looking at the female half of Gabecca: Rebecca George. I was so shocked I nearly dropped the ten-pound wig.

  Our eyes met and locked.

  “Wait,” Rebecca said. “Aren’t you the American girl with a Bellèno heart? The girl who was left high and dry at the altar by her fiancé, Prince Maximillian, on her wedding day?”

  “Guilty,” I said. “Just don’t tell anyone that I’m here. I’m trying to get out of this place relatively paparazzi free.”

  There was a loud banging on the bathroom door as it was shoved wide open, and the glare of cameras flashed around us. “Fuck!”

  “Fuck!” she said.

  But the cameras weren’t aimed at me. They were all trained on Rebecca. I was trampled by four photographers and Cotton Candy Haired reporter from Cable Bellèno News. I lay sprawled on the bathroom floor as they surged around me.

  “Oh, fuck!” Rebecca said again, and pressed her hands over her head.

  “Roll camera!” Cotton Candy said. “And here we are at the Monte and Carlos Casino private,
behind the scenes bathroom in an exclusive interview with Rebecca George. Rebecca, your fans want to know how you’re handling the stress. Who gets custody of the dogs and cats? Will you get back with your ex-boyfriend, the social media billionaire? Do you plan on splitting up your production company?”

  Rebecca’s bodyguard stormed the room. But in spite of his ferocity and bulk, he was a giant spit in the wind, and still couldn’t push past the paparazzi.

  I crawled toward the bathroom door. Rebecca could handle this latest onslaught of media attention. She was used to it. When photos and videos found their way online, Rebecca George would still be impeccably coiffed, while I looked like a train wreck. This was not my circus. Not my monkeys. I had a mild concussion from the night before and had more important things to do, like save Max tomorrow. I should just keep crawling on the floor out of here.

  But then my gaze swiveled back to Rebecca and my heart sank. She was hyperventilating, trying to hold it together, extending one hand to keep the vultures at bay, the other covering her face. And it dawned on me if I didn’t help Rebecca George in her hour of need, I’d be just as awful as all those parasites swarming all over her. As awful as the people who had kidnapped Max. And so I made a decision. Fuck the paparazzi. Fuck the entitled people who did anything to anyone to get whatever they wanted. I was done being a mouse.

  I hurled my wig across the room. “Leave her alone!” It smacked Cotton Candy Hair reporter on the forehead. She stumbled and dropped her mic. There was an opening in the crowd and Rebecca’s bodyguard was able to crawl through and shelter her under his protective arm. I turned and crawled the rest of the way out of the Ladies room as cameras snapped and whirred behind me.

  Chapter 22

  VIVIAN

  “You are so lucky they didn’t snap a pic of your face.” Joan stared at the online version of All Right Magazine on her phone as we sped back down the hills from Royal Nana’s chateau.

  “Can you imagine the field day the press would have had if they’d had a picture of you and Rebecca George?” Esmeralda said.

  “Yes, we could write a book about our five minutes together. Go on Sixty Minutes. Do a ‘Tell all’ about the intimate secrets we shared,” I said.

  “Ooh, like what?” Bea asked.

  “Like life advice and pass me the toilet paper? Nothing, Bea. You missed nothing.”

  “I’m just glad Vivian took my advice and wore her good underwear,” Royal Nana said, leaning in next to Joan. “I spotted your lace panties in that one photo.”

  I glanced over and read the headline. “Stop! in the Name of Love! Supremes Impersonator Strikes a Blow for Rebecca!” with an image of Cotton Candy Haired reporter trying to pick up her mic as the A-lister’s bodyguard hustled her out of that bathroom.

  I looked out the window and spotted a familiar sign on the side of the highway. “Wait! Pull over!” I said. “It’s the entrance for the St. Francis of Assisi Chapel, Queen Cheree’s Labrador Retriever Sanctuary. I need to stop here.”

  “We’re—” Esmeralda said.

  “You are not allowed to tell me no, this time.”

  Max and Leo’s mom, the elegant, timeless Queen Cheree, had plunked down a small fortune and restored the dilapidated five-hundred-year-old church grounds of her beloved Labrador Retriever Sanctuary on the outskirts of Friedricksburgh. The Royal Bellèno St. Francis of Assisi Chapel was small, pristine, and remarkable in that featured paintings and busts of St. Francis surrounded by the animals he’d helped, loved, and purportedly rescued. In this chapel’s artistic renderings—St. Francis was always surrounded by Labrador Retrievers.

  This was the second time I had knelt on a red velvet kneeler in this sanctuary. The first was after Max had told me we couldn’t be together, that he would not stand in the way of me marrying his brother Leopold. I knew when I saw the sign on the side of the road a day ago that I could find comfort here. Perhaps even guidance.

  “Do you need anything, Vivian?” Joan asked and squirmed in the aisle next to me. “I’d rather like to use the facilities before we take off.”

  “Go. I’m good. Give me a few minutes.”

  “See you back at the car,” she said, and walked away.

  I stared up at St. Francis and all his renditions. He looked so kind surrounded by all those Labradors that reminded me of my dog Roman: light, love and kindness. I could use a little kindness right about now.

  “Give me a sign?” I pleaded with an image of St. Francis in a regal oil painting surrounded by yellow Labradors staring up at him adoringly. “Give me some encouragement, a clue about what I should do, how I should handle this. I’m hoping we get Max back safe and sound today, but anything could happen. There’s a minor detail about his brother being attracted to me but that’s a whole ’nother story. Just send me a message. A little something to cheer me up. Keep me going.”

  A wizened priest tottered out into the sacristy singing Barry Manilow’s “I Can’t Smile Without You” under his breath. He dusted the statues, the altar, and the gilded frames of the oil paintings. He glanced over at me. “Hello lovely. What’s your name?”

  “Vivian.”

  “I’m Father Julian Roberto. Can I help you?”

  Goosebumps sprouted on my arms. “Get out of town. That’s your real name?”

  “Ever since I can remember. Are we related?”

  My parents named me after ‘Vivian’, Julia Roberts’ character in Pretty Woman. In my heart of hearts, I thought I’d just got my sign.

  “I don’t know, Father. I’m just a girl who’s down on her luck. My fiancé went missing and I fear for his well-being. We’ve been trying to tie the knot, but that doesn’t seem to be happening. I’m looking for a little guidance. This beautiful sanctuary offered me that once, and I was hoping I might find it here again.”

  “Guidance, you say. Hmm.” He rubbed his chin. “Do you like dogs?”

  “I love dogs.”

  “Then you’re in the right place. I’m just a lowly priest around these parts. I suspect when you need guidance about the important issues, you should talk with the experts. Come with me.”

  We stood outside the sacristy in the backyard, or in the case of this sanctuary, the back forty. A narrow mountain stream ran through the property, its waters babbling low. An old-fashioned Swiss-style house barn sat a few dozen yards away as chickens high-stepped around an adjacent pen.

  Father Julia Roberto hoisted a large bag of dog kibble over his shoulder and walked toward the side of the barn as a small pack of yellow, black, and a brown Labradors followed him, tails wagging.

  “These are the Royal Bellèno St. Francis of Assisi Chapel Labrador Retrievers,” he said. “Meet Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, and Mary.”

  They crowded around him in a pack, staring up in that adorable way, tails wagging. A few barked excitedly.

  “Hello pooches!” I smiled and petted them, inhaled the scent of happy dog, and already felt a little calmer. “They’re fabulous.”

  He poured kibble into their dishes. The pooches mingled about, tails thwacking each other, until they found their bowl within the pack’s pecking order, and chowed down. The priest stared at them and smiled.

  “Each of these magnificent beasts was the reject of their litters,” he said. “The ones either no one picked or the dogs that were deemed unsalvageable and returned.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  He shook his head and pointed at the brown lab. “That one, Matthew, was a bit of a loner. We had a tough time socializing him. Mark was somewhat territorial and tended to be a bully. He’s gotten better over the years, but it’s taken time and elbow grease on our part. Luke, well, let’s just say he couldn’t follow a command if it was handed to him on a silver platter. John was perfect except for a spinal defect in his lower back. No one thought he’d live very long. But it’s been six years now. And Mary.” He bent down and scratched a petite black lab behind her ears. She stopped eating and licked his hand before returning to her kibble. “Well
, our Mary is too friendly.”

  “How is it possible for a dog to be too friendly?”

  “Mary flunked out of guide dog school because she loved life a little too much. She’d stop and greet people at stores and on walks. Can’t do that when you’re a guide dog. The animal must be focused primarily on the needs of the person they are watching out for. The Foundation returned her to us and we placed her with a couple that wanted a hunting dog. That lasted about four months.”

  “Why?”

  “Mary couldn’t wait until the ducks were shot to retrieve them. She barked and gave the surprise away. Those people wanted a retriever, Vivian, not simply a pet.”

  Father Roberto filled a drinking trough with water. “Many folks expect their dogs to obey their every command. They pick a Labrador because they want a loyal, reliable working dog.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Sometimes the people that show up at our church looking for help want a sign in the clouds above. Or they want God to speak to them in Morgan Freeman’s voice. If the people I encounter don’t like dogs, I usually give them a blessing and let them go on their way. If we make it back here to this section of the sanctuary, I ask folks which dog they might relate to.”