The Prince's Playbook

by Pamela DuMond

  The Archbishop of St. Luce walked to the center of the Royal Church of Bellèno’s sacristy. Mr. Cartwright sat close to the front on the bride’s side. He swiveled his head toward me and I swear I saw him wink. I gave him a clandestine thumbs-up. My hands shook. Had I eaten today? Had I not eaten today? I couldn’t remember. Crap.

  Get a grip, Vivian. You can do this. You can marry Leopold, Prince of Bellèno. You can have this amazing life. Uncle Florio will be taken care of. You’ll never have to worry about his healthcare or money again.

  Two of Leo’s groomsmen, wearing immaculate tuxes, strode to the front of the church, followed by the hottest smart-ass in the world.

  Max.

  Fucking Prince Maximillian Cristoph Rochartè of Bellèno was dressed in a crisp black tuxedo. He stared at the floor and rocked back and forth on his heels. I would miss him rocking my world.

  “Maximillian looks so handsome,” Joan said.

  “He’ll be the hottest bachelor in Europe as soon as Leo’s off the market,” Bea said.

  She was right. All the tarts in tiaras would be after my Max. The Trumpet Voluntary played.

  “It’s time.” Bea sniffled.

  “Hang on.” Joan fussed with the veil and adjusted my tiara.

  “You look beautiful.” Esmeralda wiped a tear away.

  I peered out at the crowd. Photographers were huddled in every corner.

  Leo made his way to the front of the church and tossed a sexy, confident smile in my direction.

  I felt like a deer caught in the headlights. A fake, a phony, an imposter. A girl from Chicago’s Southside caught up in a dramady was about to become the Princess of Bellèno.

  Papa poked his nose into our circle, debonair in his black tuxedo with his silver hair. He bowed and held out his arm. “Your carriage awaits.”

  I could do this.

  “Don’t make me cry.” I took his arm. “I’ll ruin my makeup. Then I’ll have you thrown into the royal dungeons. I can do that after today I think.”

  * * *

  “If anyone else in this church has an objection to holy matrimony between Lady Catherine Theresa Fontaine and Prince Leopold Edward George Rochartè the Third speak now or forever hold your peace,” the Archbishop said.

  Leo smiled at me.

  Joan nodded.

  Bea winked.

  Esmeralda gave me a thumbs up.

  I could do this. I was good. I had this under control.

  Max coughed.

  I frowned. “What?”

  His hacks escalated to a throaty rumble. Guests switched their gaze from Cristoph and me— to Max and me.

  And bam, I felt like I was back on the airplane flight from London to Bellèno, dropping like a bag of stones toward the jagged mountain peaks below. I broke into a sweat and clutched one manicured hand to my chest. The cathedral appeared to wobble.

  “Cici, are you all right?” Leo whispered. “Is it your hypoglycemia?”

  Flashbulbs popped then vanished like fireflies on a summer night. Wedding guests murmured. All those magnificent hats: purple, blue, off-white, yellow— blended into each other until the cathedral became a sea of bonnets and the room closed in on me. “Max,” I whispered desperately, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  Roman barked, broke free from his handler, and raced toward me. I scooped him up, buried my face in his, and inhaled puppy breath.

  “This is highly unorthodox,” the Archbishop said. “I repeat. If anyone present here has an objection to holy matrimony between Lady Catherine Theresa Fontaine and Prince Leopold Edward George Rochartè the Third, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

  “No one has an objection,” Leo said.

  “Get on with it,” Max said.

  “There are no objections!” Mr. Cartwright declared from the third pew.

  It dawned on me that as much as I loved my part-time job and the people of Bellèno, I couldn’t live a lie for the rest of my life. Time was precious. The people you love might not be with you forever. Maybe sometimes, in spite of all the odds, in spite of everything, you just need to stick up for your heart, your life, your dreams.

  And I made a better decision.

  Chapter 26

  MAXIMILLIAN

  I was a fucking mess. I thought I could hire Vivian, play with her for a bit, pass her along to my brother and save the House of Bellèno from its financial woes. But something deeper had transpired. I was caught between a rock and a hard place. Save my family or save the girl I had fallen in love with. There had to be a way out of this. A marriage followed by an annulment a year later? “Cici,” I whispered. “It’s okay. It’s your big day. I’ll handle this.”

  “I’ve got this.” She placed the puppy on the ground and hugged Leo. Guests murmured, but I was close enough to hear her.

  “I adore you, Leo,” she said. “You deserve to marry a girl who is better for you than me. I apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “This.” She lifted her veil, kissed him on the cheek and turned to the Archbishop. “Your Holiness?”

  “Yes, Lady Fontaine.”

  “I’m speaking now because I can’t forever hold my peace.”

  He shook his head. “What say you, Lady?”

  “I know a reason that I cannot marry Prince Leopold.”

  “Honey? Are you okay?” Duke Fontaine asked.

  Flashbulbs popped and cameras whirred. Hisses and gasps rose from the crowd. I heard a thud and suspected someone had passed out. Thankfully, not Vivian this time.

  “Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?” Esmeralda asked.

  “Yes,” Vivian said.

  “Speak up, Lady Fontaine,” the Archbishop said. “Speak your truth, now. In front of God, the Royal Family, and all present here today. What is the reason you should not be united in holy matrimony with Prince Leopold?”

  “Therein lies the dilemma.” She gazed into the crowd. They leaned forward, vultures waiting to devour her. A few guests wearing big hats fanned themselves. Royal Nana snored in the front pew. Vivian didn’t have to do this. I stared at her and shook my head.

  She turned back to the Archbishop. “I can’t marry Prince Leopold because I’m not Lady Catherine Theresa Fontaine.”

  “Oh, my sweet darling,” Queen Cheree said.

  Royal Nana woke with a start. “Cocoa,” she said. “Make me hot cocoa with the mini-marshmallows, Cici. It’s so lovely the way you make it.”

  Vivian turned to the Ladies. “Cocoa for Royal Nana?”

  Joan pulled her cell out of her cleavage and texted. “Done.”

  Leo eyed her. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m not Cici.”

  “No. Seriously.”

  “Seriously. I’m not Cici. My name’s Vivian.”

  Cameramen crept closer to the front of the church.

  Leo shook his head. “But, but… where’s Cici?”

  “Somewhere—”

  Mr. Cartwright coughed and ran his fingers across his lips.

  Vivian nodded at him. “I’m not sure where. But I don’t think she’s in Bellèno.” She back-stepped down the altar’s stairs, her feet tangling in her gown and she teetered.

  I reached out to grab her arm but Joan beat me to it.

  “Why?” Leo asked. “I’m offering you—I mean her—my allegiance, my throne, my heart. Why?”

  She shook free from Bea’s grasp and wiped tears away. “I can’t speak for Cici, Leo. She hired me to impersonate her for a short period of time. But then ten days turned into more than a month. In that short time, I’ve grown so fond of you. I’ve fallen in love with all of you, really. And I’m so very sorry because I never thought I’d hurt people.”

  I couldn’t look at her. I couldn’t face myself for what I had done. The Crown Affair had started off as such a clever idea. Now it was a bloody mess that I’d gotten us all into.

  The Archbishop’s cheeks popped crimson. “So, Catherine, or Vivian, or whatever your name is, you do not take Prince
Leopold Edward George Rochartè the Third of Bellèno to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, from this day forward until death do you part?”

  “That’s correct,” Vivian said. “I do not. Now isn’t the best time to be asking favors, but I vow to do all those things with the puppy. Queen Cheree, can I keep Roman?”

  My mother sighed and nodded. “Yes.”

  “Thank you,” Vivian said, then turned to me. “I’m sorry. I am forever, sorry.” She lifted the hem of her dress with one hand and raced down the aisle as flashbulbs exploded like the grand finale of a fireworks show on the Fourth of July.

  * * *

  The Crown Affair was a crazy plan. You could’ve asked any Vegas odds maker what chance they’d give of this working and they would have told you to save your money. That you’d have a better chance playing the ponies or engaging in a low stakes poker game.

  That’s why, when Vivian bolted out of the cathedral my feelings were torn. The deal was blown. The press would have a field day, my brother would go back to his other girls, and the House of Bellèno would crumble like a house of cards. By this time next year I suspected my family and I would be lucky not to be rounded up and shipped off to Yektarinaburg like the Royal Romanov family. We know how well that turned out.

  And yet I felt relieved. Like I could breathe again. The vise that had gripped my heart had disappeared. My shoulders slipped from my ears back down to where shoulders were supposed to sit even as hell broke loose around me. The pop and whir of cameras. The cries from the audience. The knowing looks from the usual suspects who always had a ‘knowing’ look whenever something went spectacularly wrong.

  And still I didn’t care.

  Despite the debacle, the reception went on as planned. People were still hungry and the food had already been paid for.

  I couldn’t see Cartwright anywhere at the reception. I hoped that was a good sign and he was getting Vivian out of the country as expeditiously as possible. I was sitting at a table with a glass of single malt scotch when Cici’s father walked up to me. I braced for an earful.

  “Mind if I sit down and have a quick chat with you?” Lord Angus Fontaine asked.

  “By all means.” I pulled out a chair for him.

  “I spoke to the real Cici about half an hour ago. Best conversation we’ve had in years. It turns out I’m going to be a grandfather.”

  “Congratulations.” I lifted my glass and we toasted.

  “I think we can have a bigger conversation about what went down the past couple of weeks on a different night, Your Highness,” he said.

  “Sounds fair,” I said.

  “I’ve been thinking about the investment side of this affair. Funny how all this landed on my plate. I ostensibly took your deal in honor of my beloved Mimsy, may she rest-in-peace.”

  I raised my glass. “To Mimsy.”

  The Duke toasted alongside me, then said, “I’ve come to the conclusion I still want in. I’m still willing to sign on the dotted line.”

  I almost fell off my chair. Instead, my jaw dropped wide open. I quickly closed it. “Are you certain, Sir?”

  “The papers are already drawn up. We just need to change the particulars about the marriage of Catherine to Prince Leopold.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Good. I’m flying to Chicago next week to see Cici and meet her new fiancé. I can’t wait.”

  “Excellent, sir.”

  “When are you going?” he asked.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you, Prince Maximillian. Vivian never really wanted to marry Leo, now did she? As far as I could tell, she only had eyes for you.”

  “Yes, well, lots to get done around here with the buyout,” I said. “And damage control. They put me in charge of that.”

  “Do you mind if I give you a little advice?”

  “Please do,” I said.

  He placed a hand on my shoulder. “There will always be financial messes. Paperwork that needs to be taken care of. Fires to be put out. But life’s real work is the people you care about. The ones you want to keep in your life. Don’t let life’s real work pass you by, Max. You’ll always regret it.”

  Chapter 27

  VIVIAN

  Mr. Cartwright found a way to rendition both me and Roman out of Bellèno.

  I returned to my tiny apartment in Chicago and lay in my single bed where I snuggled with Roman. I cried, ate too much ice cream, and watched my favorite romantic comedies. I could no longer view my favorite medieval show, it reminded me too much of Max and Bellèno and my Ladies. I scoured The Wall Street Journal but didn’t see any mention of Friedricksburgh being sold off to developers.

  I hadn’t heard from Max or Leo. Mr. Cartwright left me a couple of messages but I stopped returning them. The Ladies texted me incessantly until I responded that they were killing me and I just wasn’t ready to talk about it. Their texts stopped abruptly.

  About a week after my epic part-time job I ventured back into the land of the living. I jogged with Roman around my local park. I secured his six-foot lead to the outdoor weight machines, stuffed a liver treat in his chew toy and let him have at it as I pumped iron. I played ping-pong and hung out with Uncle Florio at Vail Assisted Living. Lola, Mateo and I watched some real football: Chicago Bears vs. The Green Bay Packers on a big-screen at a sports-themed restaurant.

  In late October, Chicago’s Indian summer changed overnight from scorching hot to crisp fall. The leaves turned from green to shades of orange, red, and brown. Lawns yellowed. My neighborhood grew quieter. Fewer partiers opened their windows in the autumn. Even the cockroaches calmed down and made room for the spiders. There was a time and a season for everyone and everything.

  Roman grew like one of those wild flowers that stuck out of a patch of melting snow in Bellèno’s Alps. First his legs got long, his gait growing more awkward. For a while his butt was higher than his chest.

  I cracked open a beer, sat on the kitchen floor next to him and watched him eat dinner. “You miss, Max, don’t you?”

  He wagged his tail.

  “Too bad. You come from different walks of life. You’re just a Labrador retriever and he’s a prince. Stop your foolish dreaming.” I thanked my lucky stars every night that Queen Cheree had let me keep him.

  I couldn’t handle going back to school yet, but I contacted Columbia’s administration, semi-explained my circumstances and deferred my classes to the winter semester that started in January.

  One day it dawned on me I really did need to get back to life. I needed to hunker down and find a job. I applied via a website and was hired by Cheswick’s of Boston to be an online chat service representative. I fielded questions about clothing and accessories: color, cut, orders, and other customer concerns. Unfortunately, I quit after being ‘screamed at’ online for an hour in a furious chat session with a woman who insisted she had ordered a suit in autumn brisk orange but received said outfit in spring tangerine dew.

  I scanned more listings on Daveslist. The escort service was still hiring. It seemed like the escort service was always hiring. The local donut shop needed help. Would it kill me? I did not want to work at Wieners on Sticks.

  Day after relentless day I continued to yearn for Max.

  * * *

  In an odd twist of events, in November, I found myself full circle, back at Mugshots, working with Lola and Buddy Paulsen. A nameless investor had bought out Mark Woodman’s share. Woodman left, taking his pinkie ring and privileged party boys with him.

  The new owners shut down the place for a week to remodel. And it wasn’t just a deep clean and a coat of paint on the walls. There were some major renovations including a small dance floor built in the middle of the bar. An old fashioned looking jukebox was tucked on a diagonal in a corner. Harley Davidson paraphernalia still hung on the walls but it was broken up with lithographs of hot guys and pretty g
irls riding motorcycles. I stared at one of the pictures. There were mountains in the distance and it made me think of Max and our wild ride.

  Yes—I mean yeah—the art worked for me.

  Once again, we wore our Mugshots T-shirts, jeans and biker boots as we cocktailed to a crowd of folks that were, for the most part, likeable. The majority of the customers, old and new, played nice in the sand box.

  One night during the first week of December, snowflakes descended from the skies and fell outside the bar’s windows as fall skidded into winter. The bar was packed, probably because it was Mugshots’s first ever ‘Ladies Night’.

  “Two Jack and Cokes, two Stolis on the rocks, a fake lemonade for Artie and some stale pretzels, please, Vivian,” Mr. Fitzpatrick said.

  “Are there any other kind?” I asked. “Coming right up.” I stacked the empty glasses on my tray and hoisted it to my shoulder.

  “I don’t know,” Artie said. “Things are looking a little fancier around here since the remodel. Look at that jukebox. The music’s changed up a bit since the new owners took over. I wanted to hear “Born to be Wild” and emptied my pockets looking for quarters. But when I walked up to that machine, dang if it accepted my debit card as well as my coins. Maybe the new management will serve organic pretzels. Or even gluten-free.”

  “And maybe we’ll all get a pony for Christmas. It’s a bar, Artie. We serve drinks, not Happily-Ever-Afters. Dreams don’t come true. It won’t happen for you. Accept that and you’ll enjoy your pretzels the old fashioned way. Stale.”

  “It’ll be Christmas before you know it, George Bailey—I mean—Vivian DeRose.” Mr. Fitzpatrick said. “What do you want for Christmas, Vivian?”

  “My two front teeth. Because I no longer believe in It’s a Wonderful Life or Zuzu’s petals.”

  “Aw, come on! You gotta ask for more than that,” Artie said.