“Why do you keep doing that?” asked Rebecca one afternoon. They were running on the Cambridge side of the river and could see their campus across the water. “You’re encouraging them.”
“I disagree,” Richard replied. “If they know it bothers us, they’ll keep doing it. On the other hand, if I lean in and join the joke, it loses all its power.”
Rebecca thought about his argument. “You may have a point there, Lord Arrington.”
“Don’t. Please.”
“Oh, so you can call me your wife when we’re not even dating, but I can’t use your actual, legitimate title?”
“Glad we’re in agreement.”
Rebecca laughed. “We’re not. But I won’t call you Lord anymore.”
“Thank you. Oh, by the way,” Richard said, jogging in place at a red light, “how did the interview go with Goldman Sachs?”
“Good, I think. They said I should hear back next week.”
“Are they your top choice for this summer?”
Rebecca nodded. “Mother is pitching a fit because she wants me to work in Atlanta, but New York is where the action is. What about you? Any chance you’d join me in Manhattan?”
Richard shook his head. “No. Dad expects me to be in London.”
“So? My mom expects me to be in Georgia, but I’m not going to be. You’re a man. A rich, white, educated man. You have no color barrier. No glass ceiling. No hole or gutter to climb out of. Who cares what’s expected of you?”
Richard responded to her in a calm, steady voice – something that irritated Rebecca to no end. Even during an argument, he never raised his voice. Never displayed any, well, any passion.
“I may not have a barrier or a ceiling or a gutter,” he replied, “but I do have a title. And that title comes with duties and responsibilities that don’t go away simply because I don’t feel like it. I am my father’s heir. I will be the next Marquess of Dublinshire. I have a family and an estate that must be supported, both of which require funds. So, to answer your question, Miss Lewis, I care what’s expected of me.”
****
After they returned to campus from their run, Rebecca went to the dorms and Richard headed to the student union. “I need a drink,” he muttered to himself. He was still stewing over his conversation with Rebecca. She doesn’t get it, he thought. She could break from her family’s wishes and nothing would happen apart from making her mum cry. If I renounced my claim, Cousin Louis would become the next heir. Richard shuddered at the thought. That smarmy kiss ass would run everything into the ground faster than you can say cocaine addict.
“I’ll have a pint, please,” he told the bartender. “Budweiser.”
Richard found a chair in the corner and sat down with his beer. By the time half the pint was gone, he had started to relax. It was hard to stay mad at Rebecca. And he liked that she stood up to him every once in a while, even though it was never fun in the moment. Rebecca’s combination of grit and beauty often reminded Richard of the genteel women in his family. Not his mother, of course, who was a cold-hearted creature. But his grandmother and his father’s sisters. Women raised over the years and bred through the centuries to be both lovely and strong, and who knew that true grace required a backbone tough enough to carry themselves and their families without ever missing a step.
He took a long sip of beer and motioned to the bartender to bring him another round.
Mother certainly wouldn’t approve of this. ‘Drinking in public is for commoners,’ Richard thought, remembering what her ladyship liked to say. Victoria Arrington had always been cold and distant - a product of her environment, perhaps. She believed in duty, propriety, and tradition above all else. Thank God for Abuela, Richard thought. Abuela believed in love.
Isabel María Teresa Castile de Arrington was born in Spain in 1918 to a prominent aristocratic family. Her father fled the country in 1931 with his wife and children when his close friend, King Alfonso XIII, was deposed from the throne. Six years later, the teenaged Isabel met and fell in love with a dashing young Lord Dublinshire, Richard’s grandfather. Isabel was the life of the party everywhere she went – a newspaper article once described her as “drinking like an Irishman, eating like an Italian, loving like a Frenchman, and dancing like the Spaniard she was.” When Richard’s grandfather proposed, he gave Isabel the family ring: a gorgeous, brilliant cut ruby encircled by a falling halo of small diamonds.
Richard smiled at the memory of his beloved Abuela. She adored all of her grandkids, but Richard was special. She loved to show him her engagement ring and tell him about how the English Marquess fell madly in love with the daughter of the Spanish Baron. At the end of the story, Abuela would fix her caramel-colored eyes on Richard, hold out the ring, and say: “Algún día, este anillo será tuyo para regalar a tu amor.”
And then I would ask her how to know who the right girl is to give it to, Richard remembered.
“Two souls matched in Heaven are like magnets in a field of sand,” his grandmother would reply. “Though the desert will separate them, blow them apart, and trick them with oases along the way, still they will find each other. Indivisible. Invencible. Destino.”
SEVENTEEN
Richard found himself thinking about his grandmother more and more as the end of the semester drew near. Abuela would know what to do about Rebecca, he thought one afternoon. Classes had let out a little over an hour ago, and the switch to Daylight Savings Time meant it finally wasn’t dark at 4:00pm every afternoon. He walked past the dorms and other buildings on the edge of campus and took a right on Kresage Way. In the distance, he could see a tall, thin woman with jet black hair standing at the edge of the pedestrian bridge. Rebecca bent her knee and grabbed hold of her foot with her hand, stretching her thigh muscles. What should I do, Abuela? Richard asked, closing in on his friend and running partner. Risk it all and tell her how I feel?
When Rebecca saw Richard approaching, she stopped stretching and waved. A smile lit her face and warmed his heart. I can’t lose her, he decided. She’s the best thing in my life. Even if all I get to be is her friend.
Rebecca was still smiling when they took off over Weeks Bridge and turned right. They were making a big loop that day, running through Cambridge’s neighborhoods until they reached the MIT Bridge, then turning north back along the footpath that ran parallel to Storrow Drive. It was a good medium-distance route and had become one of their favorites over the course of the school year.
“Isn’t this weather fabulous?” Rebecca asked. “I love that it’s staying light out later.”
The warmth of the late April sun filled the two runners with hope and happiness. Everyone in Boston seemed to be in good spirits and celebrating the end of the long New England winter. A few wildflowers had even popped up along the banks of the Charles. Rebecca pointed them out as she and Richard ran.
“Look at that,” she said. “Those flowers weren’t here on Tuesday.”
“Spring has finally arrived,” Richard replied. “Thank God. I thought the sky was going to stay gray forever.” He tilted his head up and squinted from the glare of the sun. “This is much better.”
When they passed another patch of flowers, Richard stopped running, bent over, and picked a handful. He sprinted to catch up to Rebecca and gave her the makeshift bouquet.
Rebecca laughed but took the flowers all the same. “Thank you.”
“What’s so funny?”
“These are dandelion puffs. They’re weeds.”
“What? Here, give them back. Or toss them aside.” Richard wanted to kick himself. Well done, Arrington, he thought. You’re out with the girl of your dreams and the first flowers you give her are bloody weeds.
Rebecca laughed again and shook her head, turning around to run backward so she could see Richard while she spoke.
“No way. I’m keeping them! After all, it’s not every day that a girl can say a British Lord gave her a stack of weeds.”
Rebecca turned around and took off down the p
ath, her laughter echoing off the water. Richard hurried to catch up.
“What flowers would you want, if you could choose?” he asked.
“It depends on the occasion, I guess.”
“Roses?”
Rebecca shrugged her shoulders. “Roses are pretty, sure. But they’re not my favorite.”
“What is your favorite?”
“Tulips. Roses are serious flowers. They always have some important meaning attached. And daisies are pretty, but they’re almost too happy, you know? Tulips are right in the middle: classy and beautiful but sunny and fun too.” Rebecca paused. “Friendly piece of advice, your lordship? You can never go wrong sending a girl flowers.”
****
After her first class the next day, Rebecca returned to her dorm to find three glass vases full of white tulips sitting beside her door. After working in a flower shop while she was in high school, Rebecca knew that those particular tulips symbolized forgiveness.
She bent down and picked up the card attached to the middle vase.
I’ll never again give you weeds when you deserve tulips. xx, R
When she saw Richard later that afternoon, Rebecca cornered him. “You shouldn’t have sent me flowers. And you certainly don’t need my forgiveness. I loved the dandelions.”
“Somebody knows her horticulture,” Richard replied. “I thought you said a guy could never go wrong sending a girl flowers?”
“I mean, in theory, yes. But you sent, like, a whole floral shop.”
Richard smiled. “I’m their new favorite customer.”
Rebecca rolled her eyes. “What’s with the xx by the way? In the note?”
“You don’t do that here? It’s like XO, but only x. Just a friendly sign off.” In a perfect world, I would’ve signed it Love, Richard, he thought.
Their professor chose that moment to make his entrance to the classroom.
“Thank you for the flowers,” Rebecca said as she took her seat. “But no more, please. People already joke about us being a couple. I don’t want any more gossip.”
“As you wish,” Richard replied. “No flowers. Only friends.”
EIGHTEEN
Summer break came and went without Rebecca seeing or hearing from Richard. He gave her his phone number and address in London before they left school, but she hadn’t ever worked up the courage to call him. She meant to, and even wanted to, but every time Rebecca picked up the phone, she lost her nerve. What would I say? she thought, hanging up the receiver. It’s not like he’s my boyfriend or anything.
That truth hit Rebecca hard. She was getting punched in the gut a lot this summer by thoughts of Richard. And her. And . . . . Stop it, Becky. He’s your best friend. You’ll ruin it if he knows you like him.
She paused in the middle of her apartment hallway.
“I like him.”
The words hung in the air and her emotions swirled inside of her.
“Oh my God. I really, really like him.”
A minute later, Rebecca shook her head.
“Snap out of it. Stop being such a girl. You’ll lose all credibility at school if you start chasing a boy. Not to mention losing the only true friend you’ve ever had.”
****
When she returned to campus in September, Rebecca stayed true to her word and followed her own instructions. Despite her growing attraction and attachment to Richard, she made sure to pull back whenever she felt in danger of exposing her feelings.
After a few weeks of getting the cold shoulder, Richard decided to confront Rebecca. They had taken a cab to Boston’s North End and were standing in line outside of Giacomo’s, their favorite Italian restaurant.
“When are you going to tell me what’s going on?” he asked.
Rebecca furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“You’ve been different ever since we got back. More . . . more distant.”
She laughed. “We’ve hung out almost every day.”
“I know. But something’s still different. Did you – ”
“Did I what?”
“Did you meet someone over the summer? You know, a guy?”
They both stepped forward as space opened in the line.
“No, I didn’t meet anyone. Not like that.” Rebecca paused, and she got a knot in her stomach. “Did you?”
Richard shook his head. “No.” As if there could ever be anyone but you. “My family kept trying to set me up with a girl,” he added, which was true. “She just graduated from finishing school in Switzerland. Our families are old friends.”
The knot in Rebecca’s stomach grew larger. “I didn’t know finishing school was still a thing,” she said, trying to play it cool. “Do you . . . do you like her?”
“No way.”
Rebecca breathed a sigh of relief.
“She’s young and immature and has no goals or ambition of her own. Plus, she’s short and chubby. Mother kept saying she was a handsome woman, but I don’t think that’s a compliment. Men are handsome. Women are beautiful.”
A smile returned to Rebecca’s face. Based on Richard’s description, she was confident the other woman didn’t pose a threat. “You don’t think she’s beautiful?” she teased.
“No, handsome is an accurate description.”
Rebecca laughed.
“She’s pretty enough, I suppose. But she’s not beautiful. And she’s not for me.” You are.
The door to Giacomo’s opened and the hostess motioned for them to come inside.
“Madame?” he said, holding out his arm as an escort.
“Why thank you, sir,” Rebecca said in her best imitation British accent.
Richard rolled his eyes and laughed. “Seriously, stop. It’s not getting any better. In fact, it might be worse.”
Rebecca slapped him on the shoulder with her free hand. “I have a great British accent.”
“Hmm. Alright.”
“I’m serious!”
“I know,” he said with a grin. “But it’s still terrible.”
NINETEEN
After their conversation in line at Giacomo’s, Rebecca decided to let her guard down. She had been worried about Richard finding out she liked him and losing his friendship, but in her effort to hide her feelings she was starting to push him away. You’re going to lose him by trying so hard to not lose him, she thought. Besides, if he liked you too, he would’ve already asked you out.
Rebecca’s return to a close-but-platonic friendship worked well for most of the fall semester. She and Richard were still inseparable, and they would often hug or walk with her arm linked through his, but no lines were ever crossed. Despite all the shared dinners, study sessions, and runs along the river, Richard never tried to kiss her or even imply that they were anything other than the best of friends.
Toward the end of the semester, though, things changed. Richard’s hugs lingered longer. He scooted closer to her on the couch when they watched football games. He complimented her constantly, with ‘beautiful’ and ‘gorgeous’ and ‘amazing’ becoming a regular part of his vocabulary. And the way he looks at me now? Rebecca shivered. She was sitting in class and could see Richard watching her from across the room.
Rebecca was used to men looking at her. She had always been a pretty little girl and had grown into a beautiful young woman, so it was only natural that men would stare. It bothered her at first, but when she complained to her mom, Mrs. Lewis laughed it off and told her fifteen-year-old daughter to “get used to it, darlin’”. And she did.
The way Rebecca got used to it was to ignore it, but with Richard things were different. When she noticed his eyes on her, the creepy-crawly feeling Rebecca normally got was replaced by a tingling warmth that coursed through her. She didn’t ignore Richard’s staring . . . she embraced it. Wrapped herself in it like a warm blanket to keep out the cold Boston winter.
****
Richard knew he should look away. Knew he should stop running his eyes over Rebecca’s bod
y. Knew he should pay attention to the professor instead of imagining what that body would look like naked beneath his.
He knew he should stop, if for no other reason than to save himself the embarrassment of his very obvious attraction at that moment. But he couldn’t. She’s too damn beautiful, he thought. Too damn wonderful.
When class adjourned, his friend Joe walked over and sat down next to Richard. “Gonna take you a minute before you stand up?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“Probably for the best,” Joe replied. “You know, eventually you’re going to have to tell her.”
“I know. But not yet.”
“Make a move, man. C’mon. What do you have to lose?”
“Everything,” Richard replied without hesitation. “If I tell her and she says no, I’ll lose her completely. I can’t handle that. I don’t know what it is to exist without her anymore.”
TWENTY
By the time Christmas break arrived, Richard was convinced that Rebecca was the love of his life and the woman he wanted to marry. Our families and backgrounds aren’t important, he told himself as he flew home to England for the holidays. As long as we’re together, that’s all that matters.
A member of the staff at his family’s estate met Richard at Heathrow Airport. After loading his bags in the back of the Land Rover, Richard climbed in and they set off in the direction of Rosewood. Located approximately fifty miles southeast of London, the Arrington estate was near the town of Battle in East Sussex. Rosewood had been in Richard’s family for over four centuries, and the locals affectionately called it ‘the big house’. It was set on nearly 8,000 acres, and cattle and sheep were among the industries that helped support the estate and the local town. The house itself was an enormous, Tudor-style building with a grand ballroom, a picture gallery, and antiques throughout. Many visitors said it favored Althorp, the childhood home of Princess Diana.
Every Star in the Sky Page 5
