by Rachel Hauck
“No, thank you.” He thought he did, but the conversation had filled his empty belly.
“As I see it, whatever transpired over there has left you feeling responsible, perhaps guilty, and you cannot face Corina.”
“Not as my wife, no.” A soft, blue word slipped from his lips, but he didn’t apologize or wish it back. “Her brother, the others, did not deserve to die, not for the cause that spilled their blood.”
“You alone survived?”
He nodded, dropping his chin to his chest, his eyes filling, a peppery heat trailing along his emotions, burning his thoughts. “I’m not worthy. I–I hesitated. They died.”
“And this hesitation makes you responsible in some way.”
“Yes, precisely. And betrayed by someone I’d once considered a friend.”
“Quite a sticky wicket.”
“Quite.” Slumping forward, Stephen crashed his head into his hands. “I dream of them, their suffering.”
“And you can’t forgive yourself, can you?”
“Never!” He fired to his feet, leaning on his wounded ankle, pain striking his bones, spiking down through his foot. “I am not worthy.”
“No man is worthy until Christ makes him worthy.”
“Don’t you see? They died in vain.”
“Did your Lord, the Christ, die in vain as well?”
“Pardon? I don’t follow. The Christ had nothing to do with my men.”
“He has everything to do with you, and your men. If he counted you worthy of his death, then you were worthy for those men. No greater love is this than a man lay down his life for his friends.”
“Stop!” Stephen pressed his palms to his ears. “Lie. It’s a lie.”
“But you count yourself as unworthy, and therefore not worthy of a woman like Corina and unworthy of Christ’s love.”
“Because I am unworthy. I may be a prince on the outside, but on the inside I’m a man like every other, and war or no . . .” He hesitated, on the brink of sharing too much. “My life is not worth that of another. And I certainly don’t compare to Christ. He perhaps is worth men giving up their lives, but not me.”
“He was also man. With emotions. He was also betrayed by those closest to him.”
“He’s also God.”
“But he was also a man.”
The archbishop chuckled, though Stephen failed to see the merriment, and considered his tea, taking a hearty sip. The old man broke off a corner of his scone, closing his eyes, hmmmming his enjoyment, spiking Stephen’s irritation.
He should just leave. This was an ill-planned quest.
“What do you want from me?” the archbishop finally said. “You seem set on your answers.”
Stephen regarded him. “I–I . . .” What did he want by coming here? “I thought I wanted to know why you married us.” Stephen picked at the upholstery threads, feeling his heart and foolishness exposed. “But now I don’t know.”
“If you could go back, do it all over again, would you? Marriage, deployment, serving with those particular men?”
“I–I don’t know.”
“What might you do different? Not marry her? Perhaps serve with different men? Make different choices?”
“No, I’d probably be foolhardy enough to marry her.” Face it, you love her! “And the boys in our crew were the best in the entire squadron. It was an honor to serve with them. But yes, there are a few different actions I’d take.”
“In hindsight.”
“In hindsight.”
“My dear prince, you need a new perspective.” The archbishop struggled out of his chair to join Stephen on the couch. “Your worth is not determined by who you are or what you do, even what you don’t do. It’s determined by the work of your Savior. If our Lord bore the cross to declare you worthy, then indeed you are, and nothing—not war, nor death, regrets, injury, broken hearts, or tabloid headlines—can change it. Only if you choose not to accept it.”
“I confess I’m not a religious man, archbishop.”
“Then can you be a believing man? One of faith in God? Let him forgive you so you can forgive yourself. Let this matter go to him. Otherwise, your mates indeed died in vain if you confine yourself to a life of regret, bearing a burden that doesn’t seem like yours to bear. And not forgiving yourself for it.” He spoke in an even, calm tone, sorting through Stephen’s emotions with the fine edge of his wisdom. “In the end, you die with them, but only after years of a slow, withering kind of death, fulfilling your own prophecy. They died in vain. That banged-up ankle you sport will seem a welcome respite when it’s all said and done.”
His words melded with a heavy, oily presence in the room, creating a spicy-sweet fragrance that washed over Stephen. When he closed his eyes, he felt as if he were floating.
“What choice will you make? Your Highness, you cannot undo the past. But you can blanket it in the Lord’s blood, not that of your mates, and the Son of God will heal you and ensure your future days.”
The declaration rattled him. Disquieted his self-righteousness. He felt the rumble and shift in his chest. He’d believed in God most of his thirty-one years. But after Torkham, doubt and confusion shattered his small faith. “What do you want from me?” His spirit churned, addressing the question more to the One who hovered in the room than the archbishop sitting next to him.
“He wants everything, Your Highness. I’d say he earned it. If you could meet with your mates, somehow in the beyond, wouldn’t you give them everything for dying for you?”
“My royal scepter. My crown, my title, my money . . . yes, my everything.”
“The Christ will do the same for you. If you give him your everything. Come to the cross.” The archbishop’s voice seemed to stir the oil in the room.
Stephen remained planted, shaking so violently on the inside, his hands and legs trembled. He gripped his knees, trying to control the waves coursing through him, but he could not.
“Best give in, lad. The Lord has come for you, and I dare believe he’s not leaving until he has your surrender.”
“Surrender to what?”
“To him, to his cross, to his love and the fact that you, my boy, were worth dying for.”
Worth dying for . . .
The phrase crushed him so intensely, Stephen slid off the sofa, unable to command his muscles, and hit the floor on his knees, weeping, the heel of his hand pressed into his eyes. Humiliating, undignified . . . But he could not stop it.
His chest expanded with each sob, filling with the reality of his own weaknesses and sin. Sin he’d never contemplated, actions and thoughts he’d once delighted in ground him down, further into the unseen presence in the room.
“Lord, forgive him.” The archbishop’s soft prayer demolished Stephen’s last wall.
A wail exploded from his chest, a sound he’d never heard. “Lord, they died for me. An unworthy man.” He sucked in a sharp, shallow breath, unable to fill his lungs. “Lord—” The name smoothed over his tongue, and from his lips he confessed. “Jesus, you are Lord and died for me. Forgive me. Let me forgive myself. Please, remember Bird and Carlos, the lads who died. Asif . . . remember Asif. And Corina, my Corina.” The words continued to flow as he lowered his chest to the floor, prostrating himself, and letting every hidden thing come to the light.
And moment by moment, Stephen Stratton, Prince of Brighton, became the man he’d always longed to be.
TWENTY-EIGHT
On a glorious Monday afternoon, Corina marched through the bull pen with an empty printer-paper box in hand, the ping of the elevator behind her, and she remembered.
She no longer had a secret.
She’d caught an early flight out of Atlanta, was home and unpacked before lunch. Now she was at the paper, her resignation prepped and ready.
“Oh my gosh.” Melissa pounced on Corina the moment she set down the printer box. “How did you keep that a secret? A prince? And for crying out loud, what are you doing here in Melbourne?”
“I’m here because I live here, Mel.” The lamp was hers, bought the afternoon she accepted the job from Gigi. It went into the box. The pencil canister as well as the hand sanitizer everyone used and the array of squeeze toys were also hers. Corina inspected the stapler. Hers or the Post’s? Hers. Too new and nice to be the Post’s. But she stored it in the middle drawer. A lovely parting gift for Gigi. “I kept it a secret because it was a secret. Besides, I didn’t think we were still married.” With a sigh she peered at her friend. “It’s not the kind of thing you blurt out. ‘Hey everyone, I was married to a prince.’ ”
“Sure, for most of us, but you’re you, Corina Del Rey. The kind of girl who does marry a prince.”
“Well, we’re not married anymore. I signed annulment papers.”
“You what?” By the look on her face, one would think Melissa was being divorced. “Why? No, no, no, I want a princess for a friend. And I want my friend to be happy. Do you still love him?”
“That’s not the question, Mel. The statement is he doesn’t want to be married to me.”
“Why not?”
“Mel, I can’t go into it.” Corina smiled. “Please, just leave it alone.”
“Corina, he’s an idiot. Can I just say that?”
Corina laughed low. “I know you mean to make me feel better, but the truth is he’s not an idiot. He’s a very good and kind and decent man.” Her voice wavered. “One of the best.”
Melisssa tapped the side of the printer box. “Are you leaving?”
“You don’t think I’d stay after what Gigi did, do you?”
“Rats, there goes all the cool people.”
“No,” Corina looked toward Gigi’s office. “You’re still here.”
Through the glass panel, she could see the tip of her blond hair as she worked at her desk. “Do you know how she found out?”
“It’s Gigi. She has minions all over the world.”
“Yeah, well, it seems she has a minion inside the palace. The article said, ‘a palace source.’ ”
“She could’ve made that up.” Melissa took out the pencil canister and examined the pens. “Can I have the purple pens? I love purple pens.”
“Knock yourself out. But she couldn’t have made up the fact we were secretly married. She’s not that good.”
As much as Gigi stepped over the line by running the article, the woman did Corina a favor. She exposed the marriage and outed the secret.
Mama had seemed somewhat changed Sunday evening when she returned home late from wherever she’d gone. Gentler. Kinder.
This morning she came down to say good-bye as Corina and Daddy headed down to Atlanta. She’d brushed a wisp of Corina’s hair aside, her eyes misty. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“What are you going to do next?” Melissa tapped the printer-paper box.
“I don’t know. Haven’t decided.” And she was okay with that . . . for now.
Melissa returned to her desk while Corina packed the last of her things. She’d not been at the Post long enough to acquire much. When she finished, she started through the bull pen toward Gigi’s office, her flip-flops smacking.
“May I have a word?” Corina said, peeking inside the door, finding Gigi and Mark in a head-to-head convo.
Gigi jumped, startled. “Goodness, I didn’t hear you come in.”
Mark stood, papers in hand. “Corina, welcome back. How was Brighton? We were just talking about when to run your piece on Clive. Maybe before the American premier. Your article on the Brighton premier was excellent.”
“Gigi this is my last minute working for you and Beaumont Media.” Corina got right to it. “I’ll write the interview with Clive from home and have it to you by Friday. However, the rights will remain mine. I’ll be offering the story, with additional pieces of Clive’s life, to other news outlets by next week. So if you want a scoop, which apparently is very important to you, you’d better run his story in this coming Sunday Post.”
“Mark, will you excuse us?” Gigi said, her glance on Corina, steely and unwavering.
Mark leaned toward Corina as he passed. “I didn’t know anything about this.”
“I’m not suing if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Oh, thank heaven.” The door clicking behind Mark sounded like a sigh of relief.
“He’s a peach, isn’t he?” Corina said, arms folded, facing Gigi. “How’d you find out?”
“You know I can’t reveal my sources.”
“So the source keeps his or her privacy while mine and Prince Stephen’s get splashed all over the front page, stirring up the entire Brighton Kingdom?”
“The question is why did I have to get it from a source when you sat not thirty feet from me for the last six months?”
“It was none of your business, Gigi.”
“What? We’re family.”
“No we’re not. Family wouldn’t do to me what you did. Besides, my parents didn’t even know. They found out in your paper”
“Now that is not my business. That is yours.”
“How did you find out?”
“You can’t ask me that, Corina. Is it not true?”
“It was true.”
“Then I’m sorry, but when the Prince of Brighton marries, in secret, it is my business. It’s the world’s business. It’s what I do.” She smoothed the palm of her hand over a new addition to her office. A marble pelican. “I’m lawyered up, in case you’re wondering.”
“I told you, I’m not suing. I don’t need your money. Why didn’t you tell me the paper was floundering?”
Corina caught the edge of Gigi’s surprise on her expression. “How did you find out?”
“You know I can’t reveal my sources, Gigi.”
“Ah, touché. Your father?”
“I’m leaving now, but I want to say thank you for giving me this job, for bringing me out of my fog. But I do not thank you for running that story. You wonder why I didn’t tell you? Why didn’t you have the decency to talk to me?”
“Turn my back on the scoop of the decade?”
“Good luck with everything, Gigi.” Corina reached for the door. “And you might want to check with your infamous source. The Prince of Brighton is no longer married.”
Hoisting the printer-paper box on her hip as she exited the elevator for her penthouse condo, Corina felt a swirl of sadness and excitement.
Old life passing away, a new life ahead of her. She was pressing on. On the ride down U.S. 1 for home, she had a hankering to talk to Adelaide, reclining in her comforting wisdom.
In the lobby, Captain was on duty and came around his desk to greet her. “A delivery came for you while you were out. I escorted the courier up to your apartment. It was a rather large box and I didn’t want to leave it down here.”
“A large box?” Stephen. He sent her the Pissarro. “A wooden crate? Perhaps containing something like a painting?”
Captain thought a moment. “It was wooden. Square. I suppose it could’ve contained a painting.” Captain popped a smile. “Did you purchase a painting, Miss Del Rey?”
“Yes, but not for me.” Really, did he despise their time so much he didn’t even want the Pissarro? “Thank you, Captain.”
“Anytime, Miss Del Rey.” He touched his hand to the brim of his hat. “Is it true? What the paper said? You’re a princess?”
Corina pushed the elevator button, clinging to her dignity, not willing to break down in the lobby in front of Captain. “No, I’m most definitely not a princess.”
The doors pinged open and she almost longed for the slither of remembrance that used to cross her soul when she heard that sound. That she had a secret. That she’d caught a prince. That she’d been wildly in love.
The elevator arrived and she stepped in, pushing the 9th floor button. Her prince did not want her, nor her gifts.
She fell against the side of the car and let her tears go. Now that their secret had been exposed to the world, she’d lost her connection with him, how the
slightest ringing, tinging sounds took her back to their love. If he truly returned the painting, then that was the end. They’d have nothing left between them.
She’d not intended to cling or manipulate. Only to bless him. And yes, perhaps, remind him. But . . .
Oh Lord, loving well is so very, very hard.
“There you are, Corina.” Neighbor Mrs. Putman scooted down the corridor in her robe and slippers as Corina stepped off the elevator.
It was five in the afternoon, but Mrs. Putman often wore her bed clothes for days. The widow of a former Harris Corp executive, she spent her mornings drinking coffee and reading, her afternoons watching the Soap Network. “A very large package was delivered for you.”
“So I heard. Captain told me.” Corina adjusted the printer box on her hip as she unlocked her door.
“A crate of some kind. The kind used for expensive things.” She crossed arms and raised her delicate chin. “Did you buy yourself something expensive?”
“No, I didn’t buy myself anything expensive.”
“Someone did. Perhaps . . .” Mrs. Putman leaned toward her. “Your prince?”
Corina laughed. What else could she do? Besides, the woman made such a comical face. “Mrs. Putman, I do not have a prince. I’m not a princess and my life is not a soap opera script. I’m just a regular, ordinary, run-of-the-mill American heiress.”
“But the story in the Post said you’d married a prince. In secret!”
“We’re not married.”
“It was a lie?” Her eyes narrowed in skepticism.
“Let’s just say it’s not true.” Corina crossed over her threshold, dropping the printer-paper box to the floor. Mrs. Putman peered inside, her nose raised, scanning the foyer for the box.
Corina eased the door closed. “Have a good evening, Mrs. Putman.”
“Not so fast.” The woman pressed her hand to the door. “I want to know what’s in that box.”
“As do I.” Corina leaned on the door, inching the woman further into the corridor.
