The Prince's Playbook

by Pamela DuMond

  Chapter 24

  VIVIAN

  Queen Cheree had spent a small fortune to restore the dilapidated five-hundred-year-old chapel and grounds of her beloved Labrador Retriever sanctuary outside of Friedricksbugh. The Royal Bellèno Saint Francis of Assisi Chapel was pristine and featured paintings and busts of St. Francis surrounded by the animals he’d helped.

  I perched on the red velvet kneeler in the first pew and clasped my hands. “I’m spun around, St. Francis. I’m lost. I took this part-time job because I needed the money. I thought it would be short. I didn’t expect to hurt people’s feelings or lie to them. I don’t know what to do. I’m torn. Please give me a sign.”

  Light, hesitant steps entered the chapel and I peered over my shoulder. Mr. Cartwright eased into the pew opposite me and stared at me with his all-knowing eyes.

  “You’re here? Oh my God, you’re finally here!” I raced to hug him.

  He stiffly extended a hand. “No hugging. Sorry. Doctor’s orders.”

  I frowned. “Don’t you think you’re a bit late?”

  “Au contraire, I might be just in time.”

  “Right.” I paced. “This church is supposed to be holy ground. A bastion of privacy for tortured souls. You need to leave me alone, Mr. Cartwright. Just like you and Zara and Cici have done all these weeks. I’ll figure out what comes next without you.”

  “Hear me out.”

  “I’ve heard you out a hundred times. I’ve gone over and above for Cici and Bellèno. I’ve given it my best and more. I’m tired. And at the end of the day I’m still a fraud. That realization haunts me. At least I’m still alive. If Helga had her way I’d be dead. Do you have a policy for that in your job contract?”

  “You’re not a fraud. Cici hired you to impersonate her for a week, ten days tops. It’s been over a month. You’ve done an amazing job.”

  Esmeralda and Roman burst into the chapel. The puppy was pulling on his leash trying to get to me.

  “I figured this is where I’d find you, Vivian.” Esmeralda released the tether and Roman bounded down the narrow aisle. I rubbed his ears and kissed the top of his head.

  “Esmeralda knows?” Mr. Cartwright asked.

  “Zara told her. Where’s Cici? She’s supposed to walk down the aisle in less than twenty-four hours.”

  “Don’t kill the messenger.” He sighed and shook his head. “Lady Catherine’s not returning.”

  “What?”

  “I need a cocktail.” Esmeralda sat and fanned her face.

  “Catherine fell in love with an American commoner when she was attending graduate school in the States,” Mr. Cartwright said. “She hired you because she wanted, no she needed, a little more time to determine if her feelings for the guy were real.”

  Roman licked my hand. I looked up at the altar and the large mural of St. Francis. A black, a yellow, and a brown Labrador nibbled dog treats from his outstretched hands. “This is not what I meant by a sign.” I stood up. “That’s just great, Cartwright. Did she know someone would try and kill her? Did she knowingly put me in harm’s way?”

  He shook his head. “The way Cici’s grown up, there’s always been someone who wanted to kill her.”

  “I can vouch for that,” Esmeralda said.

  “I agree that she waited too long to tell you she was never returning to Bellèno,” Mr. Cartwright said. “For the record? She didn’t tell me either. Or I would have informed you.”

  “She was in on The Crown Affair. How could she bail?”

  “She didn’t know if she should keep the baby. She didn’t know from one day to the next and then one morning she woke up and she just knew.”

  “She’s pregnant?” I dropped my forehead into my hand. “That’s why she kept running out of the room during training sessions. I hope they’ll be happy. I can only imagine the shit storm that will descend upon us once the media discovers I’m not her. That I’m actually Vivian DeRose from Chicago’s Southside. Prince Leo’s ‘fiancée.’ That the girl who’s been kissing babies’ heads, hugging Bellèno orphans, and being interviewed for Euro Elle Magazine is but a lowly, former cocktail waitress. And even worse in their eyes? A commoner from The States. Fuck me.”

  “Vivian!” Mr. Cartwright said.

  “Don’t Vivian me!” I marched in front of the altar. “I’ve busted my ass on this job and I can’t even list it on my future resumé due to the confidentiality agreement that I signed. I’m screwed. You’re obviously here to rendition me out of the country before this whole thing spreads like a California wildfire.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Cartwright said. “And no.”

  “What do you mean, ‘No’?”

  “You could stay.”

  “That’s not even a remote possibility.”

  The chapel’s wooden door squeaked open. Ladies Joan and Bea maneuvered inside, each holding a handle of a medium-sized cooler.

  “It’s about time you got here,” Esmeralda said.

  “Your text specifically said drive two more kilometers and turn left on the lane at the crossroads next to the pasture filled with the bleating goats.” Bea dropped her end of the cooler onto the stone floor with a thud.

  “We couldn’t find the pasture.” Joan lowered her end and popped the lid off. “We finally stopped at a pig farm.” She tugged a thermos from the cooler and shook it.

  “I tromped through the mud to ask the farmer where the pasture with the goats was located.” Bea pulled out a goblet, flipped open the thermos’s spigot, and filled it. “I ruined my shoes.”

  “Thank God you’re here,” Esmeralda said. “I’m parched and we’ve got some decision making to do.”

  “Vivian, first.” Bea handed me the glass.

  Joan filled another one and passed it to Esmeralda. “You drinking these days, Mr. Cartwright?”

  “A thimbleful.”

  I stared aghast at Bea and Joan. “You know?”

  “Of course,” Joan said and filled cups.

  “I raise my glass to you, Vivian Marie DeRose from Chicago, my new BFF.” Bea lifted her glass. “The real Cici was too self-centered. Not you.”

  “To Vivian. Best princess impersonator ever,” Joan said.

  “Long may our Vivi reign!” Esmeralda lifted her glass and the ladies and Mr. Cartwright toasted.

  Roman raced to me. I scooped him up and hugged him. “I can’t do this. I’m not Cici and I never will be.”

  “We have a plan. Hear us out,” Esmeralda said.

  “Every place you’ve visited in Bellèno you made friends,” Joan said.

  “Every baby you burped, every orphan you hugged, each senior citizen whose hand you held and stories you listened to,” Esmeralda said. “You gained fans, but more importantly you won hearts.”

  “The people of Bellèno love you. They’re practically frothing at the mouth for you to be their new royal princess.” Bea held out the thermos. “Can I top anyone off?”

  Esmeralda held out her cup.

  “Please,” Mr. Cartwright said.

  “Ditto,” Joan said.

  “A smidge.” I held out my glass as Bea made the rounds.

  “Because the citizens of Bellèno are dying for an American commoner from Chicago’s Southside to be their princess,” I said. “They want Vivian Marie DeRose who says yeah instead of yes, could give a rat’s ass about soccer but loves the Chicago Bears, and lies like a rug to someday be their queen.”

  “They don’t care if their princess swears on occasion or follows American football because they recognize your kindness. And your kindness is, well, it’s you—Vivian. Catherine has her own unique qualities,” Mr. Cartwright said. “But the people of Bellèno will never love her the way they love you.”

  “They’ll track down my fingerprints or find a connection to my past. The media will out me. It will be a clusterfuck.”

  “Clusterfucks come and clusterfucks go. It won’t matter,” Esmeralda said. “There’ll be a ginormous kerfuffle and then some vapid reporter will show
you bottle-feeding abandoned kittens, followed by a news clip with your new royal baby at his or her christening. After a week or two all will be right with the world.”

  “But how can that be?” My hand flew to my heart. “Don’t get me wrong. Leo is an amazing catch, a great guy. I like him. But I don’t love him.”

  I thought of Max on the plane as I dug my fingernails into his arm. The first time we kissed at the White Sox Game. His dry sense of humor. Our repartee. His length inside of me and the way he made me come. The way he made feel in a way that I hadn’t felt in a long time—Max felt like home.

  “You could grow to love Prince Leopold,” Cartwright said. “Many people marry for friendship, political purposes, and over the course of years grow to love each other.”

  “You have a solid friendship with Leo,” Joan said. “You could be the perfect Bellèno royal couple. You’ll both take lovers on the side.”

  “You’d have to keep that hush-hush. It’s the royal way.” Mr. Cartwright tried to stand, got stuck half way in an awkward position, and broke into a sweat.

  I stood in front of him and held out my hands. “Come on, Mr. Cartwright.”

  He smiled, took my hands, and I hoisted him upright. “Don’t leave Bellèno, Vivian. Stay. Marry Prince Leopold and have the best life in the world.”

  “I promised my Uncle Florio I’d never leave him.”

  “He’ll be quietly relocated to The Retired Royalty Chateaux in St. Luce,” Esmeralda said.

  “He’ll live a life of luxury, convenience, and have the best doctors at his disposal,” Joan said.

  Mr. Cartwright limped toward the chapel’s entrance. He grimaced as he pushed the massive wooden doors open. Chilly, autumn air gusted into the chapel along with jewel-toned leaves. “If I were your father, Vivian,” he said, “and God or St. Francis granted me one last wish before my motorcycle accident I’d wish for you, my only daughter, a life of love and a life of ease. A life filled with less struggle and more possibilities. I hope I see you tomorrow at the Royal Cathedral wearing a white dress. You were right, Vivian. You are our knight-ress in shining armor. You are our fucking one.” He left the chapel.

  “Stay, Vivi,” Bea said. “We love you.”

  I glanced at my Ladies’ sincere, beautiful, hopeful faces. Roman yipped and pawed my leg. “I’m confused. I need to think.”

  “You know what goes with thinking?” Esmeralda asked. “Pizza.”

  “Champagne goes great with thinking,” Joan said.

  “Spring rolls and moo shu beef from Hop Li’s goes perfect with thinking,” Bea said. “Let’s go back to the condo and order in.”

  We drove back to the Fontaine penthouse, stayed up too late eating, drinking, and chatting, and watched Julia Roberts movies.

  “Julia Roberts got her prince in Pretty Woman,” Joan said. “Why can’t you get yours?”

  “Because I’m not Julia Roberts.”

  “Posh. Minor detail,” Bea said.

  Chapter 25

  VIVIAN

  “Lady, lady, lady, lady,” the irritating female customer at Mugshots said.

  “Yeth.” My mouth felt like it was filled with cotton. “Got it. One rum and Coke. Two shots of Cuervo. And a refill on the pretzel mix bowl. Give me a second, ’K?”

  Make that more like a couple of hours because something was off. My eyelids were super-glued shut. I wet my lips. They felt swollen, possibly stung by bees. I vaguely remembered drinking a little too much last night. I hope I didn’t sleep with that Johnny’s Pizza Delivery Guy again.

  “I don’t need more pretzels. I need you to wake up.” The woman customer shook my shoulders.

  “I have a name you know. It’s…” I blinked and squinted. Sunrise bloomed on the horizon outside my bedroom window. “…Lady Catherine Fontaine. I’d like another wake-up call in an hour. Thank you.” I pulled my sleep mask back over my eyes.

  “Cici!” Esmeralda said. “You’re not the only one who had an early wake up call. Get up.”

  I pulled off the mask and squinted. “I’m getting married today, aren’t I? Fuck.”

  “Yes.” Joan passed me a steaming mug of coffee.

  “Where’s Roman?”

  “Laurent’s taking him for a run in Tiefencastle Park,” Joan said. “We want him to be as worn out as possible.

  Bea hummed the bridal march and pushed a platter of croissants in front of me. “Freshly baked for the princess to be.”

  Esmeralda aimed the remote at the TV on the wall. The screen flashed to a feed of Ducklips, dressed in a floor-length, sparkly gown. She ran a few fingers over her shellacked hair. “Gwendolyne Joffries reporting for Bellèno Cable News. Welcome all to Bellèno’s royal wedding festivities. We at BCN have everything you need for round-the-clock reporting. We’re covering the gowns, the bride’s family’s reactions, even the inside scoop on the Royal Family. Perhaps even a few surprises. Stay tuned for the pageantry, the fun, the gossip.”

  “Let’s get this party started,” Esmeralda said.

  Thunderous applause swept my bedroom.

  I sprayed coffee out of my mouth, tossed the mug, and dove back under the covers. “Who’s in the room besides you Ladies?”

  “Your bridal entourage,” Bea said.

  I poked my head out and spotted Giuseppe Felipe the wedding gown designer, his two attendants, a makeup artist, hair stylists, and a photographer. They curtseyed as if on cue.

  Giuseppe held a linen garment bag high in the air. “It is perfection.”

  His assistant unzipped it, revealing my wedding dress. A chorus of oohs and aahs bounced around the room.

  Lord Angus cracked open the door and peered inside. “I need a moment alone with my daughter.”

  The designer and attendants scurried off. Esmeralda, Joan, and Bea looked at me with their eyebrows raised then made their way to the door. “Bea,” Joan asked. “Do you still pack Prince Harry’s Private Reserve?”

  “Funny you should ask.” She pulled a flask from her purse.

  Lord Angus sat on the edge of my bed.

  “Do you want a cup of coffee, Papa? Or a croissant?” I asked.

  “I just want you to be happy, sweetie.”

  “Oh…”

  “Hear me out, Cici. I remember when you were born. I held you in one hand and I thought this is my daughter. She will be smart and she will be savvy. She’s already beautiful. I will wipe every snotty nose. I will make sure she gets a great education. And no matter what, I will always love her. I knew when you hit those precarious teen years that you’d fall in love a hundred times. I promised myself to wipe away your tears and heartaches. I knew that one day I’d have to let my beloved daughter go. Because one of those times that you fell in love it would stick.”

  “You did a great job,” I said.

  “Did I? Your wedding is a business. Planned, arranged—and like Marie Antoinette on Bastille Day—soon to be executed.”

  “Promise me I won’t be guillotined after I get married today and we’re good.”

  “Do you love Prince Leopold, Cici? Does he make you happy? As much as your dear mother wanted this for you, as much as we stand to gain from this royal alliance, I’ll pull the plug. I’ll call off this wedding if you don’t feel like going through with it.”

  A few tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. Lord Angus loved Cici enough that he was giving her a way out. Cici’s Papa loved her just perfect.

  I wished my parents were here. Would my life have been different if they hadn’t passed away? I wished I were marrying Max today. But maybe the love of my life wasn’t a person—maybe it was actually this life—Cici’s life.

  Lady Catherine Fontaine didn’t want her life in Bellèno. She’d abandoned it. With the exception of a handful of folks back in Chicago, no one really wanted me. If I stayed here what would be the harm? I could still be around my Ladies, Cici’s Papa, Queen Cheree, Royal Nana, Roman, Mr. Cartwright, and maybe, one day, even… Max.

  “What say you, Cici?”
He stroked my hand.

  Did I want to give up everybody and everything I’d grown to love in this part-time job on principle? Just so I could be right? Just so I could be broke, unloved and alone? I didn’t want that.

  I intertwined my fingers in his. “I say I’m getting married today. Walk me down the aisle?”

  “Yes.” He hugged me.

  * * *

  Church bells pealed high above our heads. I stood in the vestibule of Bellèno’s Royal Cathedral and peeked out from behind an enormous wooden door. Stained glass windows high on the cathedral’s stone walls sifted jewel toned lights that danced on the church floor. Bouquets of roses hung by white, silk ribbons from pews. An organist played a medley of the wedding classics: Bach. Beethoven. Mozart. Pachelbel. I spotted a magnificent mix of odd hats, extravagant gowns, and impeccable tuxedos as ushers escorted guests to their seats.

  My bridesmaids, Bea, Joan, Esmeralda, and the flower girls, fluttered around me like hummingbirds hopped up on sugar. Their dresses were pastel-colored versions of mine and sleeker. I gazed into an ancient mirror. I was swathed in yards of fabric that included tulle, sparkles, in-laid pearls, crystals, a veil, and a tiara. “I look like an overly frosted vanilla cupcake exploded.”

  “When you don’t have a strong opinion about selecting your wedding dress, others will choose it for you,” Esmeralda said.

  Bea twirled next to me in a lemony concoction. “You look like a fairytale.” “Thank you for getting married. I’m kid-free for two whole days.”

  Joan played with the spikes on her shiny, cropped, red hair. “Did you see that guy toward the front of the cathedral seated on the groom’s side? That’s Theodore, the Grand Duke of Latvia. I chatted with him at a polo match a year ago. He’s hot.”

  Folks craned their heads as they tried to catch a glimpse of me, the future Princess of Bellèno. Or as I liked to call myself, the lying princess impersonator.