by Rachel Hauck
At twenty-nine, she’d spent the last five years in grave clothes. Alive but not living.
“Well?”
“I’m going.”
“Doesn’t look like you’re going.”
Corina moved toward Gigi’s office with beauty-pageant stride. “You see me walking, don’t you?” Her heels thumped against the tight carpet weave.
“Yeah, I do.” The melody of Melissa’s laugh fueled Corina’s courage.
After all, she was a Del Rey, a daughter of great fortune, a steel magnolia, a former Miss Georgia, a summa cum laude college graduate, a writer . . . and twin sister.
She pressed her hand to her heart, slowing her steps and breathing deeply, remembering her brother. Carlos’s death in Afghanistan had cost more than she’d have ever imagined.
Arriving at Gigi’s door, Corina gathered her scattering thoughts—forget the past—and formulated her pitch. Gigi, I’ve been doing the job of editorial director . . . formally give me the position . . . value to the team.
Peering through the glass, Corina knocked, smiling when Gigi waved her in. The media mogul was still on her phone, pacing, speaking with voluminous animation.
“Fantastic, darling. Cannot wait. You’re going to love it here. Splendid family environment. Yes, we’re right on the Atlantic. And the Indian River. On the famous U.S. 1.” Gigi motioned for Corina to have a seat on the chocolate-colored suede sofa. “Sure he can learn to surf . . . Well, of course. We have our very own East Coast surfer’s hall of fame to boot . . . Exactly. Listen, I’ve someone in my office. See you next week.” Gigi ended the call, cradling her phone in her lap, and flashed her snow-white smile while cracking her ever-present Wrigley’s Spearmint between her teeth. “Gorgeous Corina Del Rey, to what do I owe this pleasure?” Gigi’s gleaming blond hair curled and floated about her face.
“I wanted to talk to you about—”
“I’ve been thinking.” Gigi jumped to her feet, tucking her phone into her skirt pocket, circling the room, snapping her fingers. The riverscape behind her, beyond the windows and through the trees, was lit with the sun, threading diamonds of light into the water’s calm surface. “We need a spectacular celebrity piece. You know, something to juice up our front pages.” The Post started as a series of blogs Gigi chained together, written by Washington insiders, Hollywood experts, gossip columnists, and the occasional royal watcher. She had boots on the ground in New York, L.A., Dallas, Miami, Atlanta, Toronto, London, Madrid, Cathedral City . . . to the ends of the earth.
“We have the Hollywood violence piece Chip Allen wrote.”
“Snore bore, Corina. No one cares about the violence in movies, and if they do, they already agree with Allen. I told him I’m not sure we’re going to run that piece.” For an “international” newspaper, Gigi was hands-on, involved. She considered the world her backyard and believed sharing news was as simple as talking to her neighbors over the backyard fence. Even if that neighbor was thousands of miles away. “We need something wow.” Gigi swirled her hands through the air with animation.
“Why do we need something wow?”
Gigi stopped treading between the windows and the sitting area, her gaze steady on Corina. “You know why I hired you?”
“Because I’m a good writer. Professional, organized. I’m a hard worker.” But in truth? She had no idea why Gigi hired her. Because the last five years of Corina’s resume contained a big fat blank. What had she done? Become a professional griever, a professional liaison between her parents. Traveling with Daddy when he asked. Otherwise, living at home, in the shadows of what the family used to be.
But yes, she was a good writer and hard worker. Which Gigi knew.
Being an heiress meant nothing to Corina’s wealthy but hardworking father who made sure she and Carlos never counted on the family name and fortune to make their way in life. Her high school friends curled their lips in disgust when Corina had to tend to household chores and work a summer job to earn money for her own car. “But your dad’s a millionaire a hundred times over.”
Tell that to Donald Del Rey.
“Good at what you do?” Gigi’s furrowed expression as she sat back down on the sofa inspired doubt in Corina. “Well, of course you are. And by the way, splendid of you to step up after Carly left. The bull pen loves you. Who knew you were so good with details?”
“Me.”
“But of course.”
“That’s why I think you should just give me—”
“Corina, I hired you to spice things up.”
“Excuse me?”
“Girl, you used to pal around with Paris Hilton, and I bet if I snagged your iPhone, you’d have a Kardashian or two in your contacts.”
“Hello, do you not remember my life for the past five years?”
“Yes, I realize . . . all the grief.” Gigi pressed her hand on Corina’s knee. “I am so sorry about Carlos. He was an amazing young man. Too handsome for his own good and twice as kind.” The fiftysomething drew air between her teeth. “He reminds me of my third . . . no fourth . . . yes, fourth husband. Desi.” She closed her eyes and drifted away. “Should’ve never divorced him.”
“We can put that on the front page,” Corina said.
Gigi snapped from her daydream. “Very funny, you clever girl. No, what we need is an exclusive.”
“What sort of exclusive?”
“Something no one else is reporting. Contact your celebrity friends, get some sort of inside scoop. Be inventive. Maybe you could sit down with Bill Clinton’s daughter. Or one of the Bush twins.”
“Gigi,” Corina said, standing. “If you want to run a salacious story on a former president’s daughter, you’re going to have to find someone else to do it. I came in here to ask you for the editorial director job. When you want to talk serious, let me know.” She started for the door. Celebrity chums, presidents’ daughters, high school friends? She’d spoken to practically none of them since Carlos’s funeral.
But she didn’t blame them. Everything changed the day he died. Then with such finality the afternoon she helped her daddy shovel the first mounds of dirt over her brother’s coffin, Mama weeping and collapsing into the reverend’s arms. And the loving, close-knit Del Rey family fell apart. She’d lost her brother, a constant in every tender childhood memory. Then she “lost” her parents, the Del Rey traditions, the closeness, and laughter.
“Editorial director?” She laughed. “Darling, back to my original question. Why I hired you. To go after the rich and famous, the salacious celeb gossip. To travel the world, to spice up our readers’ drab little lives with a look at how the one percent lives. Come on, surely you’ve some lead on a hot story.”
“No, and if I did, I’d not betray my friends by giving the story to you.”
“Tsk, tsk.” Gigi shook her head. “Did you not learn anything from me when you worked with me before?”
“Yes, which is why I’m asking for the director job.” She’d lost so much time when she’d holed up at home, trying to comfort herself, her parents over Carlos’s death, all the while waiting for her life to begin again. Now that she was free, she wanted to get things moving.
Though Daddy worried a bit about her being out on her own. Something he’d never done in the past. Corina suspected it had to do with losing his son.
“An heiress without any security? Let me hire someone for you, Corina.”
But she refused, just wanting to be. To find her bearings and destiny. She still felt poor and weak, broken—the furthest thing from an heiress.
In the end, though, she yielded to Daddy’s request to buy an apartment in a secure building, finding a lovely spot on the river with hefty security.
“I filled the position today.” Gigi sat back, arm propped on the back of the sofa. “Just got off the phone with Mark Johnson.”
“Mark Johnson?” Corina paused her exit and stepped back into the room. “The Mark Johnson who worked with me after college? The man the rest of us pulled out of the fi
re daily because he partied every night and missed most of his assignments? That Mark Johnson?”
“Yes, that Mark Johnson.” Gigi’s laugh mocked Corina’s concern. “He might not have been a stellar employee when he was younger—”
“He’s so much older now? It’s been what, seven years?”
“Certainly he’s older and more accomplished, married with a child. He’s built an impressive résumé.”
Corina heard the subtle innuendo. You did not. No, because she was pasting her life together and holding on to her crumbling family.
“He’s worked in London, New York, L.A., and is currently the managing editor for Martin Looper Media.” Gigi raised her brows. “Our competition.”
“Gigi, you called me. You asked me to come work for you. So let me. I can do the job. I’ve been on the weekly calls with New York and London. I’ve Skyped, Facetimed, and Google Plused with our bloggers, stringers, and photographers. I know the bull pen.”
“Do you want to know the real reason I called?”
It had been rather out of the blue. Corina thought perhaps God was answering her pleas to “do something.” How could she love and support her parents yet move on with her life? She felt like she was drowning, dying her own special death in the shadow of her brother’s. And Carlos would’ve never wanted it.
“Because your mama said you were driving her crazy.”
“Excuse me? I was driving her crazy?”
“Said you never left the house.”
“Me?” Mama! Frustrating, incorrigible Mama. Corina scrunched her hands into tight fists, digging into her palms with her fingernails. “She was the one who never left the house.”
“Well, you’re here. I thought it was a good idea when she proposed it. You’re moving on. I’m glad for it. But editorial director? Shug, please.” Gigi stood and crossed over to her desk, her attention to the conversation waning. “I want you to find you the big story.” She tossed Corina a saucy smile. “The biggest story of your life.”
“Yeah?” Corina held open the office door. “And what would that be?”
Back at her desk, Corina sat with a sigh, shaking her head at Melissa, who frowned and stuck her tongue out at Gigi’s door.
Story of her life? Corina had a story all right. Of her own life. An amazing story, one she’d never told anyone. It was her secret.
And his.
On days when the fog still clouded her heart and thoughts, she imagined it might have all been a dream. Then she’d hear a bell or the ping of the elevator doors and know it was real.
But it was a story she could never tell. Ever. Because it was an incredible secret. Though why she showed him any loyalty was beyond her.
With a sigh, Corina sat forward, facing Chip Allen’s dry Hollywood piece.
Why did she keep their secret? One small thought ricocheted in reply. Because in some small way, maybe she still loved him.
TWO
Brighton Kingdom—Cathedral City
THE LIBERTY PRESS
4 June
PRINCE STEPHEN NAMED THE WORLD’S MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELOR
THE INFORMANT
5 June
KING’S OFFICE CLAIMS PRINCE STEPHEN NOT LOOKING FOR LOVE, HAPPY WITH RUGBY LIFE
6 June
PRINCE STEPHEN, PATRON OF YOUTH RUGBY, TO OPEN SUMMER TOURNAMENT
Stephen snapped off the telly, grumbling and muttering to himself about the antics on Madeline & Hyacinth Live! Who did they think they were, trying to find him a bride?
To think, he used to consider them friends. But today they went too far, jumping in on the media speculation about his love life. What spurred this? He’d not been out with a woman in ages. And his blasted ankle injury had remanded him from the rugby field and the public eye for the past three months.
What gives?
Nevertheless, at this very moment, men and women around Brighton Kingdom were watching their show and tweeting to the hashtag #howtocatchaprince. Thank you, Maddie and Hy.
He should tweet his own answer. If he had a Twitter account. Leave him alone #howtocatchaprince.
Hobbling from his media room toward the kitchen, his belly rumbling for tea and puffs, he paused at the hallway window and gazed through the swaths of shadow and light into the palace gardens.
So lovely and green. Made him miss the pitch. But he was stuck inside, healing, his high ankle sprain fortified with a walking boot. He sustained the injury during the spring 7 Nations matches, just as his career crested into a new high. The Rugby Union had listed him as the top winger in the league.
He, a royal prince, accomplished such an acclaim all on his own.
Yet the injury lingered, not healing as quickly as Stephen would have liked. Day by day, he sensed his achievements slipping away while the younger, more hardy lads gunned for his position. Number 14.
In the kitchen, the tea service and a plate of cinnamon puffs were already set for him. Good man, Robert, his valet, butler, and aide.
Sitting at the island counter, set with linen, china, and silver—a royal etiquette Robert refused to abandon—Stephen poured a steaming cup of tea and took a long, hardy sip, then dipped in the tip of a puff.
The light, sweet pastry melted on his tongue. Pure delight.
Staring across the steel-and-granite kitchen—a remodel overseen by his mum while he played in the World Cup a few years back—Stephen sorted through his emotions.
What bugged him really? The headlines about his love life? Maddie and Hy and the whole of the Twitter universe advising him? Perhaps it was his lack of a love life that bothered him.
In truth, Maddie and Hy didn’t bother him much. The hashtag was kind of clever. The girls were good chums, really, and simply doing their job. Entertaining Brightonians each weekday afternoon.
No, no, what truly bothered him were the nightmares. The flooding memories. The times and events he’d run a thousand miles up and down the rugby pitch striving to forget.
Put it all behind me.
But the arrogant things demanded his attention now that his mind and body were not consumed with the game.
Surely he’d be back in command by summer’s end. Since his surgery in the spring, he’d been faithful with physiotherapy. He’d be in tip-top shape, ready to play in the fall Premiership.
Stephen picked up another puff, and another one of his distant memories drifted to the front. Why did puffs make him think of her?
But he knew. They’d eaten puffs together, that night, at Franklin’s Bakery. And it was forever lodged in his psyche.
Robert entered, a set of tea towels in hand. “Sir, there you are. How was your therapy?”
“Fine. Did you see the headlines again today?”
“Ghastly business, speculating on your love life.”
“They didn’t ring round here, inquiring, did they?”
Robert made a face, folding the towels neatly into a drawer above the cabinets. “They’d be foolhardy if they did. Wasting their time.”
“As I thought. I can’t imagine what sparked this sudden interest.”
“Perhaps a slow news week.” Robert smiled and Stephen laughed.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“As it was intended.” Robert bustled about the kitchen, preparing for supper. “I trust you’ll be on the pitch for the summer internationals? After all, the Brighton Eagles need their star winger.” The older gentleman, with a thick coif of pale red hair, was lean and fit, an ardent rugby enthusiast. “The whole city is electric with excitement over the upcoming tournament.”
When Stephen took Robert on in the spring, his love for the game was the one quality that set him above the rest of the royal household staff. That and the fact he was the son of a valet who was the son of a valet. His father had also served in the palace.
“No summer internationals for me,” Stephen said. Thanks to his blasted, stupid injury. He should’ve taken more care with his weak left side. With these international games, he’d have earn
ed another cap. So far, he’d collected twenty-eight in all, on his way to a goal of fifty. “The ankle is not ready.”
’Tis a shame, sir, what with the new stadium and all. They say we’re poised for a good show opening weekend.”
“I’ll be cheering from the bench.”
“I’m sure the lads will love the support of their prince and team leader.”
Stephen shifted in his seat, gently stretching his left ankle, silently dealing with the pain. Why wasn’t it getting better? The throbbing seemed to be a constant. Even more bewildering to him was how the pain leaked upward toward his chest and drilled into his heart.
Ever since he returned from his tour in Afghanistan and demobbed from the Royal Air Command, he’d been on the pitch, consumed with the present, fashioning his future, grateful for every training session, every test that excised his dark demons, the painful past, and his doubts about a kind, loving God.
Okay, so it was only June. He’d miss the summer games, but Dr. Gaylord predicted another month in the walking boot along with physiotherapy and Stephen would be ready to train at 100 percent again.
As he stuffed his sixth puff into his mouth and washed it down with tea, door chimes pealed through his palace apartment.
Robert wiped his hands on a towel. “Are you expecting someone, sir?”
“Perhaps it’s someone who’s figured out how to catch a prince?”
Robert’s small white smile sparked in his eyes. “Shall I let them in?”
“Please, I’d like to know the answer myself.”
Stephen poured another cup of tea. Just how did one catch a prince? An American, Susanna, had captured his brother, the king, with a single glance.
As for him? He’d been caught. Once. And he was certain he’d never want to be caught again, despite all of Mum’s not-so-subtle hints about grandchildren to both of her sons.
“Sir, your brother is here to see you.”
Stephen glanced around to see Nathaniel enter, a large white envelope under his arm. “Come join me, Nathaniel, for puffs and tea. Your favorites.” Stephen reached over, shoving the second stool away from the island, intending for his brother to sit.
