by B. E. Baker
“It gets better.”
I don’t believe him.
While Cole navigates the car under the tunnel into the garage, I wipe my tears and blink away the new ones that threaten. I will not face Mom and Dad bawling like a baby. I can’t. Cole parks his Range Rover between a Mercedes AMG GT53 and a BMW M5.
“Which one is Mom’s and which is Dad’s?” I ask.
“Dad picked that Mercedes,” he says. “Which is kind of ridiculous, given that he can’t even drive. Mom likes the BMWs, still. She can’t be dissuaded by things like maintenance issues, comfort, or common sense.”
“You’re one to talk,” I say. “With your Range Rover.”
“My car is plenty comfortable. Besides, we can’t get away with Honda Civics,” Cole says. “If we don’t buy European, the media goes crazy.”
“I feel so bad for the three of you,” I say. “It must be terribly hard.”
“You could use your trust—”
I shake my head. “Holly could have used her trust. I went to America to leave her behind.”
Cole slams the car door and stomps toward the entrance to the house, er, castle.
I don’t really fault him, but that leaves me to lug my own suitcase. Cole leaves the door to the interior open a crack when he walks through. I schlep my suitcase up the six stairs one at a time, taking my time reaching the top. He must not have told Mom and Dad that anyone was coming. I wonder where they think he went.
“Cole! You left the door hanging open again.”
Mom’s voice slices through me. Kind exasperation. Gentle remonstration. She may not have been born as a princess, but she took to it like a duck to water, like a lab to playing fetch, like Mary to mothering. I close my eyes and imagine my mom’s gentle brown eyes, her soft but capable hands, and the ever present but understated smell of roses.
When I open them, Mom’s standing at the door, her hand raised to close it. She’s staring at me, her lips parted, her entire body frozen. Her eyes flutter, and I worry she’ll pass out. I let go of my suitcase to reach out and catch her if she falls, and it tumbles backward, end over end, crashing into her BMW with an alarming crack.
I glance backward, but arms reach around me from the front. Mom’s trembling, but she’s strong. She pulls me forward, crushing me against her. “Holly,” she breathes. “Holly.”
“Hey Mom.”
All my best intentions evaporate and I sob into her hair, breathing in the same smell I remember, and I feel whole somehow, in a way I haven’t for a very long time.
“You’re here.”
“I’m here.” I can hardly believe it myself, but I’m here. Standing in the garage. “I think my bag may have dented your shiny new car.”
“Oh, who cares about that? I don’t know why you were carrying it up anyway. Lars would have grabbed it.” She squeezes me even more tightly. “I just can’t believe it. I can’t believe it has happened.”
“Cole should have told you I was coming,” I say.
Her head shakes next to me, her hair filling my mouth. She probably hears my spluttering, because she finally releases me. “Sorry,” she says. “Sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Mom, it’s fine. It was a little hair, that’s all.”
“No,” she says. “Not that. I’m sorry about everything else. We were wrong. I was wrong.”
“I don’t want to talk about all that.” Because I was wrong too, but it hurts to think about it. “Where’s Dad?”
Something about his name jolts her back to herself and she bellows like a bull, practically bursting my ear drums. “Hans-Michael!”
I cover my ears.
“Hans-Michael! Come here right now!”
Mom could always clear a room—provided no one outside our family was around to see it. She should have been a cheerleader in her youth. Or perhaps an auctioneer.
“What is it, dear?” my father’s voice carries from the hallway.
“I need your help in the garage,” she says.
We could have done this in the parlor, or the sitting room, or the library, or the entry way. The ballroom. The receiving room. The chapel. A hundred rooms and the first time I see my parents, it happens on the steps of the garage.
“Hey Dad,” I say.
He blinks several times and I remember what Cole said about his eyesight. I rush forward into the house before he can go tumbling down the stairs like the luggage. Dad shifts slightly, eyeing me from the side. His entire face lights up. “Holly! Is it really you?”
I wrap my arms around his still trim mid-section and pull as tightly as I can. “It’s good to see you, Daddy.”
“Oh, angel, it’s so good to see you.” He rests his chin on the top of my head, the same as he always has.
Mom brushes past us, her eyes flashing. “Cole Wittlesbach, how dare you fail to notify us that your sister was coming home?”
A pang of guilt shoots through me at the thought that they may believe I’m home for good. Time to deal with that later. “Cole was trying to help,” I say. “He wasn’t entirely certain I’d come.”
Mom’s eyes soften. “But you’re here now. Oh, and you just missed the party here at the palace. I wish you could have come one week sooner.”
Dad whispers. “She’s here, and you’re right. That’s what matters. Too much time worrying about things that we can’t change isn’t good for us.”
“No,” I say, thinking oddly of Jim again. “It’s not, you’re right.”
“We have so many things to do,” Mom says. “And now.” A shiver runs up her spine and culminates with trembling shoulders. Her face breaks out in an enormous grin. “You may have missed our annual party here at the palace, but that won’t stop me. Your return warrants another celebration.”
“Oh, no, that’s really not necessary,” I say. “And I wouldn’t enjoy that at all.”
“Parties like this aren’t for you, anyway,” Mom says, waving her hand as if she can literally disappear my objections. “Besides. How else will you meet the eligible men if we don’t prepare some kind of get-together?”
“Mom. I haven’t even brought my bag inside yet, much less unpacked. Maybe we put the party on hold for a nanosecond.”
“Lars,” Mom calls out. “Come and get Holly’s suitcase and take it to her room.” She smiles at me. “See? Taken care of. Now come and have some tea.”
I follow Mom into the sitting room and perch on the end of my favorite floral couch. It’s busier than I remember, and the whole room makes me a little itchy. Heavily ornamented wall panels, embroidered drapes, and knick-knacks on every surface. Same as a decade ago, and probably almost the same as five decades ago. Mom calls for tea.
I try not to notice how slowly Dad shuffles into the room, angling his head like a bird before taking a seat. Cole wasn’t exaggerating.
“Now, sweetheart, let’s consider the guest list,” Mom says. “Never too early to be thinking of that. If we push the party back a full two weeks we’ll capture more people who can make it, but it’s a little late to do a welcome home party.” She taps her lip.
So much for breaking the news to them later. This whole thing would have been so much easier if Cole had been up front with them about my trip and its parameters. I glare at him. “So,” I say, “not to throw a wrench into your plans, but I’ll only be here for ten days.”
Mom’s mouth drops. “Ten days? You’re not staying?”
Staying? As in, forever? Ugh. “Mom, my entire life is in America. Of course I’m not staying.” A familiar frustration rises up in my throat. They never even ask.
“Your life is in America?” Dad asks. “And what are we?”
“I’m home for a visit, Dad. I know I’ve been remiss on that department for a few years, but can you blame me? I knew as soon as I came home that you’d pressure me to stay.”
Dad straightens his shoulders. “Of course we wouldn’t try to force you to do anything you don’t want to do.” His right hand shakes slightly.
My dad�
�s feeble. I hate it.
“Look, Mom, a party is fine. I’ll get dressed up and I’ll smile at everyone, okay? But it has to be before I head back home. I can’t stay two weeks. And I can’t have you guys badgering me to stay longer the whole time I’m here, okay? If we can get those things straight, I’ll come back twice a year from now on, I promise. But if you badger me, then I’ll put off coming home.” I cross my arms.
“Twice a year?” Mom’s eyes widen and she licks her lips. “What about this year?”
I can’t tell whether Mom’s hopeful or angry, but I know that no matter what I do, it’ll never be enough. “I said twice a year, and I mean it. So even though I’m here in August, I can probably come back again for the holidays. How’s that?”
Dad may not be able to see very well, but his eyes light up at the prospect. “You’ll be here for the Distribution?”
Mary’s not going to like it, but maybe I can delegate a little more this year than in the past. “Yes.” Way too many years have passed without my being here.
“Well, that’s the best news I’ve heard all year,” Dad says.
“Yes, yes, but that’s months away.” Mom shifts her attention to her firstborn. “Cole, I’ll need your input. You know the available men better than anyone,” Mom says. “How about Frank, or maybe Thomas? We can’t invite both, obviously, so which do you think is better?”
Mom and Cole begin working their way through a tremendous list of eligible bachelors in Europe, which goes on and on until my brain begins to swell. That’s the only explanation for the words that fly from my mouth.
“Mom, please don’t bother.” I gulp.
“Excuse me?” Mom asks.
“I have a boyfriend, okay?”
Mom sits back and folds her hands over her lap. “And you’re just now mentioning this? Who is he?”
“It’s news to me too.” Cole frowns.
I clear my throat. “His name is Jim. I met him through my boss Mary.”
Mom’s face blanks.
“Actually, I met him through her new husband. He’s a billionaire, or nearly a billionaire. And my boyfriend does well, too.”
Mom sniffs. “So he’s American.” Said like ‘he’s a serial killer,’ or ‘he doesn’t take tea.’
“He is, yes.”
“There are some bloody sharp Americans out there,” Dad says. “So what’s his name?”
“Jim.”
“Jim?” Cole smirks. “Like he’s a cocktail waiter or a personal trainer? Does he have a last name?” He arches his eyebrow, looking for all the world like he knows I’ve made him up.
But thanks to my mad googling skills, I know his last name. Even if it’s a little crazy I’m using a guy I barely met for this. “Jim Fulton.”
“And when do we get to meet him?” Mom asks.
When can she meet my make-believe boyfriend? The guy who didn’t even call me, not even once? The guy I still dream about months later, like a pathetic loser? I almost laugh. “Oh, he’s very busy. He’s so successful that he doesn’t have time to come, not on this trip anyway. Maybe at Christmas if we’re still together.”
“So it’s not very serious then?” Mom asks.
And she’ll be back at the set ups with renewed vigor. “Oh, it is,” I say. “But he lives in New York while I live in Atlanta. He spends all his free time coming down to visit me already. I figured I could make this trip alone.”
Cole raises one eyebrow, but he doesn’t call me out. I could kiss him.
“Well, if he can’t come anyway,” Mom says, ever optimistic, “he can’t possibly fault me for inviting a few bachelors to your party.”
“It’s not like he’s put a ring on it,” Cole says in English, his eyes twinkling.
I wish I could tell him to shut up. But of course Mom and Dad won’t even catch his reference. “No, we aren’t engaged,” I reply in English. “Not yet, anyway.” It’s like I can’t help myself.
I sit and sip my tea slowly while Cole and Mom conspire to entice me away from my unsuitable American boyfriend with the best that the entitled of Europe can offer. They’re pushing wealth over titles it seems, which reminds me.
“Dad, how bad are things at Berg Telecom? Cole mentioned it’s not good.”
My dad’s shoulders slump, and his eyes lower toward the ground.
“That bad?”
“I made a bad call, schatz.”
“What?” I ask.
Mom and Cole stop talking on that side of the room.
“I found a firm that wanted to invest. It seemed too good to be true.” Dad swallows. “The amount they offered will cover the holiday expenses this year, which we could not have otherwise paid.” His eyes plead with me for some reason.
“Okay,” I say. “Are they bringing ideas to the table too?”
“They are,” Dad says, “but I had to give them a controlling interest or they would have walked away. Fifty-one percent.”
That was a big mistake. “And what are their ideas?” Not that it matters, since they can do whatever they want.
“Cole did a little more research into the company.” Dad winces, his face pained. “I knew it was American, but they’re motivated, and they’re hard workers, or that’s what I heard from the man who gave me their information.”
“And?” I nudge.
“I should have spent a little more time researching them before I signed the forms they sent. I had them translated into German, to make sure I understood what I was signing.” He pauses. “I didn’t just rush into this. But it looks like they aren’t so much an investment firm as, well, they sort of dismantle companies and sell the various profitable assets off to other companies.”
I close my eyes. Dad traded one last holiday season for the entire company. And what’s worse, Liechtenstein only has forty-thousand citizens. Last I heard, eight thousand of them were employees of Berg Telecom. My dad placed our entire economy at risk, all with one bad decision.
“What can we do?” I ask. “I have several very business savvy friends. I can ask Luke or Paul or Trig to take a look at whatever you signed.”
Dad presses a button on his watch and it says, “Three fourteen p.m.”
He needs a button on his watch to tell him the time. It acts as a good reminder for me. I might criticize his poor mistakes, but I wasn’t here to help or offer better advice.
“You’ve arrived on a strange day,” Mom says. “Dad’s meeting with the entire investment team today. They’re supposed to lay out their plan, including which things they intend to sell and to whom.”
“They’re coming down on a Sunday afternoon?”
“We’re sort of at the mercy of their schedule,” Dad says.
I groan. I can’t believe the vultures are already descending. “I’m coming with you to this meeting,” I say. “Obviously. And I want to see whatever you signed.” Then I’ll call Luke immediately and ask him what he thinks. Or maybe Trig would be better. I think this is sort of what his company does. Maybe he even knows the firm that invested. Maybe he could apply some pressure, or tell me what makes them tick.
“Of course,” Dad says. “I’d be happy to have you attend.”
“Then I better run and change,” I say. “What time is the meeting?”
“It’s at four o’clock,” Dad says, “but it’s here, in the parlor.”
Well, that’s lucky at least. I race upstairs to my room, which hasn’t changed a single bit. My sky blue duvet cover is so richly embroidered that it’s probably heavy enough to suffocate me in my sleep. My four poster bed is as enormous as ever, and I hop on top of the downy pile for a brief moment, sinking into my old bed with a sigh.
But there are too many memories in this room to stay for long.
I stand up and rummage through my suitcase, looking for the most businesslike outfit I packed. My navy suit with orange trim was a lucky call. I put it on and slide into my tallest taupe pumps with enough time left over to touch up my makeup. I dab some cover up under my eyes. Je
t lag sucks.
One glance in the mirror tells me I’m as battle ready as I’m going to get on such short notice.
I march down the stairs, reviewing everything I’ve learned in the past eight years. Surely some of it will be useful. I’d love to get my hands on a copy of whatever Dad signed now, before the meeting, but that will have to wait. I’m practically jogging down the hall toward the parlor. After all, I don’t want to be late.
I fling the door open and square my shoulders.
“Ah, here’s my daughter, the Hereditary Princess of Liechtenstein. Holly, say hello to our guests.”
I survey the room. A tall woman with nearly black hair, deep brown eyes, and killer cheekbones, rocking high stiletto heels. Next to her, a painfully thin man with a shock of red hair, and freckles sprinkled liberally across his nose. And to his left, a gorgeous, tall, broad-shouldered, hawk-faced man with dark hair.
Good heavens. To the left of the red head stands Jim freaking Fulton. My supposed boyfriend, in the flesh. What are the odds?
I choke and bend over coughing. Cole slams me on the back a few times. “Are you alright?” he whispers. “We’re just starting introductions, but if you need to step out, that’s fine.”
I shake my head and force myself to stand.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Princess Holly,” Jim says. “We were just introducing our team. My lawyer is Anastasia Sanders. My head number cruncher is Cooper Francis. And of course, we’ve met so you already know that I’m Jim Fulton.”
Cole’s eyes have never been wider, not in all the years I’ve known him. “Whoa,” he says. “Jim Fulton?”
My dad beams. “Are you kidding me?”
Jim glances from me to my family members, clearly confused. “I’m not kidding, no. I’m the President and owner of FB Investments.”
I’m standing on the train track, and the engine is thundering toward me. It’s too close to stop. It’s moving too quickly to dive out of the way. How could this be happening to me? And in front of Mr. I-Never-Lie himself.
Dad’s face splits into an enormous smile. “What tremendous luck! My daughter’s boyfriend is the owner of the investment firm I sold half our business to!” Dad claps Jim on the back and offers his hand. “I can’t say how delighted I am to meet you. She told us you wouldn’t be able to make it. Our Holly has always been one for phenomenally kept secrets.”
