by Rachel Hauck
He’d have to be careful. Keep an eye out.
A minute after 11:00 a.m., Stephen met Thomas in the garage. The man greeted him, folding up his newspaper and shoving down the last of a chocolate biscuit.
Slipping behind the wheel, Thomas detailed the security measures set for the event. “We’ve a green room set up for you and the team. I’ve two men at every door, and the hotel security will monitor the entrance and the lobby.”
From the passenger seat, Stephen listened. Then as Thomas backed out of the garage and merged into traffic, he said, “Do you think she told?”
“Who?” Thomas glanced sideways at him. “Corina?”
“Who else?” Stephen stared out his window, watching the hustle and bustle of Cathedral City whisk past.
“Who would she tell? Don’t see how it could be to her advantage after all these years.”
“Spite doesn’t always need advantage, Thomas.”
“Pardon me for saying so, but Corina doesn’t strike me as the vindictive type. Not her way. What makes you ask?”
“No reason.” Stephen sat back, stretching his leg, gently moving the kinks from his ankle. Blimey, the thing hurt today. “Robert was just asking if I needed help with anything from America. The way he said it piqued my curiosity.”
Besides Robert’s comment, remnants from his dream lingered, disturbing him in places he couldn’t reach with his thoughts.
If he had his way . . .
. . . he’d reverse his days, go back three months to the game against England and not take the sidestep that tore his ankle. He’d go back five and a half years and not hesitate that day in Torkham.
He’d go back even further and not recommend Asif as interpreter. And not recommend Carlos to his commander as a new member of his crew.
He’d go back six years and not propose to Corina.
All to save himself from what he wrestled with today. Sigh. This was not fruitful thinking. Come on, get your head in the game. Be on for the fans.
The car jerked and Thomas muttered, smashing the horn, ordering a slow-moving car to move out of his Royal Highness’s way. “Prince of Brighton on board.”
“Steady, mate,” Stephen said, exhaling, letting go of his thoughts. Of his regrets.
In another few minutes, Thomas turned down Market, whistling low. “Look at this.”
Thousands of fans lined the avenue, creating a giant, waving banner of blue and gold. Stephen’s heart warmed. This was what he lived for—the fans. He was their winger, and he was going to do everything he could to get back on the pitch.
Thomas maneuvered toward The Wellington’s circular drive, where bell caps swarmed, shoving the hordes out of the way.
“Stay put,” Thomas said as he got out, pushing the Audi’s door against the throng.
“I’ve faced Taliban bullets, Thomas. Surely I can manage a few maniac fans.” Stephen stepped out, rising to his full height, waving. This was his princely element. The fans roared, calling Stephen’s nickname, “Strat, Strat, Strat.” The noise was deafening under the covered drive.
“Didn’t they teach you to obey orders in the RAC?” Thomas shouldered alongside him. “This is a crowd. Have you forgotten the protocol?”
“It’s Fan Day. Give them what they want, eh?”
Besides, he couldn’t let fear sink in or he’d trust no one. He’d never leave the palace, always worried a rogue with a bomb lay in wait.
“But I’ll be the one who answers to the palace if something happens.” Thomas cut a path to The Wellington’s glass-and-concrete lobby, the shouts under the covering now a heavy, indiscernible sound.
The bell captain and hotel security darted from the expansive, sliding doors, pushing the crowd aside. “Stand back. Be orderly. You’ll get your chance to meet the team and the prince.”
The prince? The team would give him the dickens if he expected royal protocol.
“Welcome, Your Highness.” The hotel manager met Stephen just inside the door with a curt bow. “The green room is just this way.”
Suffocated by security, Stephen cut across the marble floor toward an unmarked door, the rise of the steel-and-windowed lobby peeking over him in a dome ceiling.
From his right, a beautiful redhead made a sultry, green-eyed approach.
“Your Highness,” she said as she curtsyed, “might I have your autograph?”
Stephen slowed, drawn in by her confidence and husky voice, but remembering he was not a free man. His heart sighed relief. He was pledged. For now anyway, and he liked the security.
Thomas blocked her next step. “Autographs are for the event only. Please wait in line.”
Stephen smiled, shrugging. Got to follow the rules.
“Then I’ll see you in the line.” She captured the pout forming on her lower lip and instead, gave him a rather saucy wink.
In the green room, Stephen greeted his teammates, joining in their banter, preparing to meet their fans, relishing in their recent win over Ulster and harassing the event coordinator as he tried to gain their attention. They were worse than schoolboys, and Stephen loved them.
“Please, pay attention. My name is Langley and I’m your host for the day. Now, the signing goes until six, no later.” Langley popped his hands together, looking as if he might say, “Children, children.”
“Gentleman, please focus. On me. If you don’t know what’s going on, I’m not going to tell you when you come round begging.”
“Listen up, lads,” Stephen said, tipping his head toward the coordinator. The team settled down. As much as he wanted to be just one of the boys, Stephen was ever aware of his royal status. He must be both man and prince.
“Thank you, Your Highness.” Langley was prim and neat, too skinny for any adult man, but Stephen liked him. He seemed efficient and passionate about his job. “The hotel lobby has stations with your names. The fans will make their way in single file, receive a souvenir, then pass by the stations for signatures. Do not speak with the media.” He jabbed the air with his finger. “They will sneak in and try to trick you, but we’ve no time for their games.”
“You do realize you’re talking to rugby men, right, mate?” This from tight head prop Earl Bruce, who never knew a rule or regulation he couldn’t break.
“I do, and you realize you’re to be goodwill ambassadors for not only the sport of rugby but Brighton Kingdom. Do not forget your prince is among you.”
The boys jeered, and Randall Cummings, an Eagle center, slapped Stephen on the back, sending him forward, causing him to stumble and catch his balance with his left, aching foot. A slice of pain gripped his ankle. “Careful Randall, or I’ll never be on the pitch again.”
Langley snapped his fingers. “Still talking, still talking . . . Do not pause for pictures, or selfies, as they say, lest we be here all day.” The man gave them his best stern expression, but it only made the men snicker more and whisper barbs to one another. “There are more than five thousand people waiting to see you.”
That shut them up. Stephen peered at his mates. Every jovial rugby face turned to stone. It was one thing to play before tens of thousands in the stadium. The boys were in their element. But it was quite another to greet so many face-to-face.
“It’s time.” Langley clapped his hands, trying to corral the men and usher them out of the green room. But they’d not listen.
Stephen pierced the din with a sharp whistle. “It’s time. Let’s go.”
The Wellington lobby was crammed and jammed. Literally swimming with kids from ages one to ninety-two—young rugby players, families, fans, and beautiful, stylish women who batted their eyes at the team.
At Stephen.
Thomas walked beside him, just off his right shoulder. “Security is tight. We’ve a plainclothes team watching the crowd inside and out. A metal detector is working at the entrance. Bags are searched.”
“Good,” Stephen said. “I wouldn’t be here if I thought anyone was at risk. But please, keep vigilant.”
&
nbsp; Heightened security and keeping war secrets was the only way Stephen could play professional rugby. His admittance to the team only came when the league agreed to a strict security protocol. Otherwise, traveling with the prince put the players and fans at risk.
He was grateful the last five and a half years had been without incident.
He found his name at the table. Blimey. His placard read Prince Stephen, not Stephen Stratton. Grabbing the Sharpie set out for signing, he scratched out Prince and wrote Winger.
And the crowd was let loose. For three hours he never looked up. Boys, girls, mums and dads, fans of all ages, shapes, and sizes offering congratulations for the spring 7 Nations Championship, wishing them well in the upcoming World Cup.
“When do you think you’ll be back on the pitch, Your Highness? Brighton needs their Number 14.” A tall man with broad shoulders offered Stephen a rugby ball for signature.
“Who’s to say?” He signed with a flourish. “We’re not answering questions right now.”
“Come on, I’m just a fan. All I want to know—”
“You’re a reporter. Rich Ackers from the Sports Guardian.”
The man reddened. “I told them you’d remember me.” He leaned over the table. From the corner of his eye, Stephen saw Thomas step up. “We’re your biggest fans at the Guardian. We’d love a scoop, sir.”
Stephen handed back his ball. “Have a nice day, Rick.”
“A month? Six weeks? Will you make it to the Premiership?”
But Stephen had already moved his attention to an intense-looking girl of eight or so. “Are you here to watch your brother play in the tournament tomorrow?”
“Me brother?” She stuck out her chin with an air of offense. “Number 6, I am. A good one too.”
“Are you now? A blindside flanker. My apologies.” Stephen smiled his sincerest, taking the poster she offered. “What’s your name?”
“Leslie, and I’m every bit as good as the boys.”
“Probably better.” Stephen signed the poster, then bent under the table for one of his caps. “Here you go. A special cap for a special girl.”
“For me?” Her blue eyes sparked.
“Never hold back. Play hard.” Stephen nodded at her dad. “You ever need anything from me, ring the King’s Office.”
He blanched and stuttered. “Y–you don’t say? T–thank you, sir. You’re very kind.”
“We need more players like Leslie.”
“She’s a tough one, that she is, Your Highness.”
Leslie gave Stephen a nod as if that was that and moved on, addressing Earl Bruce and his duties as a prop.
Langley bustled down the line, whispering to the team. “Quickly, move quickly. We’ve no time to linger.”
Stephen greeted the next fan. A teen boy. Then the next. A young lad. After him was the redhead, who seemed to have little affinity for rugby.
“So we meet again, Your Highness.” She giggled as she angled gracefully toward him, exposing the fleshly part of her womanly essence.
“So we do.” He signed her poster of the team and was about to shake her hand when he caught sight of a woman moving across the crowded lobby.
“Excuse me.” He stepped away from his station, ignoring the redhead’s scowl, and ducked under the velvet rope, squinting through the crowd. Corina? He’d know that dark sheen of hair anywhere. What was she doing here?
“Your Highness, Your Highness,” Poor Langley, calling after him, his thin voice barely slithering through the crowded lobby. “Your station, please. You must stay behind the rope. Pandemonium, pandemonium.”
But Stephen continued to squeeze through the crowd with rugby prowess, his intention fixed. He’d stop for no one if Corina was in the lobby. Did she fly all the way over to bring the signed annulment papers?
“Stephen.” Thomas’s hand clapped onto his shoulder. “Where are you going?”
“She’s here.” Stephen shoved around a large man, catching up to Corina at the registration desk. But just as he reached for her shoulder, she turned.
Stephen stopped, hand frozen in midair. It was not Corina. His strength weakened as his adrenaline ebbed, his disappointment was palatable.
The woman gasped and offered Stephen an awkward curtsy. “Your Highness . . .”
“W–welcome to The Wellington.” He gave her a weak smile then turned, excusing his way through the crowd toward the green room.
“You thought she was Corina?” Thomas said, walking beside him, whispering over Stephen’s shoulder.
“Leave me be, Thomas.” Stephen found the water bins and jerked a bottle from the ice, taking a cold, cleansing swig, soaking his parched throat.
“You’re still in love with her.” Thomas, much to Stephen’s discomfiture, did not leave him alone. He reached in the bin of ice for a Coke, peering at Stephen with a smirk.
“Don’t tell me how I feel, Thomas.” Stephen sat on the hard, pea-green couch, his ankle throbbing. He polished off his water and crushed the plastic bottle, tossing it into the rubbish against the wall. In love with her? No, ten times no.
“Let’s get back out there.” He didn’t want to let down the fans. As he stood, Stephen caught his reflection in the mirror on the wall and he knew.
Thomas was right. He was still in love with his wife.
TEN
Thursday morning Corina stepped out of the cab and into the shade of her childhood Marietta home. A one hundred and fifty-year-old white, two-story antebellum with floor-to-ceiling windows and a wraparound veranda that was purchased by her great-, great-, great-grandfather right after the Civil War. In 1867.
Just six months in America from the ancient royal city of Castile, Spain, Grandpa Carlos Del Rey I quickly made his mark in the newly changed South.
Since then, one Del Rey or another had inherited and lived in Casa Hermosa. Home Beautiful. So it had been as Corina grew up—full of life and joy, laughter.
The lovely estate she used to call home, run to for safety, for comfort and love, for acceptance, for laughter, was now a morose mausoleum.
She glanced toward the third-floor captain’s deck as the cab driver set her suitcases at her feet. She and Carlos used to climb out there on summer nights and wish upon the stars.
“That’ll be forty-two fifty.”
Corina glanced at the cab driver, emptying out the last of her reminiscing, and reached in her bag for her wallet. Without Carlos, would Casa Hermosa ever be beautiful again?
She paid the driver as the sticky Georgia humidity rode the low breeze that brushed her shorts against her skin. Then she found herself alone under the magnolias and live oaks, the Spanish moss waving in greeting.
No one knew she was coming. Her first time back since she went to work for Gigi. For some stubborn reason, she’d not telephoned to let Mama know she was coming.
Probably because she had so much on her mind. The reappearance of Prince Stephen sank deeper into her soul day after day.
During her preparations for the trip to Brighton, and on the one-hour flight from Melbourne to Atlanta, Corina tried to sort out her thoughts and feelings, separating truth from vain hopes, dreams from reality.
She told herself going to Brighton was her job. Gigi insisted she cover the premier, interview Clive. But she wondered if “love well” encouraged her to win back her husband.
Yet Stephen came to Melbourne looking for an annulment. Not reconciliation. Why would she even consider any other possibility? Especially after his cruel rejection during the darkest days of her life. Crazy, right?
But they were still married. Five and a half years after believing they were over.
Honestly, she was practically a ball of weepy confusion. Worse, there was no one to talk to about this mess because no one knew.
Corina nearly broke down and called Daisy, ready to confess the whole secret thing. Though, in the end, she couldn’t form the words. Her marriage, her relationship with Stephen felt private, personal, as if something for God’s hear
ing only.
He knew the truth. She could talk to him. He was more than willing to listen.
If God was behind this Brighton excursion, and if she’d correctly interpreted the grandfather clock chimes and the “love well” whisper, then she wanted to obey.
Or this all boiled down to the fact she was just a foolish girl, desperate to cling to something, anything, she’d once loved and lost.
“God,” she whispered now, in the shadow of home, “I trust you, but help me out here, please. Am I even close? Can I win Stephen back? Is that what you want?”
Nevertheless, at this point she was all in, willing to sacrifice her heart, her will, and her pride. Shoot, she wasn’t even above begging.
Love had a way of making a girl empty herself.
If Stephen refused her flat out, she’d sign the papers—with or without news on Carlos. The truth, while comforting, would not bring him back, and she felt desperate to deal with this open chapter of her life.
Corina’s memories spoke as she made her way to the veranda. Summer evenings of chasing fireflies, the scent of Daddy’s grill in the air. The hum of the ice-cream maker. The strum of Daddy’s guitar and the beauty of Mama’s sweet soprano. Sneaking out with Carlos for a midnight swim in the pool.
Stringing Christmas lights on the railing. Birthday parties and cutting cake. Saturday nights in the porch rocker, quietly talking, listening to the crickets and cicadas, making up lyrics for their music.
Laughing until her side hurt.
All of it ended when Carlos died. Corina understood that. She endured the same pain as her parents. What was her birthday without her twin, her best friend? What were holiday traditions with part of her heart missing?
Yet how could she survive without the laughter, love, and affection? Without new memories and new traditions. She tried for five years and nearly lost her soul.
However, she didn’t fly up here just to remember what had been. She came for the dress. The Luciana Diamatia. Perfect for a royal movie premier. For reminding Stephen of the love they shared.
She stooped to gather her luggage when a short horn blast caused her to glance around. Daisy Blackwell. She’d recognize that horn toot anywhere.
