by A. C. Arthur
“I believe that natural sugar is better for you than refined sugars. At least that’s what they told my dad the last time he was in the hospital,” she said.
“Your father is sick?” Rafe asked. He put his fork down beside the bowl and looked up to her, clearly dismissing that fruit salad.
Landry quickly shook her head because she hated even voicing those words. “He’s doing well now,” she replied. “Two months ago, however, he had a health scare. The doctors suggested he change his diet and cutting out refined sugars was one thing on the list. He was grumpy about it, just like you.”
A chuckle had bubbled up from her chest inadvertently and when she would have clapped her mouth shut and tried to make a speedy getaway, Rafe stopped her by laughing with her.
“I guess you could say I’m grumpy about eating a bowl full of fruit,” he admitted. “We don’t grow a lot of fruit here on the island because of the climate. It has to be imported, which, along with exporting, is a steadily developing part of our economy.”
Landry nodded, recognizing the way his duties comingled with his personal life, just like Kristian’s.
“It’s important to eat healthy, especially when your health is at risk. Your constituents would be very encouraged by seeing you eat this salad and take control of your health and well-being.”
“Are you suggesting I start a healthy eating campaign?”
“Oh no,” she said, shaking her head now. “I was just making an observation. But I know it’s none of my business. I tend to talk too much sometimes.”
Most times, she told herself. She’d especially talked too much to Roland who now knew that something had happened between her and Kristian. No, she had not shared any specifics but it had been pointless to deny the obvious the day they’d gone out for drinks and dessert. The Caribbean gingerbread she’d tasted had been marvelous with its strong flavors of molasses and ginger root; it was also sticky and spicy. Later she’d told him that he’d tricked her with plenty of wine and dessert to get her talking, when in reality, she’d been aching to release some of the tension of her situation to someone.
“You have distinct opinions,” Rafe had corrected her. “I would not call that talking too much in the general sense. You also know how to deal with people. I’ve watched you with Malayka.”
Oh no, Landry thought. If he’d seen her with Malayka lately, he surely thought she talked way too much, in any sense. Things hadn’t really been tense between her and Malayka. They had been eye-opening. The stilted client and stylist relationship they’d had prior to Malayka’s surprise appearance in her room had been shifted. Now there was a cordial coexistence. Malayka needed a stylist and she was smart enough to also realize that firing Landry would make it hard to find another stylist without answering some difficult questions. Considering she was months away from being a princess, Landry knew she would be able to hire someone in a heartbeat. Only that someone might not be as reputable and as well connected as Landry because news in this business spread just as rapidly as any other gossip in the life of the rich and famous. So they were at a point where Landry spoke concisely about what she knew best and Malayka either listened or risked looking half her best as a result and she did not mention Kristian or Landry’s personal life again. It was a great compromise, in Landry’s mind.
“I’m just trying to do my job,” she’d told Rafe.
“I must admit I had never heard of such a job before. It made sense to me that people selected their own clothes, but I’m beginning to see that you do much more than that. You leave impressions on people with your words and thoughts. Your presence here in the palace has been felt,” he said.
Landry hadn’t known how to respond so she’d simply said, “Thank you, sir.”
“No,” he continued. “I believe I will eventually be in a position to thank you.”
He had picked up his fork and with resignation scooped more fruit into his mouth. Landry had taken that as the end of their conversation and left the kitchen.
That had been a few days ago and now she was thinking of the prince’s words as she took the last few steps leading to the ballroom entrance. It had not been her intention to attend the ball, but when she received an envelope with the royal insignia melted in red wax on the back, she’d known she was in trouble. It was an official invitation to the ball and for just a few minutes as Landry had read it, she’d felt like Cinderella.
She did not have a dress, nothing that was appropriate for a royal ball so as any other stylist worth her salt she’d slipped into a moment of panic. But just like a fairy godmother and her royal accomplice, Detali and Sam had come to the rescue.
It was after dinner last night when Landry had been toying with the idea of giving in and going for a swim that the two women had knocked on her bedroom door.
“What’s this?” Sam had asked, pointing to a dress that was hanging on a rack in the sitting area.
That’s where Landry had put it once she’d gone through every item of clothing she’d packed to come to the island. Sure, she could have called on one of her designer friends to ship her something quickly, but she really hadn’t wanted to make a big deal out of the ball, or the fact that she was actually going to attend. She’d come to the conclusion that for her position there, the floor-length white dress with its bold pink, blue and black floral design down one side and thigh-high split on the right would be fashionable and appropriate enough. Besides, she only planned to make an appearance and then she would leave. She would not disrespect the prince by ignoring his invitation totally, but she really wasn’t in the mood to act as if she were part of this world again.
Landry felt like she’d made that mistake each time she’d lain in Kristian’s bed.
“I’m wearing that to the ball tomorrow,” she had replied to Sam. “Is there something wrong with Malayka’s dress?”
That question had been directed to Detali who stood quietly near the door holding a garment bag in her short arms.
“What’s going on?” Landry asked when no one had answered.
“As pretty as this is, you cannot wear it tomorrow night,” Sam answered then. “Here, go try this on.”
The princess had taken the garment bag from Detali and handed it to Landry.
“What? No. My dress is fine,” Landry told them.
Sam, wearing dove-gray slacks, a wide black patent leather belt and white blouse, stood in all her regal glory, giving Landry a slow shake of her head.
“It’s your turn to listen when directed about fashion,” Sam told her. “Now, Detali told me she had something perfect for you and when I saw it I knew she was right. So you just go on in there and try it on. The faster you prove we also have excellent taste in gowns, the sooner you’ll be able to continue closing yourself up in this room.”
A part of her had wanted to rebut Sam’s statement. Not so much the part about her and Detali knowing just as much about fashion as she did, but the part about her shutting herself in this room. The smarter part of her knew that was a mistake. The last thing she wanted to do was have a conversation about her not attending dinners in the last week with Sam, in front of Detali. So with a huff she’d taken the garment bag and moments later found herself admitting that Sam and Detali had not only been right, but they’d hit the ball straight out of the park with the gown.
Royal blue—one of Landry’s favorite colors—and strapless, some intricate beadwork around the bodice and cascading down to the fitted waist. It fanned out from there in a true princess cut, more of the soft blue material that ended with a sweep over the floor in an ombré style. What was really intriguing was the last six or so inches of the dress that boasted another elaborate design of darker blue over the lighter shade. When she turned, the flouncy material lifted from the floor to reveal layers of ivory material that perfectly complemented the design at the bottom.
It was go
rgeous, Landry thought now as she walked toward the ballroom, the blue Manolo Blahnik Regilla pumps clicking on the glossed marble floor. The hallway was at least twenty feet wide, with its soaring ceiling and gold leaf wallpaper. Knowing that everyone else had most likely arrived at eight as the invitation had instructed, she was the lone straggler. This was, of course, due to her job and the time she’d spent getting Malayka ready. In Landry’s right hand she held a royal blue satin clutch. Her left hand was clenched as she battled with nerves. When she approached the large open white-and-gold doors all the doubts that she’d tried valiantly to keep at bay these last few hours came soaring to the forefront.
She didn’t belong here.
She wasn’t royalty.
This was out of her league.
If her sister, Paula, could see her now she’d die with envy.
Her mother would squeal with delight at the possibility of marriage candidates in the ballroom.
Landry smiled. She missed her matchmaking mother.
She approached the two men dressed in full regalia. Thick gold tassels hung from the shoulders of their white jackets, sheathed swords on the black leather belts at their waist, black pants, shining black shoes and they had stern looks on their faces.
Landry hurriedly opened her clutch to look for the invitation, when another officially dressed man stepped from the side to take her arm.
“Allow me to escort you, Ms. Norris,” he said.
“Thank you,” she replied, impressed and in awe at the formality.
She shouldn’t have been, at least not yet, because as Landry walked down the curved champagne-colored marble steps her breath was taken completely away at the room she was entering.
The ballroom was phenomenal. Even higher ceilings than in the hallway, this one was painted with some type of mural, golden-winged angels floating against the palest green backdrop. There was more gold adorning the walls, framing the floor-to-ceiling windows and serving as the baseboards. The floor itself was a light wood, glossed to perfection with tables along the sides leaving the entire center of the floor open.
Landry was speechless as she took the last step and looked out to the more than three hundred people in attendance. The room was full but there was more than enough space for everyone to move around. A band, complete with a harpist and violinist played a very soft melody while staff dressed in crisp white jackets and black pants moved throughout the room carrying trays of food and champagne.
A camera flash jolted Landry out of the fantasy and she looked to her right to see a small circle of photographers. Another flash and Landry looked away from them.
“There you are.” She heard Roland’s voice before she actually saw him since her eyes were still trying to adjust after all that flashing in her face.
“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show up,” he said as he took her other arm and gave a nod to the man who had escorted her in.
When the man left, Landry walked alongside Roland. She’d never seen him this dressed up before so she couldn’t help but stare.
“Ah yes, one of the few times you will see me wearing this getup,” he told her with a smile. “This is how a commander in Grand Serenity’s Royal Seaside Navy should dress at these prestigious events. I, on the other hand, would have loved nothing better than to throw on some jeans and a shirt and be done with it.”
Landry laughed at Roland’s honesty but had to admit he wore the outfit well. The white jacket with its gold buttons down the front, light blue sash crossing his chest with two gold medals dangling over was what she now recognized as the royal insignia. Another patch she presumed represented the navy’s insignia.
“You look great,” she told him.
“No,” Roland said as he lifted her free hand to his lips to softly kiss its back. “You look fabulous.”
Landry couldn’t help but smile, or blush, or whatever. It felt good to be complimented and even better to be whisked so effortlessly onto the dance floor with Roland. They moved to a much slower rhythm than the music playing but Landry didn’t care. Roland commented on everyone that they passed on the dance floor. From the prime minister of a neighboring island and his abysmally young, but exceptionally well-mannered new girlfriend, to the oldest member of Grand Serenity’s ruling cabinet and his ongoing struggle with going bald—all his words, of course.
Landry laughed and danced and felt at ease, so much so she wouldn’t have noticed anyone staring at her, not even Kristian.
* * *
She was stunning.
That was Kris’s first thought as he saw her coming down the steps. She’d looked as regal and royal as any of the wives of dignitaries who had previously walked down those same stairs. Her elbow was linked with one of the palace guard’s, her head held high, a gracious smile on her face. It was as if she were meant to be here, just like everyone else.
He’d sipped slowly from the glass of champagne he’d snagged from a tray and stood close to one of the windows. It was almost an hour into the event so everyone he needed to greet had already entered. At first, Kris hadn’t thought Landry was coming, because he hadn’t thought to invite her.
“I’m sending the stylist an invitation,” Rafe had told him on Wednesday, after the tense meeting Rafe had called where he scolded his children.
“I must say I’m shocked you hadn’t already taken care of that task,” his father had continued while Kris stood staring out the window of Rafe’s office.
“I’ve had a lot to do these past few days,” was Kris’s eventual reply.
“I take that to mean you’ve met privately with your brother and sister to discuss how the three of you plan to show more respect to Malayka and our upcoming marriage,” Rafe stated.
Kris had wanted to sigh. He’d still been irritated with his father’s tone and directives in that regard, but once again, he hadn’t argued with Rafe. While Roland had been the most vocal in the meeting, expressing his many doubts about the background story Malayka had provided, Kris had eventually calmed his brother and swore to his father that they would do better.
“We’re committed to this family and our role in the royal court. We will act accordingly,” he’d stiffly replied.
“She’s not as bad as you believe,” Rafe continued as he reached into the dark cherry-finished humidor on his desk to retrieve a cigar.
“I’m only inclined to believe the facts,” Kris had told him. “As you’ve stated, that is what she’s already told us about herself. So that’s the end of it.”
Kris heard the flick of a lighter and even though he did not turn to look at him, he knew his father was leaning back in his leather desk chair, taking the first big puffs of his favored Cohiba Behike cigar.
“I’m not referring to Malayka,” Rafe said slowly.
Kris did turn then. He remained by the window but looked directly at his father. “I don’t understand.”
Rafe took another puff and nodded. He wore a black pin-striped suit today, the jacket tossed over the back of a guest chair across the room, his white shirt crisp, and the canary-yellow tie bright. On his wrist was a gold watch that competed with the black-and-gold cuff links for spectacular gleam. On the ring finger of his right hand was the monarch ring, a thick gold band with the DeSaunters insignia on top. Kris and Roland each had one, but they only wore them on special occasions. Rafe, as the reigning prince, wore his every day.
“Do you think you’re the only one who keeps tabs on things around here?” Rafe asked him. “I know that you will someday be prince of this island, but for now, it’s my job to know everything that goes on.”
“Meaning?” Kris had asked, a sense of dread growing stronger in the pit of his stomach.
“Meaning, I know that you’ve been spending time with that young woman.”
Kris could only nod; denial would be pointless and disrespe
ctful.
“We’re both adults,” was his short reply.
“You’re good-looking adults. She’s a spirited one. I had the chance to speak with her alone for a bit yesterday and she was smart and polite and most of all honest. I like that about her. I suspect you did too, hence the reason you invited her to dinner with us in the first place.”
Kris still didn’t have a logical reason for why he’d wanted Landry at their family dinners. And he wasn’t certain that he wanted to continue this conversation with his father.
“So she’ll be at the ball—that’s fine with me. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have some calls to make,” he’d said and headed toward the door.
Rafe’s booming voice stopped him.
“I didn’t marry royalty the first time around. I married the woman I fell madly in love with. Vivienne was intelligent and beautiful and smarter than any of the well-to-do women I’d met in my years. She was an American too, as you may recall.”
Kris had inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly and turned to face his father once more.
“I know who and what my mother was,” he spoke quietly.
Rafe took another drag from his cigar before setting it in the ashtray. Puffs of smoke haloed around him and when the smoke cleared Kris could see his father staring directly at him.
“Then I’m sure you also know how she felt about building a life around love. Vivienne would never let the title, this palace or anything else come between herself and love. She expected nothing less of her children.”
Kris clenched his teeth, but did not let out the sigh he wished to. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say, Dad.”
“Yes, you do, son. You’re just trying to deny it. You’re trying to convince yourself that you’re doing the noble thing by staying strong and keeping up the pretense. What you don’t realize is that it’s not what you say or what you even acknowledge publicly, Kris. Your feelings are in the way you look at her, the tension that immediately bubbles inside of you when someone else speaks of her. You went to eat pizza with her and frolicked in the water with her. You haven’t eaten pizza since your sister was young.”
