by Holly Rayner
Our curiosity growing, Rami and I followed him to the front of the tent. “Wait here,” Alim ordered, and scampered outside. The crowd had taken notice as well, sensing something big was about to happen. I gripped Rami’s hand, hopeful that Alim wasn’t about to embarrass us.
But when Alim appeared in the doorway of the tent, he was holding the reins of a gorgeous Arabian horse, its coat a golden-brown color, with a white mane that fluttered in the night breeze. Taking a mighty step forward, Alim guided the horse toward us, along the side of the tent. The floorboards held steady beneath the animal, even as he towered over the crowd.
My heart beat wildly in my throat. Squeezing Rami’s hand, I watched as excitement filled him. His pulse quickened. We stepped toward Alim, with Rami reaching a hand out to touch the horse’s soft white nose.
“Wow,” he breathed. “I’ve never seen one in real life before.”
“I know. You’ve been going on about it for years,” Alim said, winking at him. He cleared his throat, speaking out across the crowd, now. “But this time, my dears, this horse isn’t for you. He’s for Angie, so that she can keep up with you on the plains.”
Alim turned the reins toward me. Feeling suddenly flustered, I stepped forward. Rami put his arm around me, holding me tight as I eased my fingers over the horse’s nose, his mane, gazing into his deep, glittering eyes.
“Are you sure?” I asked Alim, my voice quivering.
“Of course!” Alim cried. “You’re family now, Angie. Only the best for my family.”
As I stood beside the horse, whispering to him, I listened as Alim leaned into Rami’s ear.
“You know, there’s a funny thing about this horse,” Alim told him, slurring his words together. He assumed I couldn’t hear.
“What’s that, Alim?” Rami asked.
“It actually cost the same exact amount as that bet we had,” Alim affirmed. “You remember that bet, now, don’t you? The one that brought us all here today—”
“Come off it,” Rami said. He began to laugh, tossing his head back. Clapping his hands around Alim’s shoulders, Rami held onto him tight—a hug of love, of compassion, of grace. “You’re a complete idiot, you know that?”
“And you would have been an idiot to ever let her go,” Alim affirmed.
I turned my head, tossing my hair to the side. “What are you two rascals talking about?” I asked innocently. “I should hop on this horse right now and leave you both behind.”
“Nothing, nothing,” Alim said, looking slightly guilty. “I promise. We’re just joking around.”
That night stretched on until the sun began to rise to the east, flashing across the desert and the top of the white tent. One of the stablemen took the horse away, feeding and watering him so that I could return to the festivities. But already, I was filled with excitement for the coming months, as I would learn to be a real rider.
“We’ll go on trips together,” Rami said, speaking excitedly. “We can take the horses to Spain, to Greece—anywhere in the world. And we can ride and swim and sunbathe…naked, if we want to.”
I grinned broadly, unable to comprehend how the world could open its arms for you, if you let it.
Nodding into his shoulder, I bit at my lower lip, listening as the music became more upbeat and danceable. To my delight, the guests crowded the dance floor around us, still moving and shaking despite having been up all night. Those who were closest to us raced forward, giving us kisses, hugs, holding us tight. They wished us well in all sorts of languages, not just English and Arabic, and I took each greeting with joy, feeling them fill my heart.
Whisking me into the center of the dance floor, Rami began to twirl me this way and that, until I felt my stomach grow tight with laughter. And minutes later, as the sunlight streamed over the desert hills and distant mountains, we stood at the entrance of the tent, our shadows long and entwined.
Before the night could end—before Rami could lead me up to our perfect suite, decorated with flower petals and mirrors and priceless artwork—I ducked away from him for just a moment. Sneaking into the preparation room, I found my phone hiding in a side closet and dialed my mother’s number. The day wouldn’t have been complete without her.
Mom answered on the second ring, sounding tired.
“Angie? Is that you?” she whispered.
“It’s me, Mom,” I said, feeling tears begin to flicker from my eyes.
“I’ve been waiting. I thought maybe you already went to sleep. What time is it there, anyway? It must be after seven in the morning…”
I chuckled, realizing she was correct. My shoulders shook from happiness. I couldn’t see through my tears.
“He’s good, Mom,” I said finally, just after silence fell. “He’s a good person. Incredibly humble, actually. And caring and loving. He sees me for who I am, he really does. We have a lot to learn about one another, but I think we’re going to find a way to do this. To really build a life.”
I heard my mother’s tears now, as well. After a long pause, she finally found strength to answer. “I can’t wait to meet him, darling,” she said. “I hope I find the will to live long enough.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, my heart fluttering with sudden excitement. “I realized I forgot to mention something about Rami…” I trailed off, finding my own eyes in the mirror. “If you’re ready for it, Mom, we want to schedule that surgery as soon as possible. I have the money for it now. We’re going to fight to make you well.”
I said it with finality, with surety. After moments of her hesitating, telling me it wasn’t my responsibility, my mother finally conceded. She told me she loved me, and that she was happy I was happy. And then, we said “see you later” in a way that actually meant “see you later.” We hadn’t done that in quite some time.
After that, I joined my husband in our wedding suite and dove beneath the sheets, finding ways to communicate my growing love with light kisses, and then more ravenous ones. We stayed up and slept, intermittently, until the night drew to a close. And then, we slept like exhausted children, no longer able to feel where one of us ended and the other began.
Epilogue
Angie
Just two weeks after the wedding, Rami and I arrived at my parents’ house in South Dakota. My mother had had the tumor removed just days before, and she was still recovering, stretched under a white blanket and looking tired, yet with a bright spark in her eyes. It was the first time I’d seen her in over a year.
Reaching for her, I hugged her close, like she was a delicate piece of china. She joked about it, knowing how small she looked.
“But when I get my appetite back,” she told us, “watch out, because I’m coming for all the burgers in South Dakota.”
I chuckled as Rami pressed forward, shaking her hand and kissing her lightly on the cheek. I watched his handsome face as he talked with her: laughing at the right times, listening earnestly as she told him about her surgery, and about all she planned to do when she was free of the shackles of her disease.
My father was seated in the corner, preparing to meet my husband. His eyes were large and genuine as he spoke with Rami for the first time, assessing him. It was clear he didn’t care that Rami was some all-important sheikh. He only cared that my husband looked after me. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d asked him something like “Is she eating enough?” But luckily, right then, he held it in.
Rami and I stayed for several weeks, long enough to witness my mother’s recovery in the house I’d grown up in. It was fascinating, watching Rami in that environment, offering to make us coffee, sitting on the worn-out couch on which I’d watched Saturday morning cartoons. When we were alone, I couldn’t keep my hands off of him—grateful I’d found someone so pure, so kind-hearted. Someone who could appreciate South Dakota for what it was: a home I would miss, always.
Towards the end of our stay there, I began to experience symptoms: throwing up in the morning, stomach cramps, countless headaches. Not wanting to talk to m
y parents before I knew what was going on, I rushed to the nearby convenience store and confided in the pharmacist there. As I spoke, the pharmacist took a good, hard look at me, assessed my massive diamond ring (the engagement ring Rami had given me) and asked me, with a small smile, if I’d thought to take a pregnancy test.
It took me a moment to process her words. But as I took them in, lifting the pregnancy test from the pharmacist’s hands, I felt suddenly warmed. Pregnant, after only six weeks? Was it possible?
The pharmacist told me I could use the bathroom in the convenience store if I wanted to do the test there and then. I did, hardly able to wait. And when I saw the positive plus sign, I sealed it up in a small plastic bag and raced home, desperate to tell Rami. I knew it would rock his world.
Of course, the news was impossibly beautiful for both of us. Rami had tears in his eyes, taking it in. And, unable to hold onto it a moment longer, we delivered the news to my mother and father, who were both bursting at the seams with joy. My father clapped Rami on the shoulder and hugged him for the first time—a rare display of Midwestern tenderness.
As we celebrated, Rami got down on one knee in my South Dakota home. I blinked down at him, chuckling.
“But you’re already married,” my mother said, sounding accusatory.
“We are. We’re married. And it was very nearly perfect the first time,” Rami said, his eyes wide. “But Angie, my love, let’s do it all over again. I want to marry you with vows that are my own. I want to tell you, in front of all of Al-Jarra, that you’re the woman of my dreams. That bet I made—”
“What bet?” my father asked, his eyebrows high.
“It doesn’t matter now,” I said, waving my hand through the air.
“That bet that brought us together,” Rami continued, “it changed my life. But it feels like a million years ago, and it no longer matters. Not the way this does, now.” He reached for my stomach, caressing it gently.
Then, with a flash, he turned toward my mother and father. His voice bright, he said, “And that means you can both come! You’ll be well enough to see Al-Jarra. I know you’d love it. And my parents, they would take you in. You could stay at the palace with them. It’s surrounded by mountains, by desert, and the sea—the most turquoise color you’ve ever seen.”
My mother and father looked like children, excitement making their eyes sparkle and their cheeks grow round. But my mother leaned her head heavily onto my father’s chest, emitting a long sigh. “We have to make sure the surgery worked, Rami. That’s the only thing I can’t promise right now.”
This brought us back down to earth. After hugging Rami close, I sat between my mother and father, my head low. Our flight back to Al-Jarra was in just a few days and while my mother had promised to give me daily updates about her progress, I knew it wouldn’t be the same. Halfway around the world, I couldn’t make her oatmeal. I couldn’t read her poetry.
But six months later, I was waiting at the airport when my mother and father walked off the plane. My belly was wide and protruding, and I knew my skin gleamed with health and vibrancy. My hair—normally so straight—had taken on a bit of curl in the months of my pregnancy.
“You’re all-clear,” I said to my mother, wrapping my arms around her. “I still can’t believe it.”
“We always knew she’d beat it,” my father said, wrapping us both in a kind of burrito hug.
My mother placed her hands tenderly on my stomach, which she’d only seen in photos until now. Her eyes shone with joy. “A boy?” she murmured, feeling at the soft fabric of my dress. “Really?”
“We don’t know how to do boys, do we?” my father asked, laughing.
“I can only imagine how this will go, given what I know about Rami and his brother as children,” I said, reaching for my father’s suitcase. He swatted my hand away.
“Fine, fine,” I said, my hands flailing away. “You can do all the work.”
“It’s how I like it,” he told me.
The renewal ceremony took place the following day, held in a large square near to Rami’s parents’ palace. Many of the people of Al-Jarra attended, lining the streets, stretching out before us wearing formal dress, their hair shining beneath the sun and their smiles bright.
These were the same people who’d spurned Rami, initially, for dating an American of common birth. Now, they’d seen the kind of man he’d turned into after marrying me. He’d become the kind of leader they wanted—one who volunteered, who cared for the sick and homeless, and who stuck up for the poor in the city and ensured his father paid attention to their struggles. “It’s because of you,” he often told me, kissing my cheek. “You make me want to be a better person.”
After marrying Rami, I’d stayed on at the elementary school, unable to say goodbye to the kids. But after the year’s end, I’d been offered a position higher-up in the school system, so that I could have more control over the curriculum. I’d taken it, wanting to do as much good as I could. When I did, Rita stopped me in the hallway, speaking to me for the first time since I married Rami. The first time as a friend, anyway.
“You’re the best teacher we’ve had here in a long time,” she’d told me, her voice low. “I’m sorry if I ever made you feel small. Because there’s a fire in you. The Sheikh sensed it and so do I. I know you’re going to do good things.”
In that moment, I remembered being the slight, fearful girl I’d been only a year before. The girl who’d taken the position at the school because she’d needed it, for her mother’s sake. Now, I felt stronger, more sure.
In response, I shook Rita’s hand, thanking her for her guidance. I wasn’t sure if I meant the thanks, or if it resonated with her, but I didn’t want to leave any bad blood.
The ceremony was short and sweet. I wore a flowing white gown, which allowed space for my pregnant belly. Rami and I said our own vows and kissed in front of many thousands of people, with both sets of parents just behind us. We thanked them all for their support, waving our hands high. And then the party spilled out into a series of ornate tents, where we had enough food and drink for everyone twice over.
The celebration continued long into the night, with fireworks blasting into the dark sky. Despite being seven months pregnant, I was still able to dance with Rami, before devolving into laughter at a side table with my mother. We ate baklava and a bit of American-style white cake, watching as Rami danced with Alim and several of the younger kids in his family.
“My, how those two have grown up in the past year,” Rami’s mother said to me, approaching me from the side and giving me a small, wise smile. “I never imagined an American girl could flip their lives upside down like that.”
“They’re good people, and have always been,” I told her. “Even Alim’s engaged now. Did you hear?”
She had. Alim had proposed to a businesswoman he’d met five months before, on a trip to New York City. The woman, who was from London, was a far cry from the “party girls” of Alim’s past. He’d fallen head over heels for her, speaking about building a family and raising his kids alongside mine and Rami’s.
Just after midnight, Rami appeared back at my table and lifted me into him, kissing me. His lips tasted sweet from the baklava, and I giggled into him, giddy from the events of the day.
“What do you think, baby?” he asked me. Above us, fireworks continued to go off. “Do you think that this beat our last wedding?”
“I think we topped it, yes,” I said, holding his cheeks in my hand.
“But the next adventure is the biggest,” he said, touching my stomach. “And the one after that. And the one after—”
“How many kids are you expecting us to have?” I asked, giggling.
“As many as you want, my love. I have enough love in my heart for any number of babies we have together. And for all the people of Al-Jarra, and for your mother and father…” he said, speaking quickly, passionately. “I never knew I had the capacity for this love, Angie, but you showed me that. Thank you.”<
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But before I could respond, his lips were on mine. I felt my heart lurch with the weight of our promises to one another, and with excitement for our future. For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t worried about a thing. Not with Rami by my side.
The End
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The Prince’s Secret Baby
Time for a tease!
Next up are the first few chapters of my previous book, The Prince’s Secret Baby, the first in my new series, A Baby for the Prince
I hope you enjoy!
Copyright 2017 by Holly Rayner
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.
All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1
Raffaele
The car pulled up in front of a two-story white brick building with what Prince Raffaele Caldini was beginning to recognize as the traditional New Orleans look: big windows, a welcoming front porch, and wrought iron everywhere. The restaurant’s sign was elegant—black script on a white background with a wine-red border.
He liked it. It was ornate, but in a way that fit with every other building on the block. This was a restaurant that knew its history, and honored it.
