The Royal Wedding Collection

by Rachel Hauck

  “Will you marry me?”

  She covered her mouth and took a step back, her world quaking.

  “No man will love you more. I can’t be a good king without the woman I love. Without you. Once you said if we were meant to be you’d have been born in Brighton, or I’d have been born in America, but I respectfully decline your theory, Susanna. We are meant to be. You are right for me, for Brighton. God expands the boundaries of nations, changes their DNA, by giving us sincere souls like you. By the love of a king’s heart. Brighton needs you. I need you. But the lingering question is, am I right for you? Do you need and want me?”

  Susanna dropped to her knees and searched his gaze. “I do. I can’t get you out of my heart. I’ve tried, oh, I’ve tried.” Words watered with the sweetness of tears were the best. “I’m terrified of all of this. But I love you.” She laughed low, suddenly realizing how wild she must look. She patted down her wind-matted hair. “Now I know why Avery asked me if I wanted to brush my hair.”

  “He went to Parliament, Susanna.” Jonathan came from the other side of a dark SUV that was merged with the shadows. “He implored them to change the Marriage Act. Risked his reputation, his credibility. First time a king brought an Order of Council before the Parliament in over a century.”

  “Jon, please, chap, I think I can woo her on my own.”

  Jonathan grinned with a slight bow. “His love for you changed our nation, Susanna. Changed me.”

  “Susanna.” Nathaniel opened the ring box. The jewel inside caught the tiny white lights and created a rainbow over Susanna and the base of Lover’s Oak. It captured her breath, her heart. “This belonged to Brighton’s last reigning queen, Anne-Marie.”

  “I–I couldn’t … It’s … incredible.” She’d never seen anything like it. An oval center pink diamond surrounded by smaller diamonds, sapphires, and rubies.

  “Lord Thomas Winthrop designed it for her. They were known in Brighton for their love. Then my grandfather gave it to my Granny, Isabella.” Nathaniel reached for her hand. “But I think Queen Anne-Marie Victoria Karoline Susanna would love for you to have it.”

  “Susanna?”

  “Yes, and you’ve not given me your answer. Will you marry me? Be my queen?”

  “Marry you?” She didn’t mean to repeat the question but it felt so overwhelming.

  “Marry me.”

  “Marry you?” She couldn’t stop trembling.

  “Susanna Jean.” A sharp but very familiar voice hit her in the back of the head. “Stop stalling. Say yes.”

  “Mama?” Susanna jumped to her feet and whirled around to see Daddy, Mama, Avery, Colin, Gracie, and Ethan sitting on car hoods and truck gates. “Are you tailgating my engagement?”

  “Oh, my stars-a-mighty.” Mama surrendered her hands. “Pay attention to the man on his knees.”

  “Suz”—Nathaniel grabbed her hand and rose to his feet—“if you want to think for a while, I understand. It’s all quite sudden.”

  “Do you think I can do it? Marry you, be a … a … queen?” The word tumbled awkwardly from her tongue. “Can I do what’s required?”

  “I have no doubt. I’d not be here otherwise. I need you, Suz. Brighton needs you. I’d not put you in this position if I didn’t believe in you.”

  “What about Hessenberg, Lady Genevieve, the entail?”

  “Goodness, you ask a lot of questions when a man’s heart is beating against his chest.” He kissed her forehead. “We found an heir to Prince Francis.”

  “Really?”

  “An American. Regina Beswick.”

  “An American?” She grinned. “Seems America will be invading the nations of the North Sea.”

  “What are you saying?”

  Susanna loved the look of realization in Nathaniel’s eyes. She tugged at his button-down shirt. Might as well have some fun of her own. “I would say yes, Nate, but I told God it’d have to be a snowy day in Georgia before I ever fell in love again. Or at least admitted to it.” She tipped her head toward the night and offered up her palms. “Sixty degrees and no snow.”

  “So, that’s it? No snow, no engagement?” He backed toward the tree, somber, serious.

  Susanna regarded him a moment, wondering how far she could push this bit. “Yes, that’s it. No snow, no engagement.” She glanced back at her family. Were they eating popcorn? Oh, mercy … back at Nathaniel, she crossed her arms. “Yeah, chap, it has to snow.”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d reduce me to this, but …” He pulled a cord and smiled as a delicate cloud of Styrofoam snow drifted down from the highest limbs of Lover’s Oak.

  “Oh my …” She held up her hands as she turned slowly in the swirling white flakes. They covered her hair, her shoulders, the edge of her eyelashes, and filled her with tears.

  “You never said it had to be real snow, milady.”

  “No, I guess I didn’t.” She peered at him, love spilling over her heart into her mind, will, and emotions. He did this for her, to win her heart.

  She didn’t need fake snow or a proposal beneath an ancient tree to know God had brought this man into her life.

  The morning she’d confessed to God she had nothing and he could set her on any journey he deemed necessary. Susanna understood completely now the Lord had Nathaniel in mind all along.

  “Susanna Truitt, please, you’re killing me. Will you marry me? How many times must a king ask?”

  “Yes, Nathaniel II of the House of Stratton”—she laced her arms about his neck—“I will most definitely, certainly, one hundred percent marry you and be your snow queen.”

  “Thank goodness.” He exhaled, then scooped her up, whirled her around as the last of the fake snow whispered down over their true love.

  The tailgaters erupted with cheers and whistles.

  “I love you, Susanna-babe.”

  “I love you too, Nathaniel. I love you too.”

  He set her down and held her face in his hands, smoothing his thumbs over her cheeks, and sealed the moment with their first kiss. Tender but passionate.

  Susanna had never believed much in fairy tales or charming princes, or knights on white steeds, but she’d always believed in the one true love.

  And tonight, and forever, he held her in his arms.

  Princess Ever After

  In loving memory of my aunt, Betty Jane Burnside Hayes June 9, 1925–October 16, 2012 See you soon!

  ONE

  She’d found bliss. Perhaps even true love. Behind the wheel of a ’71 Dodge Challenger restored to Slant-6 perfection.

  Fishtailing into turn two of a west side Tallahassee dirt track, Reggie shifted into fourth gear and pushed the car to its max, the thrill of the race electrifying her entire being.

  The engine rumbled with authority as the tires hummed over the track, churning up dust as if to truly bury yesterday. Firing down the straightaway toward pinkish-gold remains of twilight leaking through the tall pines, the last thread of Reggie’s lingering doubt flitted away on the cool September breeze.

  This was what she’d been born to do—restore junked-up, forgotten old cars to their original, classic beauty. And it only took her twenty-nine years to figure that out.

  Ha-ha. Come on, baby. Show me what you can do.

  The boys at the finish line—Al, Rafe, and Wally—flagged her home with their hats in hand.

  This was amazing. Simply amazing. She should’ve done this years ago. Jump from the corporate CPA ship onto the barely floating life raft of “pipe dreams.”

  In the last six months, she’d endured more than her share of sleepless nights since she traded her business suits for coveralls and entered into the car restoration business with Al, who was like a second father to her.

  Restoring the Challenger was their first big job. And their first test.

  Reggie checked the speedometer. The needle shimmied right at one hundred.

  “Wahoo!”

  She sped past the finish line. An air horn sounded. Male voices rose with hoot
s and hollers. She’d done it. They’d done it. And without leaving a trail of car parts littering the racetrack.

  Downshifting, Reggie aimed for center field, whipping the car in a series of donuts, mashing on the horn, gunning the engine, letting the 440 breathe and have its say.

  Oh mercy, building and installing this engine had given them fits. Those days were the ones most filled with doubt, when Reggie considered dialing her old firm, Backlund & Backlund, and begging for her job back.

  One last spin around the infield and Reggie stopped the car and hopped out, letting the engine idle. Rafe swooped her up, whirling her around. “We did it!”

  When he set her down, Al embraced her in his dark, teddy bear arms. “I’m so stinking proud of you, girl.”

  “No, you, Al. It was your idea.”

  “But you were willing to take the leap.” Al, a retired Marine master sergeant, and her daddy’s best friend all the way back in the ’60s at Sullivan Elementary School, was the brains and brawn behind opening the shop.

  When Al had approached Reggie with the idea six months ago, she had nothing to say but “Where do I sign?”

  Then he hired Rafe, a Marine who served with Al right before he retired. Rafe left the Marines after three tours in Afghanistan and hitchhiked from North Carolina to Tallahassee in search of “Sergeant Al.”

  Ole Wally arrived at the idling car last. “I do believe she’s plum beautiful. Reg, you drive better than Danica.”

  She threw her arms around the wizened old redneck with thin wisps of white hair sticking out from under his Jeff Gordon 24 cap.

  “Wally, your engine work is the best in the business, and I’d bet my firstborn on it.”

  “Reg,”—Wally spit, an old habit left over from his Red Man chew days—“don’t go banking money on an account you don’t have. Got to find a man, go on a date, get married so’s you can have a firstborn.” Wally sauntered around the car. “Rafe, did you hear something pinging with the engine? Thought I heard it long about the eight cylinder.”

  Wally—the car whisperer.

  “Let’s listen for it on the ride back to the shop,” Rafe said, leaning over the hood, listening for the ping.

  The shop was an old red barn Al had found way out Blountstown Highway. It worked because it was big and airy with a solid roof. But mostly, because it was cheap.

  “Say! Reg,”—a loud bass voice boomed across the infield with irritation—“what happened to seven o’clock?”

  Reggie squinted through the long angles of light and shadow as Mark, her date for the evening, made his way toward her.

  “Mark . . . hey . . .” Reggie tugged her phone from the pocket in her coveralls. Was it seven already? No, it wasn’t seven. It was seven thirty. Seven thirty-one, to be exact. She was late. “I’m so sorry.” She met Mark on the other side of the car, glancing back at Wally and shooting him a goofy look. “We had to run the car one last time. Wally heard a ping in the engine.” Well, he did. “Danny Hayes is picking her up in the morning, and we have to be sure she’s running at one hundred percent.”

  “Wally and Al can manage a ping, Reg.” Mark swiped his finger across the dusty hood and made a grand gesture of checking his watch. “Because you and I are late.” He stared at her coveralls. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

  “Yes, it’s all the rage in women’s fashion this season in New York, Mark. Grease-stained coveralls.” Reggie raised her foot. “But I am changing into a pair of fancy boots. Won’t that look smart?”

  “That-a-way to give it to him, Reg.” Rafe nudged her in solidarity as he came around to slip into the driver’s seat.

  “Drive careful, Rafe. Get the car back to the barn and cleaned up, okay?” She unzipped her coveralls and stepped out. Underneath she wore jeans and a black, pleated V-neck top—perfect attire for a Wakulla County fish fry. Even if the guy hosting it was crazy rich.

  Handing her wadded-up coveralls to Rafe through the window, she winced at the worrisome sound of “overbearing mother” in her words. Nevertheless . . . “White-glove the interior, the exterior, even the wheel wells.”

  “Gotcha, boss.” Rafe grinned and gunned the gas while Wally hovered over the engine, ear cocked to the sound of the mysterious ping.

  Al motioned for Reggie to step aside with him. “Reg—” His voice broke, and when he looked up, a dewy sheen slipped across his brown eyes. He sniffed, raised his chin, and drew a deep breath. “We done good, girl.”

  “Yeah, we did.” A well of tears filled her own eyes. “I owe you, Al. Big. Now we just have to figure out where our next job is coming from. I was thinking—”

  “Have a good night, Reg.” Al grabbed her shoulders and turned her around. “I just wanted to tell you I was proud of you. Now, go. Have fun. Laugh. Enjoy your success.”

  “We are a success, aren’t we?” She smiled.

  “A one-car success, but yes, so far, so good.”

  “Al, say, what if we—”

  “Girl, go have fun with your beau.”

  “He’s not my beau.”

  “Fine. Just go. Enjoy. Miriam is waiting for me at home with the grandkids. It’s popcorn and Disney movie night for me.” Al’s bold laugh rang out. He was having the time of his life.

  “Well, okay.” She patted her hands against her legs. “Off I go.”

  “Good. Off you go,” Al echoed her intent.

  “Look, now, if you need anything, call me.”

  “Reg, what could we need at seven thirty on a Tuesday evening?” Al grabbed her shoulders and turned her toward Mark. “Have fun. That’s an order.”

  “Yes, Master Sergeant Love.”

  Walking with Mark toward his car, she exhaled, pressing her hand over her middle. She’d done it. They’d done it. Restored a whole car.

  “We were down to the chassis when we started working on that Challenger,” she said to herself more than to Mark.

  “Old Mr. McCandless is going to wonder where I’ve been.” Mark aimed his remote at the late-model Porsche sitting at the entrance of the track. “What about seven was so hard to do, Reg?”

  “I was working.” She ran ahead of him, waving and cheering, chasing the Challenger as Rafe, Wally, and Al exited the track and headed for the shop.

  “Let’s go,” Mark called.

  Reggie met him at the Porsche and slipped into the passenger seat with confidence in her belly that she’d finally found her destiny.

  A mellow Hunter Hayes melody played over Mark’s speakers, his Porsche buzzing toward the Gulf Coast.

  Reggie nestled against the Italian leather and followed the brilliant red plume streaking the western horizon. Was it possible for life to be perfect? Or almost? For the first time since Mama died when she was just a kid, life made sense. Didn’t it? Sure it did.

  Working on the Challenger, going into business with Al, steadied her, harnessed her restlessness. Her heart stopped wondering, “Is there something more?”

  “I played golf with Eric Backlund yesterday.” At thirty, Mark was one of the top real estate developers in Florida. He ate lunch with congressmen and played golf with CEOs, moving farther and farther away from the skinny, sad-eyed, latchkey kid living in a rusted-out trailer.

  “Does he still have a seven handicap?” she asked. Her former boss took every occasion to let the office know how well he could hit a little white ball with a thin wooden club.

  “He asked about you. Wants to know when you’re coming back.”

  “When a blizzard buries Tallahassee.” She powered down her window. The dewy air swept past her face and cooled the heat rising from the conversation.

  “Reg, come on. You’ve got to be smart, think ahead. So, bravo, you restored a classic car.” He raised his hands from the wheel for a short round of applause. “Proved to yourself and everyone else you could run with the big dogs. Now it’s time to consider your future.”

  “Not quite with the big dogs yet. We restored one car, and I don’t care for your sarcasm.” Did he mean t
o exhort and deflate her in one single breath?

  Reggie ignored the knock-knock of guilt, of wanting to please, to acquiesce. But doing what others expected and asked of her was what got her into the CPA business in the first place. Daddy thought it would be a good career for her. He was right. For a season. But she’d learned her lesson. Now was her time. To do what she wanted.

  “A little sarcasm goes a long way in opening blind eyes,” Mark said.

  “Gee, it’s a wonder Jesus never used it as he went about doing good and healing. Look, Mark,”—she turned to him—“I’m not going back to Backlund & Backlund, even if restoring cars doesn’t work out. So get that out of your head. Or anyone else’s. I’d rather sling groceries at Publix.” She sat back and faced forward, her gaze fixed on how the headlights were cutting through the darkness, her comfort and sense of well-being evaporating.

  “Fine, forget accounting,” Mark said, his voice gearing up for Plan B. She’d known Mark for almost twenty years, and he always had a Plan A and a Plan B, C, D, and E.

  “But, Reg, for crying out loud, cars? Old cars at that? You’re too intelligent and talented, too gorgeous to be wearing coveralls all day and sticking your head in a smelly engine.” He slowed the car, leaning to see a blue rural street sign hidden behind a tree.

  “You’re good with people,” he went on. “They walk right up to you and tell you their stories. Remember that woman at my office Christmas party last year? She downloaded her whole life story to you in the buffet line. She still talks about you.” He shook his head and hit the gas, craning for the next street marker. “What about being a politician?”

  “Ha! Politics? I’d rather work for Backlund & Backlund, Criminal Public Accountants.”