by Kari August
“Have you ever acted?” Clarence now asked.
Mags puckered her brow. Why was Clarence changing the subject?
“I guess it must run in the family,” Clarence stated before she could answer. “Well, if you’re serious about this warrior thing—”
“I am.”
“Somehow I don’t think Dickie would be too pleased about you participating in this.”
“Of course not, but he’s not here now.” She looked at him purposefully.
“I guess I could call Gonzo back.”
“Please do.”
Clarence picked up his phone. “Hey, Gonzo. My English cousin who’s an actress says she can fight for you tonight.”
He turned back to her. “He’s asking what your shtick would be.”
“I could bring a jousting lance perhaps.” Oh, no. She had never even lifted one of those except to tie her scarf onto the one of her favorite knight at a tournament.
“Funny. No, really, what would be your handle? What is your title?”
“I am the Duchess,” she replied imperially.
Clarence chuckled. “He heard you and likes it. Do you have a duchess outfit perchance?”
“Why, yes, I do.”
Clarence laughed again and shaking his head, muttered, “My English cousins have got to be the craziest group around.” He listened and then spoke again into the phone. “Okay, we’ll be there at five.”
He then stood. “Well, we’re going to have to make haste. We only have a couple hours. He’s sending over a contract now. But he wants you there for a quick review of battle strategy so to speak. Do you have all the necessary papers to work in this country?”
Mags thought about all the cards and documents and even some bank number she had been given before leaving—most of which she had not seen the purpose for but was assured that Dickie had found useful. She nodded. “I cannot wait.”
Clarence and Mags got stuck in traffic so she only heard a brief review for what was in store for her . . . but that had been enough. Her opponent was going to be Sweetpea the Styler—so built her body almost looked manly. She wore some strange leather outfit and so much paint she looked like a tart, and what was worse? When she got Mags alone with her, she was spewing such things as, “Okay, first we’ll do the headlocks, then the roundabout kicks, then the smackdowns. Sound good to you, Duchess?”
Mags had frowned. “And what about our weapons?”
“Huh? Hey, nothing dirty, sister, or I’ll beat your ass.” She had stomped off then.
Mags had dealt with warfare before. She had helped obtain money for weapons and recruited soldiers for her husband’s incessant battles. She had known so much about the important issues of her day and was renowned as such a good listener, that her diplomatic and political opinion had been respected not only by her husband, but by her stepson-in-law, Maximilian, who had become the Hapsburg Holy Roman Emperor, and then by his son, Philip the Fair, the Archduke of Austria—who she had helped raise when her stepdaughter had died tragically, falling from her horse. She had even been sent back to England once to negotiate a military alliance.
But she had never fought in combat before.
So, after hearing what Sweatpea had to say, Mags came to what she considered the only sensible conclusion for how she should conduct herself in this battle.
She could hear the large crowd in the arena getting restless. She peeped through the curtains and saw that Clarence was sitting in the front row in an area labeled reserved. Good. If worse came to worst, she would ask him to preserve her.
The announcer then blasted, “And now, defending her position as Princess of the WWW, welcome Sweetpea theeeee STYLER!”
Mags could see Sweetpea at the other side of the arena, sauntering and swaying her way to the enclosed ring. There were a few boos, but mainly just loud, raucous cheering. Mags took a closer look at the audience. They were definitely a rough sort—if not for the fact that they looked so well-fed and none of their clothes seemed in rags, the whole lot of them could have passed for peasants.
“Now please give a round of applause to our newest member of the WWW, her Royal Majesty herself . . .”
What? Her Royal Majesty? She wasn’t married to a king, that stupid oaf.
“Ready to slay and usurp Sweetpea the Styler, the one and only, The Evil Duuuuuchess of Bordusey!”
That clodhead! Mags had told him of Burgundy. And why was she the evil one? That Sweetpea didn’t look like the innocent type, if you asked her.
But someone was now pushing her through the curtains. She began promenading toward the ring, as dignified as she could, head raised, trying not to appear sinister but calm and serene.
She was met only by boos.
She climbed beneath some ropes and into the ring. A bell clanged and then Sweetpea started advancing toward her. Oh, no. This was it. Time for her to begin her battle plan. Just as Sweetpea reached out to grab her, Mags ran over to the other side of the ring.
More boos followed.
But Mags kept that up for a good long time, scurrying away as best she could from Sweetpea. At one point, she climbed back out of the ring—more booing—and saw Clarence with his hands over his head, bent over laughing.
So, she decided she better return into the ring. The only problem, though, was the outfit Mags was wearing. She had put on her elegant Burgundian gown, the purple silk, with golden lace trimming . . . that reached to the floor . . . with a train following . . . that Sweetpea now clomped her mannish boot onto.
Mags heard a rip. How dare she?! Why this attire would cost a fortune if Sweetpea ever decided to dress less like a brute.
Mags turned around and gave her most threatening stare—the one that could and had silenced nobles.
Sweetpea ignored it and made a grab for her tresses and the pointed, sophisticated hat covering her bun.
The next thing Mags knew, she was bouncing along on her rump, on the springy flooring of the ring.
Sweetpea gazed at her a moment, then emitted some sort of savage yell to the ceiling. The crowd roared with approval.
Oh, no. Now Mags was in for it. What was that thing Sweetpea said would happen first? Something about locking her head.
Mags clasped her hands and started praying.
Chapter Six
Boston
Charlie walked into his apartment and realized he had done it. He had actually done it. Gone through with his plan first formed after that atrocious day at the office and then seeing that poster of a truck climbing rocks Out West.
He was finished with being the answerable one, the one out of his siblings who was in charge and in control, the reliable one who took most of the responsibility. Perhaps that was because he was the oldest brother, but he also suspected now that it was a part of his character—and something that he should overcome since he realized it was now not making him happy.
Charlie had gone from being the dutiful babysitter of his siblings, to making sure his drunken college bros got home safely from the bar, to taking over management of his father’s car dealerships—especially since his parents liked to travel constantly now—to even being the one who organized poker night with his friends every month. He was tired of it all.
Perhaps the moment when he really realized how much he had had it with being the accountable one was not while gazing at that poster but when he had broken up with his latest girlfriend a month ago. He had recognized that she had been part of a string of women who had been attracted to him mainly because he was a reliable sort. The last thing he wanted now was another woman who in any shape or way could be labeled high maintenance. No sirree, not again.
But Charlie had also recognized recently that perhaps he never would find a woman to settle down with permanently, and he should just stop trying. Oh, he knew he was still attractive enough. Women told him they liked his solid, tall build and he was asked frequently if he had once been a football player—yes, but not for money.
However, Charlie realized he w
as getting more and more set in his ways. He was in his thirties and he was partial to things being done or viewed in a certain manner. He liked to come home and go for a jog, then watch the news, the sports shows, and read for a bit before dozing off. He preferred to sleep in on the weekends, eat steak at least five days a week, drink milk from the bottle, throw his dirty clothes on the floor until laundry day, lounge around his house in only his boxers and a T shirt, burp loudly from beer that was kept only on the top shelf of the fridge, let his dog rest on the bed or couch if he wanted to—though he was currently without any pooch—and go camping as often as possible in the backcountry. Oh, and also to spend hours and hours working on his antique car. But had he been running his life just like all that? Oh, no. Especially not when there was some highmaintenancer walking around or work called or he had the tons of other responsible things to do instead.
So today, Charlie had done something really radical to break the cycle. He had walked into work and announced that he was taking a three-week vacation. Out West. Charlie chuckled now thinking about everyone’s astounded expressions. Yes, you heard me correctly. Not just one week where everyone calls me the entire vacation, but a whole three weeks. Oh, and guess what? He would be traveling the back roads and wasn’t sure if he would be available to reach. Why the back roads? Because he would be driving his tiny 1965 Datsun sedan cross country—the car he had inherited from his beloved Grandma Sally.
As Charlie started packing for the trip, he thought about how he really missed his Grandma—she had passed away about five years ago. He had loved spending part of his summer vacations as a kid with her, and she had adored him. She had let him do whatever he wanted when he stayed with her. Not that he had gone crazy or anything, it was more that she had trusted him and never nagged about the clothes he was wearing, what he was eating or where he was going. She had bought him his favorite pop and sweets, made pancakes for him every morning, played board games and cards with him and just let him be he. She had asked him, “Aren’t you bored staying with your old Grandma?” Oh, hell, no. He had been in freedom. And that’s what he wanted now.
Grandma had been a real character herself. Highly intelligent, very liberal politically, she had experienced enough of life—bad and good—that she was always loaded with interesting stories. But the one he remembered now made him smile.
The first car Grandma had bought for herself after her husband passed unexpectedly was this Datsun Charlie planned on driving. She had loaded her playful five-month-old puppy into the car, let the windows down, and headed for the grocery store. At the first major intersection, her dog had seen a cat, jumped out of the window, and caused the traffic in all directions to come to a stop, as everyone bounded out of their cars to try to help Grandma catch her pooch who was chasing the cat.
After passing on the Datsun to him, Charlie had redone the engine, but he still wasn’t sure how well the car could handle climbing roadways and had determined it would be better to stay away from the fast freeways. He had patched up the worst of the frame and repainted the yellow exterior in places. He had scarcely fixed the interior. There was no air conditioning so he planned on taking the northern route Out West.
But more than that, he had let alone the chewed handles to lower the windows, the gnawed at and ripped corners of the seats, and even let be the one window that was still slobbered up from licking—all from this same pooch of Grandma’s. He found himself chuckling again thinking how this car was such a mess on the inside.
Grandma had loved that dog, and Charlie had once asked her, “Weren’t you angry with her for what she did to your car?” Grandma had answered, “Well, she just wouldn’t listen to me when I was driving. But she was only being a puppy after all. And now I don’t want to fix the inside because it reminds me of her. And, of course, I could never sell this first car of mine, old silly fool that I am.” And now Charlie didn’t want to redo the inside because it reminded him of his Grandma. And besides, only Charlie used the car, and he was going on the vacation his single way alone.
Charlie finished packing and sat down at his computer to look for some hotel reservations. He entered the days of his trip, then paused. Oh, shit! He had completely forgotten. He had agreed to go to that party in Miami. He groaned and thought a moment.
He would just blow it off. This trip was too precious already to him. He did not want to delay it even a few days.
But fifteen minutes later Charlie found himself stewing over the party again and decided he would attend. But it would be the last responsible thing he did for, well . . . at least a while. Because being the responsible one was making him . . . miserable.
After that party he was taking a road trip vacation Out West in his wreck of an antique car, come hell or high water. He could not wait.
Chapter Seven
Ned found himself too concerned about what was occurring with Mags in Estes Park, so Lindsey and he both arranged from their respective work in Denver, to return to the cabin sooner than the weekend. They stepped onto the porch with some trepidation, having noticed that the car that Aunt Elle had rented was not in the driveway.
“They’re probably in town, don’t you think, Linds?” Ned opened the door and walked into the house.
Lindsey shrugged. “I guess.” But she looked into their rooms and then uttered, “Ah, oh.”
“What now?”
“I think they’ve split. Their baggage is gone.”
“Oh, nooo,” Ned wailed. “How could they leave without telling us? Now we’ve wasted a trip from Denver to say nothing about what kind of trouble Mags could have gotten into.”
“Aunt Elle probably figured we would want to come to Estes Park anyways. But still I would have thought she at least—”
“Hello? Anybody home?”
Ned turned to see his heavenly cousin in the doorway.
“Dickie! Geez.” Ned staggered back. “I didn’t realize you were coming for a visit. I mean of course, I didn’t. I mean . . .” He sat down in the nearest chair. “I think this is all getting a bit too much.”
Dickie walked in and gave Ned a pat on the back and then Lindsey a quick kiss, while she stood frozen, gaping, until she found her voice. “OH. MY. GOD.”
Dickie then glanced around the cabin, smiling. “I see nothing has changed. That’s nice.” He looked back at them. “So, where’s Mags? I’ve been sent to reclaim her.”
Ned got up again. “Well, now see, Dickie. We’ve uh, . . . we’ve kind of lost her.”
“What?”
“But she’s probably with Aunt Elle,” Lindsey tried to explain.
“So, where’s Aunt Elle?”
Ned shook his head. “We’re not sure.”
Dickie frowned slightly. “Isn’t that a note on the table next to you, Ned?”
He looked down. “Oh, yes. Let me read this. Dear Lindsey and Ned. We’ve decided to make a short visit to my home. Talk to you soon. Love Aunt Elle.” He looked up again. “Okay. Let me try to reach her.”
Dickie raised his brows and waited. An hour later, after not hearing any word, Dickie was frowning.
“Okay. Perhaps I can reach Uncle Harry—he should know where his wife is.” Ned smiled.
Fifteen minutes later, Ned suspected Dickie was not going to like the answer he got in return. “Uh, Aunt Elle is handling problems caused by a recent hurricane and is travelling . . . while Mags is visiting with . . . Cousin Clarence in Florida.” Ned knew that Clarence and Dickie had never had completely smooth relations, but he hoped they had come together somewhat after Dickie had spent some time with his cousin his last visit.
Dickie exploded. “How could you let that happen, Ned? Cousin Clarence? Is Charlena there at least?”
“I’m not sure. But as soon as Aunt Elle finishes with her hurricane stuff, she plans on joining Mags.”
“Well, we have to get there. God knows what’s going on between my willful sister and our cousin Clarence, who finds a million things in life funny enough to make a joke out of
them.”
Lindsey moved into action. “I’ll see what plane tickets we can get.” A few minutes later she announced, “There’s a flight tomorrow morning.”
Dickie seemed to relax.
“Do you want me to try to reach Clarence now?”
Dickie thought a moment. “No, I prefer to just surprise them or I mean her. My sister might escape again if she knows I’m on my way. I’m expecting an argument from her about returning with me.”
An hour later, Dickie and Ned sat on the porch, catching up with what had occurred since last seeing each other. Dickie explained about his warrior club, “So, you see how important it is that I travel as quickly as possible back to heaven.”
Ned was disappointed—Dickie and he had become as close as brothers from all their time together. Ned had helped Dickie with his completely unfair reputation of usurping his throne by doing away with his nephews—it was nonsense as far as Ned was concerned—and Ned had formed a society in favor of King Richard III. And Dickie had assisted Ned with good advice and common sense that had improved his life—including helping him attain Lindsey as his wife. He asked now, “Well, you can at least spend a couple weeks here, can’t you?”
Dickie pondered a moment. “See that’s where it gets a little confusing. Time isn’t the same in heaven—longer time periods seem shorter, I guess you could say. So . . . probably so—I can stay a few weeks.”
Ned smiled. “That’s great.”
“Actually, I was hoping to get something accomplished while I was here this time.”
“What’s that?”
“If I can be honest—”
“Haven’t we always been with each other? Too much so at times?” Ned grinned.
Dickie smiled back. “Indeed. But the problem is, I have found since forming my club—actually it’s a bit awkward, especially since I always prided myself on using the latest warfare as King—but when club members start talking about such things as AKs, ground to air missiles, howitzers, muzzle loaders, repeating rifles . . . well, I am at a bit of a loss. And as Club King Ruler, I am too embarrassed to ask what they are talking about. Oh, and here’s the worst part. That meddler Teddie can spout all sorts of trivial detail about these weapons. And I just refuse to let Teddie the Nuisance beat me in this.”
