One Night

by Marsha Qualey

  I said, “Thank you, Ms. Sanchez.”

  She fixed her eyes on the prince. “If it’s not too disturbing, would you tell me now about your sister?”

  This time he wasn’t ambushed. He was ready. “She was accompanying Red Cross workers while they delivered supplies to refugee camps. They were attacked on the road. Three of the workers were killed. Two survived, but barely.”

  “When was this?” Simone asked.

  “Six months ago.”

  “And she’s still in the hospital?”

  “She was hurt pretty badly. That’s why she was transported to Paris. That, and for her safety.”

  Simone looked up sharply. “Her safety? She was targeted?”

  He nodded. “My sister was well known and popular in Lakveria. She’d been working with the Red Cross and various UN agencies for some time. There are…factions who are threatened by the stability the new government offers. My family, what there is of it, is part of that government.”

  “What about your safety, Prince?” she asked.

  He sipped, swallowed, stared at his teacup before finally looking directly at Simone. “I’m well protected.”

  I must have made a noise, because they both looked at me. I smiled. “Lakverian security seems to be very efficient,” I said. At least in hotels.

  “What’s your sister’s prognosis?” Simone asked softly.

  “Not good. She’s alive and stable, but what she faces… She lost her vision. Her left leg was blown off.” He gripped his knee. “Severe internal injuries. Brain damage. She can’t speak. There’s partial paralysis, though the doctors have no idea if that and her speech loss are permanent.” He set down his cup. “She responds to very little, though she seems to recognize some voices. She knows mine, I’m certain of that. We can’t determine what, how much, she thinks. What she feels.” He shrugged and looked down a moment, then across at Simone. “She can’t read, can’t communicate, she doesn’t even seem to be there when I talk to her or read to her. So a lot of the time when I’m with her, I just play music. Often it’s your music because I know how she loved it. And I can tell by the way she tightens her…”

  He was no longer speaking to us. Just talking, just thinking aloud about his sister.

  He breathed deeply. “Sometimes she squeezes my hand—sometimes she can do that much. Then I know that she’s…there.” He sat back. “She always loved your second CD. The one you recorded live at some college. It’s just you and a piano.”

  Simone nodded. “Simone Live,” she said softly. “Oh my goodness, that’s so old.”

  He said, “I play that and sit with her, whenever I can.”

  Simone made a tent with her hands. Tapped her fingers together three times, then smiled, her own composure regained. “I have a new CD, Prince Tom. I’ll send it along with you. Though it’s a far cry from Live. Raucous, that’s what I am now, I’m raucous. Probably she won’t like it. No, better you take home something else for her. Peace, perhaps. Yes, take home peace. But, oh dear, you say it’s not going well.”

  “It’s not. There’s an agreement, of course. It’s been in place for weeks. But we need more UN troops to monitor the cease-fire, and that depends on US money, I’m afraid. Congress is reluctant.”

  “UN forces didn’t help much in Bosnia,” I offered. “Nothing really did until the people voted and threw out the bad guy.”

  “Lakveria’s different,” he said. “We’ve had a bitter war, but no all-powerful evil leader. And all sides agreed in advance to honor the election. The fact that the parliament and the people voted to restore the monarchy shows that they want to find something to unite us.”

  “So you’re to be a unifying force?” Simone said, a tad skeptically.

  “Yes,” he said firmly. “Exactly.” He licked his lips. “Natalia, my sister, was working so hard. She knows Lakveria. She chose to live there years ago, when I was still at school. She…” He melted back into himself. “She should be the one. She should be the king.” He looked up, smiling wanly at each of us. “Or queen.” He sat erect in his chair. “But it’s my job and I want it, I want to lead my country.”

  Simone twisted in her seat to pour more tea into her cup. She caught my eye and again telegraphed a message: Like hell he does.

  The boy was no dolt. “I mean it,” he said, leaning forward. “The opportunity is there now and it might not be there again. We’re hopeful. Six months ago this conference wouldn’t have been possible. Your vice president Ripley has been very determined.”

  Determined to get a tree cut down, I thought, but that isn’t going to happen.

  “You’re pretty far from Lakveria, but Minnesota is a peaceful place, probably a good place to conjure up peace,’’ Simone said. “A very long time ago I lived here when I was just starting out. Sang in public for the first time in some divey beer joint near the university. Tony’s Pub.”

  Not so divey anymore: Tony’s was the most active jazz place in town, and they probably sold more five-hundred-dollar bottles of wine than beer.

  And then it stretched before me: Step two, or how to turn him over to Kit. Tricky, though; I mean, I couldn’t just suggest we all hop in the movie star’s limo and take a trip down memory lane while the prince takes notes to share with his sister. Could I?

  Prince Tomas rose. “Thank you,” he said. “I must go.”

  “When we first got here, you said you had a question for me,” I blurted, claiming Simone’s attention. A rude commoner’s interruption, but I was desperate and counting on the prince’s good manners. He wouldn’t dare leave until she bid him good-bye.

  Simone clapped her hands together. “Of course!” She swiveled in her chair and reached for Little Girl. She opened the back cover and her index finger tapped the jacket flap. “Here, this: ‘Ida May Turnbull lives in Dakota City, Minnesota. This is her first book for children.’“ Simone squinted at me, brow furrowed. “I know these books are about her childhood in Minnesota, but she lived in New York. She was part of the Algonquin round table. She died in New York. I’ve visited her grave.”

  “I guess she lived here before she lived there,” I said.

  Simone snorted. “Well, obviously. What I was hoping you might know—maybe those crazy book ladies told you—was where she lived when she lived here. Do you know? Is that fact in your head? If it’s not, could you find out?”

  If you focus on details, the big picture doesn’t kill you. Details are my life preserver, one of the ways I keep afloat on sobriety sea. So, even though I have never read a single book by the long-dead Ida May Turnbull, I had done my research. And what I had missed, the ladies on Kit’s show had filled in. Curse or blessing, I remembered it all. I said, “I know.”

  Simone Sanchez turned to Prince Tomas. “Helluva delivery girl,” she said.

  I thought he’d be confused, but he was nodding. “Little Girl Big River,” he said. “I used to watch the show.”

  Simone made a face. “The show was wretched. They should never make television shows from books. Never. The books are wonderful. You should read them, Prince. Read them to your sister. Tell her I insist.” She turned to her assistant, still lurking discreetly. “Do we have time tomorrow to drive by this house?”

  Ms. Whittaker shook her head.

  Simone rose abruptly. “Show day; of course not.” She pointed at Tomas. “You’ll come to the concert, then you can tell your sister you heard me sing.” She tipped her head to include me. “I’ve got tickets for the two of you. Pam, do we have those tickets?”

  Oh, but the gears of stardom are oiled and smooth. In an instant, Ms. Whittaker flipped open a date book, pulled out two cardboard rectangles, and put them in the star’s waiting palm. Simone pressed them into mine. “Call it a date or don’t, but I expect you both there.”

  He was smooth. Not even a blush. “I’d be happy to call it a date, assuming I find out her name. But I can’t attend. I’ll be in New York. My uncle is speaking to the UN General Assembly tomorrow evening.”
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  Hmm, and what was my excuse? I didn’t have one, certainly not the UN, so I slipped the tickets into my wallet before they were reclaimed.

  “Then if you can’t go to the show, you must ride along now.”

  Ride along now? I wasn’t the only one confused. “What?” said Prince Tomas.

  “Ride along when we go to see the house of this author I love.” She took a deep breath and moved in closer to him. Right before my eyes, the prince melted back into a boy. He gulped and licked his lips as she closed the space between them. Hard, I suppose, not to be aware of what was and wasn’t there under her robe. “I just bet,” Simone said, “that you know something about miserable childhoods, Prince Tom. I had one. Name the dysfunction, any one you can think of, and I assure you that it was part of my family life. Reading kept me alive. Kept me sane.” She held Little Girl aloft. “These books especially. I want to see where this one was written. So why don’t you ride along? Something to tell your sister.”

  He stepped back. Took a moment. Rolled the thought around, clearly savoring it. Then he sighed and said, “Thank you, but I could never get away.”

  It’s my job to be helpful, so I said, “Sneak out.”

  “My…men wouldn’t allow that. They control everything.” He looked to Simone for affirmation, one guarded person to another. But she was smiling.

  “I almost hate to tell you this, Prince Tom, because it smells of one-upsmanship, but, dear boy, this suite is nicer than yours: It has a private elevator. You must ask for this room the next time you’re in town making peace. So you see, your men don’t even need to know that you’ve left. Fifteen minutes after we’re gone, one of my people will step outside and say, ‘Oops, did we forget to let you know?’”

  “I can’t go out,” he said weakly.

  “You’re out now,” I said, and gave him a moment to digest that fact before tossing him another. “And my name is Kelly Ray.”

  *

  Simone insisted on sitting by a window and the prince, which meant the poor guy was stuck in the middle. I nestled into my corner of the backseat, right behind the driver, and tried to give Prince Tom room. He sat with his hands folded, looking down, looking inside, looking like someone trapped at a meeting in some musty church basement.

  “What’s funny?” he asked me tersely.

  “Who’s laughing?”

  “You were, sort of. Under your breath. What’s the joke, Kelly Ray?”

  “No joke. It’s just that sitting there the way you are kind of reminded me of someone.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “No one you know, Prince Tomas.”

  “Would you two please quit growling at each other,” Simone said. “I want to enjoy this.”

  “There’s a dinner at eight,” he said. “It’s nearly five now. I shouldn’t have done this.”

  “You’ll be back,” she said.

  Not if I get lucky, I thought. “No one made you come,” I said aloud.

  He looked at me a long time. Finally he said drily, “Is that what you think?”

  Simone laughed and poked him in the gut. Then she looked out the window and said, “Are we there yet?”

  Truth time: In spite of the enviable size of my mental database, I didn’t know the exact address of the house we were off to see, just the general area. I was sure I could get us within a block or two and was counting on my memory of the rapturous description I’d heard from the Ida May Turnbull fans: corner house, red tile roof, brick and stucco, ancient hitching post out front. How many of those could there be?

  “Head toward the U,” I said to the driver. “Stay east of the interstate.” He nodded.

  Ms. Whittaker aimed and held a skeptical look. “No address?” she said.

  I took a shot. “Fifth Street.” She faced front and checked her watch.

  Simone and Prince Tom were debating skiing in Switzerland versus New Zealand. He tried to include me, but I’ve never been east of Boston or west of San Francisco. I sure had nothing to say about restaurants in Gstaad, and the conversation rolled on without me. I watched traffic and wondered about Next.

  Tell him outright what I want?

  Keep lying about who and what I am until I can get Kit to meet us somewhere?

  I reached into my pocket for my cell, then remembered it was still with hotel security. There was a phone on the back of the driver’s seat. I asked, “May I make a call? I need to check in with my office and let them know what I’m up to.”

  “No,” Prince Tom said in a tone that could command legions.

  “This is a private excursion, Delivery Girl,” Simone said gently.

  “It will stay that way,” I said. “I just wanted to check in.” But I sat back. No sense upsetting anyone.

  “I don’t want this found out by the press,” he said. “I’m supposed to be a participant in a serious conference. If it gets out how I really spent my time, it could blow things apart.” He frowned. “But, Kelly, I guess maybe you should call, if you think you might get fired.”

  “Not likely,” Simone murmured.

  “Could happen,” I lied.

  He looked worried. “Could you call but not really tell them anything?”

  “No,” Simone said, stretching it into a two syllable word. Nuh-oh. “I don’t want the press tracking us down either, Prince Tom. Journalists can be useful, of course, but then”—she smiled at me—“so are pesticides.”

  “Have you had your job long?” he asked me.

  The way I figured it, talking about me would lead to one of two things: The lies would pile up or the truth would come out. Neither would help anything. I looked at the city streets gliding by. He waited. “Not long,” I said finally. “Six months.” Deflect, Kelly, deflect attention. “So tell me, Prince Tomas: Does your sister have a favorite Simone Sanchez song?” Might as well aim the spotlight where it was usually welcomed.

  He folded his hands and nodded. “The Noel Coward thing.”

  Simone was watching me and she laughed. “Your head file finally fails you, Delivery Girl; you’ve never heard of Noel Coward.”

  I don’t like being laughed at. To get even, I said, “That’s a really old CD, of course; can you even remember the song, Simone? Can you still sing it?” My shot went wide; she wasn’t touched. Maybe she’d been thinking the same thing.

  Simone turned and looked out the window for a moment, then nestled down into the leather seat. She hummed a bit, softly, closed her eyes, and sang. “I believe…”

  As she sang, sinking deeper and deeper into the slow, wistful ballad, I watched Prince Tom watching her. His eyes widened, he held still. He was memorizing everything.

  Simone held the final note until it faded into a soft breath. She opened her eyes and said, “My, that was good! I haven’t sung it in almost twenty years, and don’t you think that was good? I should do those songs again. Pam, don’t you think I should do all those songs again, just me and the piano, this time in the studio? Don’t you think?”

  Ms. Whittaker nodded.

  Prince Tom whispered, “Thank you, Simone.”

  Then, oh my gosh, what a star move: She cupped his chin in her hand and pulled him over for a kiss.

  I’ve seen a lot, of course, but this I could not bear to watch. I looked out the window. Just in time. “That’s it!” I shouted. “There’s the house!”

  *

  I’d never heard of Ida May Turnbull until I started researching for Kit. I wasn’t much of a reader as a kid, and certainly never would have picked up anything hinting “historical.” But I know now that this Turnbull, long dead, is one famous writer. Mostly because of the TV show based on the seven books in the Little Girl, Big River series. My grandmother didn’t allow TV, so I never saw the show when I was little. And even though Little Girl Big River is now one of those programs that’s running in syndication somewhere every hour of the day, I still haven’t seen it. Kit and I pretty much restrict TV to news and (if you must know) Hollywood biographies. Amazing, really,
how many of those old-time stars had drug problems.

  But evidently the Little Girl books themselves must be decent, because they drive so many people—women—nuts. Including, apparently, one very famous singing movie star.

  Simone barely waited for the car to stop before she hopped out. “You’re sure this is the place?”

  Hitching post, red roof, brick and stucco. It checked out. “There should be a small metal plaque by the front door. Can you see one?”

  She marched up to the house, climbed the steps, approached the door, then swooned before catching herself on the porch railing.

  I said to Prince Tom, “It’s the right house.”

  Simone knocked on the door, waited, knocked again. She turned to us in the car and shrugged, then hustled down the steps and walked between bushes up to a window.

  “Oh, hell,” said Ms. Whittaker, “she’s off on a good one.

  We won’t be leaving here until she gets inside.” She got out of the car, leaned against the hitching post, and pulled a pack of Camels out of her jacket. In a flash the driver was at her side and they both lit up.

  Simone was moving from window to window, peering inside and no doubt leaving nose prints on the glass. “You’ll tell your sister about this, I bet,” I said to Prince Tom.

  “Yes. Who knew? Look at her, like a kid. Funny, really, what strange passions any of us have.”

  Be bold, Kelly. The more you learn, the more ammo Kit will have when it’s her turn with him. Besides, he’s left a mile-wide opening. “What’s your passion, Your Highness?” Either he had to think too hard or didn’t want to say. Okay, then, soften the problem. “I mean, if you didn’t have to be the ruler of a troubled country, what would you rather be doing?”

  He ran a hand through his hair and leaned back, dropping his head against the cushy car seat. “Maps. I’d like to be back at Oxford studying maps.”

  Maps? He longed to cuddle up with maps? And they were counting on this guy to rule a country?