The Royal Wedding Collection

by Rachel Hauck

  “Livy Rothschild was auctioning items for charity at Christie’s and she wondered if I had any items to sell.”

  “Livy Rothschild? She just suddenly called up and said, ‘Hello, Horatia, got stuff to sell? How about that Diamatia?’ ”

  “Don’t be smart. She called to see how I fared. She’s been one of my true friends through this ordeal.”

  Corina fisted her hands, pressing them over her eyes. Livy was a fair-weather friend like the rest of them. Grief made her uncomfortable and she avoided it like a ten-dollar skirt from Walmart. Corina could remember only a handful of short calls from the aristocratic Bostonian after the funeral.

  “What about me, Mama? Huh? I stayed here with you. Gave up my career, my social life. Most of my friends are married, starting families. But I stayed with you and Daddy.” Corina demanded an answer with her posture and tone. “So why would you even think to give away my dress?”

  “Do not badger me. It’s done.”

  Corina stepped back. “Has it sold? ’Cause I’ll get it from Livy.”

  “Yes, it sold. The money went to help foster girls who were too old to stay in the system but had no place to go.”

  “Mama, that’s fantastic, but why not just write them a check?” The black hole in her middle widened, and Corina struggled not to fall in. “Don’t sell my stuff.” It was as if little by little, Mama was removing all signs of Corina. “We were going to give that dress to my daughter for her debut, remember? And if I didn’t have a daughter, we’d give it to Carlos’s. Then one day, she’d hand it down to her daughter.”

  “Carlos is not going to have a daughter now, is he? Nor a son.” Mama faced Corina, arms folded, back straight. “And are you planning on marrying anytime soon?”

  Steam. Could Mama see the steam rising from Corina?

  “I thought not,” Mama said. “So I gave up the gown. It was the right thing to do.”

  “Mama.” Corina took her mother by the arms, her legs trembling, her heart exploding. “I. Am. Not. Dead. Carlos is gone and it hurts every day. But I’m still here. I will get married, I’ll give you and Daddy grandbabies to spoil. We’ll make new memories and—”

  “I don’t want new memories.” Mama softened, and the tears flowed. “I want the old ones. The ones where my son was alive.” She waved off any response, turning away. “Just get what you want from your things. There are other gowns.” Mama turned to Ida Mae, her brown eyes soaked with tears. “Can you get Corina’s passport from the safe? And show her where you put her gowns.”

  “Come on with me, baby.” Sympathy laced Ida Mae’s soft, low tone.

  Corina could do nothing but obey. In silence. At the top of the stairs, Ida Mae paused. “She thinks I put your gowns in the garnet room. But I left them in your old closet. Didn’t feel it was right to move them.”

  Corina kissed the old maid’s cheek. “Thank you.” At her bedroom door she asked, “Doesn’t she even come in here?”

  “She does.”

  “In a house of eighteen rooms, she makes over mine?”

  “Go on in. You’ll understand.”

  Turning the knob, Corina stepped into the room where she’d slept since she was two. Where she’d giggled with her girlfriends and dreamed her dreams. Where Tommy Barnes serenaded her the night before senior prom.

  Gone were the shades of pink and purple. The walls were a burnt orange, and a thick brown carpet covered the ancient hardwood. Pillows populated the corners and wooden chairs replaced her furniture. Indoor palms and ficus gave the room a garden feel, and soft string music drifted from ceiling-mounted speakers.

  Pictures of Carlos were tastefully dispersed about the room, and then Corina understood. “She doesn’t want him forgotten.”

  “It’s her biggest fear.”

  “His room is the same?”

  “As the day he left.” Ida Mae dusted her hand over a small wall table. “You live on, Corina. But Carlos will forever be a young, handsome, twenty-five-year-old with nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

  Corina crossed the hall and entered his room. It was untouched. Pristine. The curtains were drawn against the sunlight, but Corina could clearly see her brother’s awards, trophies, posters, and pictures. All in the same places they’d been when he left for college, when he left for basic training, when he left this life.

  “No one goes in except the cleaning lady once a week,” Ida Mae said as she came in behind her.

  Corina sank with sadness into the nearest chair. “Ida Mae, is it ever going to get better?”

  “I don’t know, darling, I don’t know.” Ida Mae’s hands smoothed across Corina’s shoulders. “Grief is a . . . well, not our friend.”

  “That doesn’t give her the right to treat me as if I’m dead too.”

  “She loves you, Corina.”

  “She sure has a funny way of showing it.” She glanced up at Ida Mae, who carried tears in her eyes. “This can’t be an easy season for you either.”

  “Come now.” Ida Mae wiped her eyes. “Let’s find you a fancy gown for this here premier. Then I’ll make us something scrumptious for dinner.”

  Corina took a final survey of Carlos’s room. If she inhaled deep, she could catch a whiff of his hair gel. She smiled.

  “Carlos, you use too much of that stuff.”

  “Shut up. It’s my hair.”

  “I can tell you now, no girl is ever going to want to touch it. Here, let me help you.”

  “Fine, but don’t say a word about this.”

  “It’s our secret.”

  “I never thought this would happen to us, Ida Mae. We were going to have Sunday dinners once a month, spend our summers in Vermont, New Year’s in Hawaii, creating a whole passel of new traditions with our families.”

  “Don’t give up, shug. Like you said, you ain’t dead yet.”

  Back in Corina’s room, Ida Mae helped her choose a Versace, then carry her things downstairs. Then she paused in the safe room for Corina’s passport.

  “Ida, can you drive me back to the airport?”

  “You know I can shug. I hate that you came all the way here for that gown . . . I should’ve told you . . . I knew I should’ve told you.”

  “It’s okay. I wanted to see you and Mama anyway.” And Daddy if he’d ever show his face.

  Corina returned to the library as Ida Mae went for her purse and keys, ready to leave anytime Corina wanted. “Mama, Ida’s going to drive me back down to Atlanta. My flight leaves this evening.”

  “Have a nice trip, Corina.”

  “The quiet room is lovely. Peaceful.”

  “Do you think he would’ve liked it?”

  “Yes, I think he would.” Corina inched toward her mother, bending to give her forehead a quick kiss. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

  “Never you mind.” Mama lifted her face, her smile fixed, her eyes empty. “It’s forgotten.”

  Corina knelt on the floor next to her, leaning against the chair, and for a few minutes, rested there, watching the midmorning sun move over the lake.

  ELEVEN

  You must be joking.” Corina leaned over the VIP reservation desk, iPhone in hand, her hotel reservation displayed on the screen. “Here’s my name, the date, and confirmation number. Corina Del Rey. Look again.”

  After an eight-hour flight from Atlanta to Cathedral City, she wanted nothing more than a hot, soaking bath, scrumptious room service, and a nap. Not a cheeky hotel clerk who claimed she had no reservation.

  The clerk shook his head. “D-e-l-R-e-y?”

  “Yes.”

  “Again, I apologize, but I do not see your name or reservation number.”

  “How about under Beaumont Media? I listed them as my company name.”

  The clerk brightened, his fingers moving quickly over the keyboard. But his hope faded. “No Beaumont Media.”

  “But I have a confirmation number.” She waved her phone under his nose.

  “I see that, but if I don’t have it in the syste
m I can’t let you have a room.”

  “Are you saying there are no rooms available? At all?” Corina loved this hotel. Walking across the white marble-and-stone lobby floor was like a stroll across a snowy street in heaven. The suites were luxurious. The food, divine.

  The clerk winced. “I’m sorry, Miss Del Rey, but we’re all booked. It’s tourism season what with the art festivals, the summer internationals, the youth rugby tournament, and of course, the premier of King Stephen I. In fact, I’m surprised you were even able to make a reservation on such short notice.”

  “Apparently I did not make a reservation.” Corina collected her wallet and phone, tucking them into her handbag.

  “June is very busy in Cathedral City.”

  “Yes, I know . . .” She leaned over the desk and lowered her voice. “My father is Donald Del Rey.” Never before in her life had she used her daddy’s name. It wasn’t how the Del Rey’s rolled. But desperation drove her over her boundary lines. “Are you sure you don’t have any rooms?”

  “Oh, I see.” The clerk leaned closer still, whispering. “Is he on The Wellington board?”

  “No.” She grimaced. So, The Wellington had forgotten the Del Reys. In five and a half short years. Corina looked to where a bell cap waited with her things, the morning light cascading through the glass ceiling and pooling at his feet. “Can you tell me where I might find a room?”

  “We’ve a computer in the guest center, Miss Del Rey, and a phone book. But most hotels, if not all, will be booked.”

  “Let’s hope somewhere in this big ole city there’s a cancellation.”

  “I’m sure there is, but”—he leaned toward her—“not at an establishment up to your standards.”

  “Right now, any room with a bath and bed sounds perfect.”

  “Then I’m sure you’ll find something. After all, your father is Donald Del Rey.”

  Oh fine, now he mocked her. Whatever happened to customer service? Across the lobby, Corina met the bell cap and tipped him generously. Can you carry my things outside?”

  “Certainly, ma’am.”

  The bell cap collected her suitcases and rolled them through the giant sliding doors, depositing them and Corina next to the bustling guest driveway, where two vans loaded with young rugby players had just arrived.

  She watched them for a moment, envying their freedom and exuberance, their passion. She needed her passion back. Her exuberance for life.

  Daisy’s dream drifted across her thoughts from time to time, pieces of it starting to become Corina’s own. The part where she was happy.

  As for Prince Stephen? She wasn’t strong enough to hope on him yet.

  “May I help you, miss?” The bell captain approached, his starched white shirt already sweat stained.

  “Yes, a taxi please.” She’d cruise around the city until she found a decent hotel. She’d start with the Royal Astor and go from there.

  “It will be a moment. We’re quite busy.”

  Another van rounded into the hotel drive and deposited more rugby players. Corina watched as they hoisted their gear to their shoulders, laughing, full of camaraderie.

  The air around them, in the city, was electric. Summer in Cathedral City. There wasn’t anything like it.

  Corina inhaled the scents and sounds. She should’ve done this a long time ago. But she allowed herself to be locked away. Allowed herself to feel rejected, scared, and frail.

  Across the city, cathedral bells chimed the hour. Nine o’clock. Corina closed her eyes, listening to the clarion tones, grateful there was no one to stop it.

  Three . . . four . . . five . . .

  The gothic and Romanesque cathedrals with their heavenward bell towers were enchanting. The pride of the city. Of Brighton.

  Seven cathedrals, built over a period of four hundred years, were a monument to the nation’s Christian history. To faith in Christ. To prayer. For over two hundred years, the bells rang out at 6:00 a.m. and 6:00 p.m. in an orchestrated, syncopated, glorious sound. Corina never tired of hearing them.

  The tradition began when one of the ancient archbishops wanted to remind the people of morning and evening prayers the year Brighton sided with the newly formed United States against the British during the War of 1812.

  Tourists came from all over the world to experience the choreographed melody of the cathedral bells.

  Meanwhile, Corina waited for a taxi. She checked with the bell captain, but he was busy with a limousine full of guests.

  “I’ve not forgotten you, miss.”

  Corina tipped her head to the pale patch of blue peeking down between the buildings and listened to the last chime. The last beckoning to prayer.

  Lord, thank you for getting me here. Thank you for a place to sleep.

  She laughed, breaking the cobwebs from her tired soul. Just. Need. A. Bed. And. Bath.

  Still waiting for her taxi, Corina dug her phone from her handbag and texted Gigi that she’d arrived safe and sound. Then she found the number of her friend Sharlene in her Contacts, wishing she’d arranged ahead of time to see her. When Sharlene’s voice mail came on saying she was on holiday and would respond when she wasn’t napping or on the beach, Corina hung up.

  Between helping Mark step into his director role, and preparing for the premier and the interview with Clive, Corina had not organized the personal side of her trip very well. What friends did she want to see? If any at all? What memory lanes to stroll down? Most important, when and how did she contact Stephen? What would she say to him when she did?

  Hey, dude, I came to love well. Whatever that means. You game?

  She was about to check on her taxi when a woman approached, wearing a white overcoat with a fur collar and wool cap. In June? Corina stared a moment beyond polite.

  “You’re looking for a room,” she said, making a statement, not asking a question.

  Corina monitored the woman’s movements. “And you are?”

  “A friend.” Her voice was thick and powerful, yet smooth and easy.

  “My friend? Have we met before?” She didn’t look or feel familiar.

  “In a manner of speaking.” She offered Corina a simple, cream-colored card. “There’s a place for you right down the avenue. One block south.”

  “Excuse me? A place for me?” Corina hesitated but then took the card and read the simple lettering. “The Manor.”

  “Go to the corner of Market Avenue.” The woman pointed toward the south curb. “Cross at the light and go down one block on Crescent. You can’t miss it. A quaint little place in the shade of Gliden and Martings.”

  “Gliden and Martings? The department stores?” Corina checked to see if a bell cap was within shouting distance. “Look, I’m tired and not interested in whatever you’re doing.” Really? A huckster in the shadows of the great and grand Wellington?

  “The Manor has a room for you. Please, go. With faith.”

  With faith. Corina’s sense of eerie was balanced by a flood of peace.

  Stepping back, the woman tipped her head toward the corner. “The traffic is stopped. You’re clear to go.”

  With a gaze toward the avenue, then the hotel bell station, Corina sensed a sort of celestial pause, as if the world was waiting for her to move. The traffic in both directions was stopped at the light, mounting up, idling.

  “Don’t be afraid.”

  Corina stuck out the cream-colored card, willing the woman to take it back. “I–I don’t think this is for me.”

  “You’re in very safe hands. Remember why you came.” She nodded toward the street, her hands buried in the deep, creamy pockets of her coat. She was ethereal, exuding a rapturous peace. “Best go or the opportunity will be lost. Lean into your faith. It’s brought you this far.”

  “O–okay.” Corina collected her luggage. While she had no intention of staying at the Manor, she was confident she wanted away from this woman in white wool and fur. In June!

  Rolling luggage behind her, she crossed at the interse
ction, the woman watching. She’d go a block, then hail a cab and find a hotel. Never mind the weirdness of the world being in slow mo, even stopping for her while she made her way to the other side.

  What was happening?

  The city must be working on the lights. Yes, that must be it. Otherwise, traffic would not stop in all directions on a Friday morning.

  Yet the moment Corina cleared the lane and stepped onto the sidewalk, the west-bound traffic light turned green. Cars zipped past. Pedestrians skipped along, their heels cracking against the concrete. The bell captain’s whistle pierced the air.

  And the woman in white? Gone. No sign of her on Market or Crescent. The swirl, like the one from last Sunday, a touch of the divine, coated Corina.

  She paused, listening. Waiting and watching. But she was too weary to contemplate any further. Chalk the last few minutes up to jet lag. Or the way of summer in Brighton.

  Of course, that was the answer. Weariness. And a bit of the wonder of this fine isle.

  Adjusting her grip on her luggage, Corina made her way toward what should be the Manor, fully prepared to drop everything and run. If anything, anyone, jumped out at her, she’d be nothing but heels and elbows.

  A few more tentative steps passed the end of Gliden and into the light of a Martings display window. See, there was nothing between those two . . .

  Then she saw it. A small building nestled in the morning shadow of the retail giants. A rough and crudely carved sign hung above the door.

  The Manor.

  Corina stepped back to survey the establishment from the curb. But there wasn’t much to see. Just the front of the inn, which was nothing more than a door and a large, single-paned window filled with a soft yellow light.

  Adjusting her tired grip on her suitcases, Corina moved forward and tried the door, snatching back her hand when it yielded with a squeak. She pressed on inside, dragging her suitcases over the threshold. “Hello?”

  The small lobby consisted of a sitting area, a stone fireplace, and a vacant reception desk. The wide board floor matched the dry wood of the fireplace mantel—dark and worn, without any gloss or sheen.