Every Star in the Sky

by Danielle Singleton

  She turned on her side and placed her hand on his cheek. “Make love to me, Richard.”

  “Is that . . . I mean, can you . . . ?”

  Rebecca nodded and smiled. “I can.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” Richard replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

  She reached out and put her other hand on his face as well, pulling him closer to her. “You won’t hurt me. You never could.” Her eyes turned hazy, and her cheeks flushed. “Make love to me, Richard.”

  The scruff of his day-old beard prickled against her skin as Richard kissed her neck, her collarbone, and her chest. He gently pulled her up against him in the bed and ran his hands from her hips up her sides to her ribcage and her breasts, taking her shirt along with him.

  Rebecca lifted her arms to slide out of her top and felt a rush of cold air across her bare skin. Soon Richard’s hands returned to caress her shoulders and back, and the body that had been cold seconds earlier was now on fire – his touch leaving a blazing trail wherever he went.

  Rebecca’s skin was soft and smooth – a stark contrast to Richard’s rough, masculine body. Rebecca felt his muscles ripple beneath her touch. She started slowly, at his face, and worked her way down over his broad shoulders and chiseled back.

  He rolled Rebecca underneath him and braced his weight above her, careful to not injure her.

  They kissed and explored each other’s bodies for what seemed like a lifetime, and Rebecca supposed in a way it was a lifetime – a life’s worth of waiting and wanting and loving – finally culminating as husband and wife. When Richard entered her, slowly, gently, she knew that he had been right all along. They were meant to be together.

  EIGHTY-NINE

  Richard went back to work the next morning. He woke up at five and was in the office by six thirty. Some of his staff had already arrived for the day, but the press didn’t start milling around until at least seven thirty. By the time reporters showed up at 10 Downing Street, everything looked business as usual. Which was exactly what Richard wanted.

  He continued that routine through all of November and into December: working in London during the day and spending nights and weekends at Rosewood with Rebecca. The hours were grueling, and he often survived on less than four hours sleep, but it was worth it to be with her. My wife. He smiled while sitting at his desk. Rebecca Lewis is my wife. The hardest part for Richard was not having Gus at the office with him. His beloved chocolate lab had refused to leave Rebecca’s side ever since she arrived in England, and Richard figured that she needed the dog’s comfort more than he did. Every morning before he left, Richard would rub behind Gus’ ears and give him his instructions for the day. “Take care of her, big guy. I’m counting on you.”

  At home at Rosewood, Rebecca settled into her own routine. Three different nurses worked in eight-hour shifts. Her favorite one, by far, was the morning nurse: Allie. Allie was young and pleasant but also understood when Rebecca needed space and quiet. She reminded Rebecca of her daughter, and the pair quickly became friends. Allie would bring her magazines from the store and read books to her when Rebecca’s eyes were tired. Rebecca’s favorite activity, though, was their morning walk. At ten o’clock, when the sun was the warmest and the wind the calmest, Rebecca and Allie would open the French doors in her bedroom and walk out into the garden. Winter weather was in full swing, and when the last of Rebecca’s hair fell out, she had to wear a beanie to keep her head warm. She didn’t mind the cold, though. Neither did Gus. The chocolate lab always came with them, frolicking in the grass and jumping into the pond at the edge of the estate.

  After their walk, Rebecca ate an early lunch and began her treatments. Her diet consisted of lots of fresh fruits and vegetables, and she drank a protein shake with each meal to try to get more nutrients. Most of the time, though, whatever she ate came right back up. A combination of the cancer medication and her pain pills caused the nausea.

  By the time the second nurse started her shift at three o’clock, Rebecca was exhausted. She slept most of the afternoon, waking only for dinner and to see Richard when he arrived home.

  NINETY

  On the second Tuesday of December, Richard got home from work to find the grand hall decorated for Christmas. Garland was wrapped around the handrails, a life-size nativity scene was in one corner, and a giant Christmas tree occupied the middle of the hallway where he and Rebecca held mattress races with her kids only a few months earlier.

  As he made his way to the bedroom he shared with Rebecca, Richard saw more and more Christmas decorations. Where on Earth did they find all of this? he wondered. Richard pushed open the bedroom door and saw a smaller tree in the corner, decorated with lights and full of presents at the bottom. Christmas carols played from a speaker.

  “Welcome home, honey,” Rebecca said with a smile. She walked forward, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and kissed him. “What do you think?”

  “I think it looks like Christmas. Where did all of this come from?”

  “The attics. The staff was super excited to help me set it all up.”

  Richard narrowed his eyes. He stepped back from Rebecca and looked her up and down. There was more color in her face than usual, and her cheeks didn’t look as hollow. “What’s going on, Becks? It’s 11:30 at night and you’re still dressed. You don’t seem the least bit tired. Normally you’re lying in bed when I get home.”

  “A girl can’t decide to get dressed up?”

  “Becks . . . ”

  She sighed and walked over to the windows. “I talked to my doctors at the end of last week,” Rebecca said, refusing to look at Richard. “The treatment didn’t work. It’s spread to my lungs. I’ve got . . . he said weeks. Maybe months, if I’m lucky.”

  Richard ran across the room and pulled Rebecca into his arms. Tears fell from his cheeks onto her bald head. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

  “Stop saying you’re sorry. I don’t want ‘sorry’. I don’t want pity. I want my life back, and if I can’t have that then I want what little time I have left to be happy.”

  Richard pulled back from the hug and looked Rebecca in the eyes. “That’s what’s different. You stopped treatment.”

  “You’ve seen the x-rays, Richard. The blood tests. Our time together is already limited. The doctors confirmed it on Friday. Can’t we just be happy and enjoy what time we have left?”

  Richard backed away and shook his head. Every muscle in his body tensed and he felt like he might explode with anger.

  “I don’t fucking believe this. We’re finally together, and now you’re giving up!”

  “I want to walk through the gardens together. I want to dance together. I want to do all the wonderful things you always promised me we would.”

  “We will!” Richard replied. “When we beat this, when you’re better, we’ll do all of that.”

  “No, Richard. Now. While I still can. If we wait, you’ll be dancing with a ghost.”

  NINETY-ONE

  A cold, gray blanket covered the January sky and matched the mood of the small procession as they made the slow walk from Rosewood to the Arrington family plot. Richard’s ancestors stretching back hundreds of years were all buried on a small hill in the back corner of the main estate. A wrought iron fence surrounded the cemetery, and many of the gravestones were worn and weather-beaten beyond recognition. The newest stone was his mother’s – added a mere eight months earlier after Victoria’s stroke. The day had been one of wildly mixed emotions and a conflicted heart . . . which was also how Richard would have described his entire relationship with his mother.

  On this day, though, Richard’s mind drifted back further: to the first time he crossed this path, his black dress shoes crunching the gravel along the way.

  The year was 1971, and his grandfather had passed away after a battle with heart disease. Richard was eight, and the death of the family patriarch elevated his father to the rank of Marquess and young Richie to a Viscount. On that cold and dreary Novem
ber morning, the new Viscount Arrington looked less like a child and more like a miniature adult – a grown man in a little boy’s body, with a three-piece suit to match. His father, the new Marquess, walked with his right hand on Richard’s shoulder the whole time, a silent signal of the child’s new place in the world. It was a memory made starker by the fact that it was the only time in his life when Richard remembered his father claiming ownership of him. There was a twisted pride on the day the elder marquess buried his father, a happiness he had been waiting for his whole life that could only be achieved by the death of his parent.

  Young Richie didn’t understand the undercurrents at play on that day so many years ago, but he understood everything today. Every pain, every memory, every breath. Every crunch of the gravel and every rustle of the trees was implanted in Richard’s memory on the day they buried his wife.

  A small crowd assembled around the gravesite: the vicar, Richard, Rebecca’s children, and Tricia. As the vicar stepped forward to take his place at the head of Rebecca’s casket, Richard heard the low rumble of a car approaching. He turned to see the unmistakable Royal Standard waving from the front corner of black Range Rover.

  My God, he thought. She’s here.

  A small security detail exited the car ahead of Her Majesty and Prince Philip. The elderly couple, dressed in all black, were humble in their approach and could have been mistaken for family members or friends if not for their famous faces. The pair nodded to Richard and blended in amongst the other mourners.

  Rebecca didn’t want a big to-do for her funeral, but she acquiesced to Richard and her kids’ request for a service on the Arrington estate.

  After a brief eulogy by the town’s vicar, Richard stepped forward and pulled several notecards from his jacket pocket. His heart was pounding, and his chest felt like it was getting tighter and tighter by the minute. Thank God we’re outside, or I’d be sweating through my suit.

  Taking a deep breath, the prime minister composed himself for the most meaningful speech of his life.

  “I’ve made a living off speaking and speaking well, but my darling Rebecca was the one person who could leave me tongue-tied. It seems I’ve had both forever and not long enough to prepare for this moment of goodbye,” Richard continued. “A final goodbye. But the words fail me today. So, I’ll do what all good politicians do: I’ll borrow the words of someone else.”

  He tried to manage a small smile, but it ended up being more of a quiver. His upper lip would have to be stiff another day.

  “This is ‘Angel’,” he said, “by an anonymous poet.”

  “Tear drops, slow and steady, the

  Pain so real and true,

  God took another angel, and that

  Angel, dear, was you.

  Angel wings, upon the clouds, your

  Body softly sleeps,

  Hush now little angel, no more

  Tears you have to weep.

  Little prayers are sent to you, the

  Short life you led;

  Your family will never forget you,

  So rest your little head.

  I know God will look after you, now

  You are truly alive,

  Your spirit soars beyond the moon,

  Your legacy will survive.

  You’re beautiful, you’re endless,

  Now stretch your wings and fly,

  You’re loved by so many, it will

  Never be goodbye.

  Close your pretty eyes, no more

  Tears, just go and rest,

  Let your soul lie peacefully, we

  Know you did your best.”

  Richard tapped his notecards into a neat pile and pushed them down into his inner coat pocket. Taking a deep breath, he looked over at the coffin beside him. “You can lie in peace now, my darling. No more pain. True to form, you beat me there. And true to us, we’re separated once more.” He paused and swallowed back his tears. “I don’t know if it will be another thirty-five years before we’re together again. I hope so, and I hope not. But I trust that thirty-five years is nothing in the face of eternity, where you shall be mine forever.”

  ****

  After finishing his speech, Richard left Sarah and Jonathan alone to say their final goodbyes. While they stayed at the gravesite, he accompanied the Queen and her husband to their car.

  “Your Majesty, I cannot even begin to express how much it means to me that you’re here today.”

  Queen Elizabeth nodded in acknowledgment. “I never knew your wife,” she began, “but I admire her. She made a large sacrifice in her life to allow you to become Prime Minister. It was no small feat of strength to put aside a love like yours in favor of the needs of her country and ours.” Her Majesty paused. “I was raised by a strong woman and fancy myself to be one as well, so I always admire and feel a kinship with other strong women – and the men who love them.” She stole a glance at her husband, Prince Philip, and Richard couldn’t help but smile.

  “Thank you, ma’am. It’s a tremendous honor for Your Majesty and His Royal Highness to be here today. It means a great deal. Thank you.”

  As Richard watched their Range Rover pull back up the gravel drive, he wondered if he and Rebecca could have built what they did if given the chance. Over seventy years of marriage. Four children. A whole gaggle of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. He sighed and looked at the coffin behind him. If only, Becks. If only.

  NINETY-TWO

  One month later, Phil Davies ran down London Bridge Street toward his office at The News Building. The young, skinny reporter was late for a meeting with his boss, and he pinballed his way through the crowd trying to get to The Times headquarters as fast as he could. Phil reached the skyscraper and slowed to a walk, fixing his curly red hair with his hand. Named after Prince Philip, he had a sister named Diana but hated the royals, the aristocracy, and everything they stood for. Phil was on a mission to expose the corruption of upper crust England, and he finally had his first big hit.

  “You’re late, Davies,” his boss barked when Phil knocked on the office door. Archibald Stevens had been with The Times for almost thirty years. Dealing with young pups like Phil was his least favorite part of the job.

  “I know, I know, but I have a good excuse this time. I swear.”

  “This time,” Stevens rolled his eyes. “I don’t know why I haven’t sacked you yet, Davies.”

  “Because I’m charming and talented?”

  “More likely because you’re my sister’s son. Why are you late this time?” he asked. “And it better not be more conspiracy theories about the prime minister.”

  “Give me two minutes, okay? If you don’t like the story after that, I’ll never bring it up again.”

  The editor looked at his brash young reporter. “What’s your smoking gun?”

  “Huh?”

  “No smoking gun, nobody cares. What’s your smoking gun?”

  Phil smiled. “The prime minister’s dog, Gus. He stopped coming to the office four months ago.”

  “Arrington never goes anywhere without that dog.”

  “Exactly. So why was Gus suddenly spending all his time at Rosewood? I talked to a technician at the vet – the dog is healthy.”

  Phil’s editor and uncle leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Okay, kid. Start me at the beginning.”

  “I got curious when Gus disappeared. I had a chocolate lab growing up, so it’s always a fun part of the pressers when Gus comes in and runs around. At first I was worried, right? So I called the veterinarian and some sources I have in household staff . . . all is well with the dog. He was just spending his time at the PM’s estate.

  “But that didn’t make sense to me,” Phil continued. “Arrington loves Gus. They’re practically attached at the hip. So, I dug a little deeper. Started following the PM’s movements more closely. From October until January, he commuted every morning and night . . . never slept at Downing Street anymore.”

  “Never?”

/>   Phil shook his head. “Never. So, what happened four months ago, right? Why did he spend every night and weekend in East Sussex? Why did he refuse to travel anywhere?” Phil sat down in a chair and crossed his arms over his chest in triumph. “Either he’s sick, or he decided he doesn’t give a shit and his staff is running the country.”

  “I highly doubt the latter.”

  “But don’t we have a right to know? Why it started and why it ended just as fast?”

  Stevens nodded. “We do. Dig more. Fill in the story. Then bring it to me and we’ll see where it goes.”

  Phil jumped up from his seat with a huge smile on his face.

  “Slow down, son. Don’t go anywhere, do anything, or say anything until you give the prime minister and Buckingham Palace a chance to comment. Understood? We deserve the truth on this, but not at the expense of everything else we’re working on.”

  Phil nodded his head. “Yes sir. Understood.”

  NINETY-THREE

  Tricia Howell’s phone rang the next afternoon.

  “Mrs. Howell? This is Archibald Stevens with The Times. I’m sitting here with one of my reporters, Phil Davies, and we have a few questions for you.”

  “All press inquiries are run through the Director of Communications.”

  “I spoke with him a minute ago,” Stevens responded. “He transferred me to you.”

  Tricia furrowed her brow in confusion. “I’ll do my best. You’re probably going to get a ‘no comment’ on each question, though.”

  Five minutes later, Tricia hung up the phone, crossed the room, and knocked on the prime minister’s door. She didn’t wait for a reply before going inside Richard’s office and shutting the door behind her. “Sir, we need to talk.”