by Rachel Hauck
“I remember you looked beautiful and, might I add, sexy.” His teasing laugh followed. She popped him lightly on the arm.
“Exactly. Thank you, and it was made for me. There’s none like it in the world. I went home for it before coming here.” She slowed her confession, thinking. “Mama donated it and it was sold at a charity auction. I’d only been gone from the house a few months.”
“Brutal. Did she give you a reason?”
“She made up something about me not needing it, but Stephen, it’s like Carlos died and she tried to bury me with him. She turned my bedroom into a quiet room. Mine. I’m the one still coming home. Not to mention the house has thirty rooms. But she turns mine into an indoor garden shrine to Carlos.”
“Much like my memorial?”
She regarded him for a second. “You two would get along then.”
“Though I agree she should not have taken over your room.”
“My room was across from Carlos’s, and we had this adjoining second-floor veranda that wrapped around our rooms. The windows opened right onto the porch, so we used to climb out at night with sleeping bags when we were supposed to be in bed and stare at the stars, dreaming. He wanted to help people as young as ten. In high school, he was always rescuing people, coming to the aid of the defenseless.”
Stephen swallowed, his skin hot with her confession. He powered down his window for a gulp of fresh air. He was the defenseless Carlos died for when he should have been the defender. He should’ve charged Asif and taken him down.
“You’re quiet. What’s wrong?”
“Thinking.”
“Of that day?”
“Of what a sacrifice you and your family paid.”
“Maybe now that the truth is out, at least with me, and you’re making good with Agnes, you can move on.”
“That’s what the rugby pitch is for, love.”
“What happens when your game ends? When you can no longer play?”
“I cannot imagine. I cannot.”
The conversation went to gentler things, safe things—the art auction, philosophy, and puppies. She loved all things furry.
The shadows above the highway were long and lean by the time Stephen turned down a tree-lined Dunwudy lane with seventeenth-century cottages on postage-stamp-sized lawns.
From the passenger seat, Corina counted the house numbers. “Five, six, seven . . . ten. There . . .” She tapped her window when the car cruised past a brightly painted cottage with a golden thatched roof.
Stephen slowed and eased down the narrow driveway. The reality of what he was about to do pricked at his nerves. When he called Agnes to say he was coming, she sounded dubious.
“The Prince of Brighton is coming here?”
Cutting the engine, he rattled the keys against his palm, staring at the house nestled between giant royal sycamores.
“It’s going to be fine,” Corina said.
“I guess so.”
Out of the car with Corina by his side, Stephen made his way up the walk, carrying the weight of his delayed promise.
At the front stoop, he rang the bell. The door eased open and a boy, about five years old, naked from the waist up, glared up at them with big green eyes. “Mum, it’s a man and a lady.” His shorts were dirt stained, and his muddy socks were sinking into his shoes. A shock of his blond hair curled away from his freckled forehead in a classic cowlick. Stephen liked him instantly.
“Baby Bird, step back.” A woman came from down a narrow, dark corridor. Baby Bird? Bird had a son?
“Your Highness, please come in. I can hardly believe it. The Prince of Brighton in me own home.” Agnes pulled the boy aside, smoothing her hand over his hair, making way for Stephen and Corina to enter, offering a weak curtsy. “Sorry about the boy. He just came from his gram’s, playing in the mud by the looks of him.” Agnes waved her hand at her son, shooing him down the hall.
“Not to worry. We’re sorry to barge in. I appreciate you letting me come.” Stephen ducked under the small doorway, thinking he should be bowing to her. Honoring her sacrifice. “This is Corina Del Rey.”
“Of course. I see’d you in the papers. Loverly to meet you.”
Corina extended her hand. “It’s my honor.”
Agnes and Baby Bird’s home was small and warm, clean and tidy, fragrant with tomato sauce. But the afternoon air floating through the opened kitchen window was no match for the heat.
“Sorry about the heat. We’ve no central air in these old homes.” Agnes turned a floor fan toward the sofa, motioning for Stephen and Corina to sit. Her voice quavered as she hugged Baby Bird to her, sitting in an adjacent chair, her eyes glistening. “I can’t believe you’re here. Bird used to write me all the time about you. Stephen this, Stephen that.” Her laugh refreshed the room. “ ‘Hardly believe he’s a prince,’ he’d say. But Bird always said if something happened to him, you’d come.” She leveled a pure, tender gaze at him. “I was a-wondering if he’d just made it up.”
Stephen brushed his hands down his jeans, nervous, captured again in the reality of pain his life caused. “I’m sorry, Agnes. I just couldn’t—” His confession exposed his weakness. His shame. “Losing Bird and the others hit me hard. I couldn’t make sense of it all.”
“You being the only one to live, I get it, sir. Survivor’s guilt.” She pointed to a stack of books in the corner. “I read all about it. It helped me, you know, to understand why he died and how I was to go on. We was going to get married before he deployed, but we couldn’t afford the license, so we waited, planning to use his hazard pay.” She laughed again, popping her leg. “Imagine, using hazard pay for a marriage license. Ain’t that some kind of irony?”
Then she fell silent and Baby Bird reappeared with clean clothes but mud still covering a good portion of his body. He buried his face against his mum, peeking at Stephen under his golden bangs.
“Agnes, I should’ve come sooner. Especially because I am a prince. Please . . . forgive me. I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to forgive, Your Highness. ’Twas a dark time for us all.” She twisted her fingers together. “You are a prince, after all. With duties to tend. And a star winger. Baby Bird here loves rugby. Oh, where are me manners? I’ve tea and biscuits.” She shoved the boy aside, heading for the kitchen.
But she stopped cold as a sob rolled through her.
“Agnes.” Stephen rose and gently held her shoulders. She turned and fell into his chest. With a glance at Corina, whose eyes brimmed, Stephen cradled Agnes, letting her weep.
This disturbed Baby Bird, and he tugged on his mum’s skirt, wanting to know why she was crying. Corina slipped from the couch.
“Your mama is just happy to see the prince. I hear you like rugby. Do you have a ball?”
He curled his lip at her. “You talk funny.”
“Baby Bird!” Agnes peeled away from Stephen, wiping her eyes with her hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“That’s all right.” Corina tweaked the boy’s nose. “I’m from America and I think you talk funny too. Now, where’s that ball?”
He ran off without another word.
“He’s full of it. Keeps me hopping.” Agnes pulled a handkerchief from her handbag by the front door.
“He’s Bird’s?”
She nodded and blew her nose.
“Did he know?”
She pressed the wadded up handkerchief into her palm and shook her head. “I wanted to surprise him. I found out a month before he was due home, so I thought to make it a late Christmas present. One month to go. That was all. One lousy month.” The boy bounded into the room with his rugby ball. It was half the size of him yet. Agnes patted his head. “Mitchell O’Connell the Third. Bird’s boy.”
Her eyes glistened and her lean shoulders seemed too delicate to bear her burden alone. “Bird and me was two of a kind. Joined at the hip like we was made to be together. My only family, and I never figured a life without him, then there I was, alone and pregnant. Not legally his wife ye
t. We did things backwards.”
“He’s beautiful.” Corina knelt in front of Baby Bird. “Do you want to go outside? I can teach you some of the basics of the world’s best sport, American football.”
“What?” Stephen balked, laughing. “Pay her no mind, Baby Bird.”
But he was halfway out the back door, cheering.
Corina gave Stephen a smug look and walked round him. “Coming, Baby Bird.”
“She’s lovely.”
“Yes, she is.” Stephen perched on the arm of the chair and took Agnes’s hand in his. “I promised Bird I’d look out for you.”
“But I’m not his proper wife. You don’t owe me anything, though I sure would like something for Baby Bird.” Her cheeks flushed red as she glanced down at the chair, picking at a loose thread. “I know Bird would want more for his son than I can give him.” She wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “I’m not ashamed to ask if you’re offering.”
“How are you getting on? You’ve a job?”
“Bird’s parents mind Baby Bird for me while I work at the school. Teaching assistant. It doesn’t pay much but keeps this roof over our head and food on the table. Thank goodness, or I’ve no idea where we’d be. I just want the world to know Bird has a son, Your Highness.”
“Please, call me Stephen.”
“I don’t want to be a charity case. If the military would just recognize Bird’s paternity, I’ll have the orphan’s benefits.”
“Let me see to it. And, as a favor to me, for my mate Bird O’Connell, I’d like to pay for his education.”
She cracked with a hard sob, hand to her mouth, pressing her forehead to Stephen’s shoulder. “Everything Bird said about you is true. Absolutely true.”
Stephen fumbled with an awkward pat on the woman’s shoulder, then settled his hand on her back and shared her sorrow.
Through the kitchen window, he could see Baby Bird in the yard with a couple of boys, trying to toss the thick rugby ball like an American football, sloshing through the mud. Oh the way of little boys. He’d figure a way to make sure Agnes had a grand washing machine and dryer.
“Agnes.” Corina had returned, silently moving into the conversation. “My twin brother, Carlos, died the same day.” Agnes raised her head, drying her cheeks with her hand. “He served in the Joint Coalition with your Bird. With Stephen. I still miss him. My parents . . . I don’t think they’ll ever be the same.”
“Love, I’m so sorry.” Agnes flowed from Stephen’s shoulder to Corina’s, and for a long time, the women wept and embraced. Healed.
The back door slammed, Baby Bird returning, his little footsteps thudding against the old hardwood. “Did you know my Da?” He tugged on Stephen’s hand.
“I sure did. He was a good mate.” Stephen swung Bird’s son up into his arms, burying his face against his small, little-boy shoulders. Which at the moment seemed broader and more manly than Stephen’s own.
“I can’t breathe. Let me go.” Baby Bird squirmed, kicking to be free. “I’m not your doll.”
“Baby Bird,” Agnes said, releasing Corina and lightly flicking the boy’s head. “You’re speaking to the Prince of Brighton. Show respect.”
“It’s okay,” Stephen said and slid the boy to the ground. “He’s Bird’s son all right.”
Baby Bird puffed out his chest, anchoring his fists on his waist. “I’m going to be a pilot, like him. He was the best.”
“Pilot?” Stephen peeked at Agnes. Bird was a mechanic.
She shrugged, a thin pink hue sweeping across her cheeks. “It’s what he wanted his Da to be. So I said, why not?”
“Indeed, why not?”
Something bubbled over in the kitchen and Agnes hurried off, Baby Bird running after her. “I’ll be right round with a spot of tea and cakes.”
When they were alone, Corina soothed her hand down Stephen’s back. “You all right?”
He inhaled, steeling the rise of his own cordoned off memories and emotions. “I’m glad we came.” Raising his hand to her face, he stroked her jaw, not caring about the past, the future, only this moment with her. “I’m glad you’re here.” And he realized . . . Corina had always been his rock. “Even though I’m going to have to uncorrupt Baby Bird about this football business.” His heart palpitated with a yearning to pull her into him and kiss her. He slipped his hand around the back of her neck and stepped toward her. “Corina, I—”
“I was standing at the stove when I realized . . .” Agnes had returned. “Oh, begging your pardon.”
Stephen stepped back, embarrassed, agitated. Relieved. He had no business kissing Corina. He cut her a glance. She had no business allowing him. “Not at all, not at all.”
“It’s just that I realize the Prince of Brighton is in me house.” She set the service on the center table and curtsyed again, this time, low and proper. “This is my granny’s tea set. She bought it in France on her honeymoon.”
“It’s lovely,” Corina said, taking a seat as Agnes poured, avoiding Stephen’s gaze.
The conversation moved to life after Afghanistan, how Agnes came by the cottage and her job, her supportive family, all peppered with Baby Bird’s observations about life and his mum.
“She’s bossy.”
“I wouldn’t be if you’d mind me now, would I? Hmm?” Agnes arched her brow at her son.
Baby Bird grimaced at Stephen in such a way he laughed and, mercy a-mighty, he saw a piece of himself in the lad.
Once the tea was served, Agnes raised her cup. “To Bird, the best man I’ve ever known. May he rest in peace.”
Stephen raised his cup. “To Bird.”
“To Bird and Carlos,” Corina said.
“To Carlos.”
“To Carlos.”
“Who’s Carlos?” And Baby Bird set them all to laughing.
The afternoon faded into evening in Agnes’s living room, sharing, laughing, remembering Bird, Carlos, the bond of family forged by trial.
Stephen did a spell on the back lawn with Baby Bird. Teaching him the superiority of rugby, taking care with his ankle, while Corina accepted Agnes’s request for ideas on making over a small room in the back of the house.
And that night, Stephen’s family grew by two.
On the drive home, Corina relaxed against her seat, her eyes in a sleepy daze. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“You invited me to go with you for you, but in the end you gave a great gift to me. I didn’t feel so alone anymore. While my parents never want to talk about Carlos, Agnes talked so freely about missing Bird, about their son. I got to reminisce about Carlos.”
“None of this would’ve happened without you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you could have signed the annulment in Florida, but instead you demanded something of me. And it challenged me.”
“I think I stumbled upon that request by accident, driven by my own need for closure.”
She fell silent and he let it be, sensing there was something more. In the glow of the dashboard lights, he found her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“I love you, Stephen.” She wrapped her hand around his, not letting go. “I tell myself I shouldn’t, that our marriage is over, but I love you. Not just as a friend but as my husband”
The confession engulfed him. Consumed him. How could she love him? If he had no response before, he was drowning now just trying to understand.
But she didn’t seem in need of an answer. He peered sideways at her as the Audi moved down the straightaway, their hands still locked together, her eyes closing as she drifted sweetly off to sleep.
Gigi
In the world of journalism, no news was bad news. Gigi scanned her e-mail one last time before going home. Nothing. Even Madeline Stone came up empty. Though Gigi suspected the Brighton TV presenter didn’t try very hard. Of course, she’d keep the best bits for her own show with that gaudy Hyacinth.
Gigi clicked out of e-mail, thinking, mu
lling. She should be able to just get the skinny from Corina, her very own employee. She needed a new strategy. The old one wasn’t working.
At her office window, she gazed at the stretch of river between the Eau Gallie and Melbourne causeways. Maybe, at fifty-six, she’d lost her mojo. For the first time in her life, she considered the impossible. Quitting. The very idea made her shudder.
A foreign feeling, a strange word never before allowed in her vocabulary.
She was Gigi-freaking-Beaumont. The woman who started this company from scratch when the worldwide web consisted of nothing more than AOL, tech geeks, and cyber perverts.
She was ambitious, competitive, with instinct and ingenuity, and a callous soul. Whatever it took to get ahead, she did it. And she harbored no regrets.
She’d married her third husband just to gain access to his wealth, mastering a stellar prenup giving her half of his assets at their divorce.
But today a weariness settled in her bones. Her conscience woke from a long sleep and knocked on her heart’s battered door. Leave her be . . .
Bested by a tenderhearted, broken beauty from Georgia.
Gigi returned to her work, opening her presentation for the four thirty online meeting with the division directors. Maybe they would have some ideas how to revamp the Beaumont Post brand. Find a new life in their fading, albeit fearless leader.
About to head through the bull pen to see if anyone happened upon a salacious tip—after all, she’d imported the best scouts, sources, and news diggers in the world to her seaside domain—when a new e-mail from a strange address dropped into her inbox.
[email protected]
The sounds from the bull pen faded. Gigi’s warm blood chilled and her hand, resting on her mouse, trembled.
801 Laurel Lane? Her flat on the north side of Cathedral City when she worked for Brighton Broadcast Company.
Robert? Dear, sweet Robert. With an exhale, she opened the e-mail. Tuesday at eight. What could he possibly want?
Thirty-five years ago he’d wanted to marry her but had nothing to offer but his heart and devotion.
She was just starting out, wildly ambitious, full of herself and her dreams. She refused to tie herself down to a man with no means, no name. A servant in the palace.
