by Mia Taylor
“Mein Gotte! Are you all right, l+iebling?” he choked. “Are you hurt?”
But Quinn had erupted into a fit of giggles and she could not answer as she nodded through her laughter.
Gotte, she is so beautiful.
Vivier was overcome by an emotion so strong, he could hardly breathe as he watched tears flow from Quinn’s eyes as she gasped between fits of hilarity. She was almost delirious in her happiness—he could read it clearly on her face.
She is laughing. She has nothing but poverty and disappointment and she is laughing. Genuinely, laughing. There is nothing in this world that can keep her from feeling, no matter how much misery she’s been dealt.
It took Vivier a long time to understand what feeling it was that was gripping his heart like a vice in that moment, but when he did, it smacked him almost physically.
It was love.
He was in love with this girl.
“I’m sorry,” Quinn finally managed to say as she struggled to sit up, wiping the tears from her eyes. “It’s just that I’ve always hated this table. I really have always wished it would just collapse and die. Now my wish has come true and I don’t have to move it when I go. Sometimes things work out the way you want after all.”
Vivier leaned in, gently kissing her lips, relishing the bolt of warmth seeping from her mouth.
“Why didn’t you just buy another?” he asked before he could consider his ridiculous question.
She snickered.
“I was just waiting on my Power Ball numbers,” she joked and Vivier flushed with embarrassment.
“I will buy you another table,” he promised. “And never apologize for anything again.”
She looked up, her eyes alight with emotion.
“I won’t,” she agreed. “And I’d love to break another table with you.”
Chapter Twelve
The Parents Get Involved
“Are you all right, Chief?”
Deputy Powell eyed his silent superior warily, clearly expecting some backlash. He had debated asking the question since leaving Quinn’s apartment because he had a good idea what the answer would be, but the quiet was growing unnerving. Powell knew that the longer Damon was quiet, the worse his wrath was apt to be later.
“Who the hell does that little nothing think he is?” Damon growled, staring out the car window into the streets of El Cajon from where they were parked. “How dare he presume to know my relationship with my daughter? And what has Quinn been telling him?”
Damon was thinking aloud more than he was speaking to Alex Powell, but if the Sheriff could have read his mind, he wouldn’t have liked what the deputy was thinking—that Damon had never really been a great father at all.
“He looks familiar to me,” Damon continued aloud, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “Ten bucks says he has a record.”
A slight sense of relief coursed through the younger cop.
“Well, we can run him, Chief,” Powell suggested, casting his boss a sidelong look, and Damon scowled.
“Of course we can run him,” he snapped as if the deputy was an idiot. “No self-respecting man works as a janitor unless he’s trying to stay off the radar. Did you hear the way he spoke English? He’s not uneducated if he speaks it that well as a second language. I bet he’s here illegally or something.”
“If he wanted to stay off the radar, he shouldn’t have mouthed off to the chief of police,” Alex commented.
“If he wanted to stay off the radar, he should have stayed the hell away from my daughter,” Damon hissed, his anger reigniting.
Powell was perplexed by Damon’s sudden claim to parentage.
It was no secret in El Cajon that the sheriff and his daughter did not share a bond.
The sheriff did not sport pictures of Quinn on his desk nor was her name commonly known among the ranks. If anything, Damon seemed embarrassed of Quinn and did his best to hide his relationship with her.
Powell was probably one of the few people in the department who knew her, but only because they had attended high school together, not because of his superior’s fatherly pride.
“What happened with Quinn?” Alex heard himself asking as if someone else had spoken the question. “She was so bright in high school, most likely to succeed, if I remember properly. How did she turn out like this?”
Damon eyed him and Alex wished he hadn’t asked the question outside his head.
“Who knows?” Damon sighed, shaking his head miserably. “She could have been anything she wanted and she failed at everything right from the day she was born.”
Alex felt a twinge of disgust but he managed to keep his feelings under wraps.
What kind of man says that about his only kid? No wonder Quinn never aspired to do anything. She probably never felt like she was ever doing anything right by his standards.
Powell knew the feeling.
“She killed her mother, you know.”
The words were shocking and Alex gaped at him.
“What?” he demanded. “How did she do that?”
He wracked his mind to remember how old Quinn had been when her mother had died, but try as he might, he couldn’t recall a time when he’d ever known Lily Sommer to be alive.
Is he implying that his young daughter somehow killed her mother? Like, in an accident or something?
There was a deep silence and just when Powell was sure Damon wasn’t going to respond, he spoke.
“After she was born, Lily suffered from post-partum depression, or so the quack doctors called it. I mean, how can a mother be depressed after giving birth, right? It’s what every woman wants—to be a mother.”
Alex felt his jaw twitch and he realized he was seeing yet another unattractive side to the sheriff, one he wished he did not have to experience.
I’ve already seen racist, homophobic, and drunk Damon Sommer. I really don’t want to hear misogynist sheriff too.
But the can of worms was already open and Alex had no choice but to listen as Damon unleashed his years-old anger into the deputy’s ears.
“I figured that Quinn was such a terror, Lily couldn’t handle it. There was nothing post-partum BS about it. The girl was just a brat.”
Suddenly, Alex remembered.
Lily Sommer had a rare blood disorder. She bled to death, cause of death undetermined. Some thought it was suicide.
“Anyway, it was downhill from there. The girl just couldn’t get her life together,” Damon continued and Alex forced himself to maintain his silence, despite his desire to scream some sense into the rigid and ignorant man. “No matter what I did for her, she managed to screw it up in one way or another.”
Yeah, I bet that you went out of your way to help her too, Powell thought, compassion for Quinn almost choking him. He couldn’t imagine what kind of life she must have had under Damon’s roof.
“What will you do if Marc Reich has a record?” Powell asked, searching for any reason to shift the subject. “Warn Quinn?”
Damon snorted at the question.
“Warn Quinn? She’s too stupid to do anything. I’ll just have to run him off or throw him back in jail for a parole violation. Isn’t that what we do to all the undesirables in our city, Alex?”
A pang of guilt shot through him and Powell gnawed on his lower lip.
“She seemed to like him, Chief. And some cons can change. Maybe we should just see how this plays out. If he treats her badly or something…”
Alex trailed off as Damon’s head whipped around. The ire in his face was crystal clear.
Don’t you know better than to argue with him by now?
“Are you taking sides with a con who is trying to weasel his way into my daughter’s life? An immigrant, no less, who is probably an illegal? A goddamn janitor?” Every question seemed to get louder in Alex’s ears.
He doesn’t know that Marc is any of those things. What the hell is wrong with this man?
The query was rhetorical. There was just nowhere to star
t with an answer.
Alex glanced over and noted something poking out of the sheriff’s pocket. His eyes bugged in dismay.
“What is that?” he asked. “Did you take that from Quinn’s apartment?”
A slow grin formed over Damon’s mouth and Alex was suddenly filled with an insurmountable sense of dread.
Oh God. What are you doing, Sommer?
“Just in case ‘Marc Reich’ is an alias,” Damon chortled, pulling the item from his pocket gingerly. “I got insurance.”
It was a wine glass. Powell exhaled in defeat.
“You’re going to run that for prints?” Powell demanded, trying to keep the indignation from his voice. Never mind that it was illegal and immoral. There was no reasoning with a man like Damon Sommer.
“Of course I am!” Damon sneered. “How else did you expect me to find out who he is?”
Alex’s jaw locked firmly.
What a violation of both Marc and Quinn’s civil liberties. Jesus Christ, who is this guy? None of that would hold up in court.
But as Damon started the car and left Quinn’s parking lot, Alex knew that court was the last thing on Damon’s mind.
Whatever Damon intended to do, legalities had nothing to do with it.
~ ~ ~
“Your Highness, may I have a word with you?”
Jacques stood uncomfortably in the doorway of the Queen’s offices, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as if he needed to relieve himself. Isadora eyed him from her spot, her mind barely on his arrival.
“What is it, Jac?” she demanded, peering up at him from her mound of paperwork. “I am trying to decipher the mess the accountant has made with the annual budget. How can someone be so incompetent?”
“It is about Prince Vivier, my queen,” he told her haltingly, glancing behind him as if he feared being overheard. Of course there was no one behind him, but he couldn’t shake the sense that he was constantly being watched.
I am beginning to understand how the prince always felt within these walls.
Isadora seemed to tense at the mention of her son’s name.
“Is he dead?” she whispered and the advisor looked aghast at the question.
“No, Your Highness!” he replied and relief colored her ashen face. She waved him in quickly, sinking back against the high leather of the chair.
“Close the door,” she instructed and he obeyed before shuffling toward her, a paper in his hand.
“What news do you have?” she asked, sitting back to study him carefully. “Please, do not let it be bad.”
Jacques cleared his throat, seemingly embarrassed as he glanced at the page he held.
“My queen, for the past two weeks, a man has been calling the American consulate in an attempt to reach a member of the royal family. His requests have been ignored for obvious security reasons and would have continued to be if not for a chance encounter—”
Isadora grunted and patted the wood of the desk with her open palm in annoyance.
“Sincerely, Jacques, I do not have the time or the patience for the biblical version of this story. Could you kindly get to the point? What happened and how does this have any bearing on Vivier?”
Jacques’ face turned pink and he again made a rumbling sound in his throat with embarrassment.
“Ah yes, Your Highness. Very well. The man who has been calling, a Mr. Damon Sommer of El Cajon, California, claims that Vivier is living in his town.”
Isadora’s mouth tightened and her eyes went strangely blank. Jacques didn’t blame her for maintaining her cool exterior, but he also knew the queen well enough to know that she was suffering internally.
“And how would this Har Sommer know this?” she asked crisply. “I don’t suppose Vivier went around introducing himself as the Prince of Luxemburg, did he now?”
Jacques stifled a groan.
“That is why I wanted to explain the entire tale—” he began but Isadora’s icy stare stopped him from finishing his thought. Again, he cleared his throat, refocusing his words on the crux of the tale.
“Har Sommer is the sheriff in El Cajon. It seems as though Vivier has taken up a false name and is working as…” He found himself unable to continue his thought even as the queen stared at him expectantly.
“Working as what?” Isadora demanded, her jaw twitching slightly as if she anticipated what he might say.
“Your Highness, I prefer not to say,” the advisor admitted and her brow furrowed.
“You prefer not to say,” she echoed, her lips pursing. “Wunderbar. The fact that this man claims Vivier is working at all is highly suspect,” Isadora said dismissively, returning to her paperwork. “This is nonsense. It isn’t him.”
“No, Your Highness, it is not nonsense. I believe that His Highness, the prince, is precisely where this Har Sommer claims him to be.”
She stared up at him sharply.
“How can you be sure?” she asked, her eyes narrowing, but Jacques didn’t miss the expression of hope flitter through her eyes. The advisor knew how desperately she had wanted word on her son. Jacques had asked himself the very same questions when the information had first fallen upon his desk.
Could it be? Could Vivier truly have started a new life in America? He really does not intend to return to Luxembourg and honor his birthright?
But now Jacques knew everything he needed to know or he wouldn’t be standing before the queen now.
“Jacques, how do you know?” Isadora insisted, her voice rising an octave.
“The policeman ran his fingerprints. They have been sent here for confirmation and they are a match to Vivier,” Jacques sighed. “It is him, Your Highness.”
Isadora’s green eyes widened in disbelief.
“He was arrested?” she shouted. “For what?”
Jacques shook his head quickly and forced a smile.
“No, I don’t believe he was arrested, Your Highness. I believe that Har Sommer did it without Vivier knowing he was being investigated, for whatever reason.”
“What was he being investigated for?” Isadora almost screamed. “How did the police come to know about him?”
Jacques avoided her steely gaze, suddenly wishing he had planned his announcement more carefully.
It is too late now. The only thing to do is tell her the truth. She will learn it anyway.
“It appears as though Vivier has taken up company with his daughter.”
“Of course he has,” the queen growled, throwing the pen she was holding down in disgust. “And without any of us to clean up his indiscretions, he will find himself falling prey to the press and Gotte only knows what else. We should have gone for him long ago.”
Jacques said nothing, waiting for the queen to process her indignation.
“What is he doing for work?” Isadora asked, a sick feeling forming in the pit of her stomach. “And I will not hear that you don’t want to discuss it.”
“Your Highness, as you said, it is something that he is working at all. Does it really matter—”
“Spit it out, Jacques, and don’t make me ask you again!”
“He is working as a janitor, Your Highness,” Jacques blurted before he could change his mind. Antagonizing the queen was not wise under the best of circumstances.
She stared at him, her mouth parted, and for a moment, Jacques thought perhaps she hadn’t heard him properly. Suddenly, she erupted into peals of laughter.
“A janitor?” she echoed, tears of hysteria filling her eyes. “Our Vivier with a mop and a dust rag? You must be joking!”
She waved her hand again as if to dismiss him.
“I knew this was a mistake. Surely you could have spared me this, Jacques.”
But the advisor didn’t move. He understood her denial as he, too, had been in such disbelief, but it was so.
“He works at the El Cajon Family Health Center. He has held the position for four months. Apparently, he is well liked and does a good job.”
The chortle died ab
ruptly on her lips as she peered at Jacques in dismay.
“Oh Mein Gotte… y-you’re serious!” she choked and the advisor nodded solemnly.
“I am afraid so, Your Highness.”
Isadora was out of her chair faster than a streak of lightening, pulling open the doors to the office. The secretary was sure he’d never seen her move so fast, her skirt whirling at her ankles as she bolted out of view.
“Your Highness?” Jacques called after her, spinning to chase her.
“Follow me!” she yelled out without waiting. She flew across the wide marble hallway toward the back office and pushed her way into the king’s suite of workspaces.
He was in the middle of a dictation with one of the assistants.
“Get out,” Isadora told the young intern, who jumped to oblige without question.
“Isa! What is going on?” Emile demanded, his face twisting in shock at the undignified entry. He was not accustomed to his wife behaving so uncouthly.
She turned to ensure Jacques was behind her.
“Tell him!” she ordered Jacques. “Tell him what you just told me!”
Emile’s face registered confusion as he looked from his wife to his trusted advisor.
“Tell him!” Isadora screamed, her face red with fury. “Now!”
“What is it, Jacques?” Emile asked, cocking his head curiously. “What happened?”
Jacques visibly gulped and reiterated what he had told the queen moments earlier.
“Prince Vivier is living and working in California as a… as a janitor.”
Emile’s face grew stony as he listened, but Jacques could see the news bothered him too.
“That is what these histrionics are about?” he snarled. “I have work to do, Isa. I have washed my hands of Vivier—I already told you that. I’m not spending another half a millennium chasing after him to do the right thing.”
“Well, I have not washed my hands of my son!” she yelled. The king seemed shocked by her outburst and sat back, reeling from her tone.
“I should never have agreed to your damned ultimatum, Emile, but I did. I thought it would sober him up maybe, but look what it’s done! He’s become a peasant! A janitor who is being hounded by the police in a nothing town! This is all your fault!”
