To Save a King, page 7
“I find it rather charming. At least you own your own place. I live in a palace owned by my ancestors and now the Crown Trust of Lauchtenland.”
Before she died, Holland brought up the notion of purchasing their own home. The family owned Hadsby Castle and their apartment there was three thousand square feet but still, she wanted a place of their own.
“For our children and grandchildren. Our own private retreat.”
The screen door creaked as Gemma pulled it open. “Welcome to a ’70s time capsule, Prince. Yellow linoleum, paneled walls, Formica counters and table, and shag carpet.”
He followed her inside. The place was dated and dark but warm, cozy, and fragrant with cleaners, scented soaps, and perfume.
“If you want, we can watch the fireworks from the back deck. There’s a perfect spot on the eastern edge. The deck is rotting, but I have two new deck chairs in a secure spot. Fit for a prince, if you dare.”
“I accept your invitation to watch the fireworks and share a glass of wine, but please, let me spring for fresh pizza.”
“Well you did make me fall…”
“Then we should order extra pepperonis.”
While she dialed a place called Angelo’s, John studied the kitchen and peered into the living room. Knock out a wall and she’d have a rather grand space. He chose not to venture down the long, dark hallway to the bedrooms. Too private. If any man understood privacy, it was the crown prince of Lauchtenland.
Back in the kitchen, Gemma cleared the glistening red Formica table of papers, a book bag, and leftover dishes, then poured two glasses of wine.
“Prince—”
“Or John.”
“I’m really sorry about your wife. Not that my sympathy means anything, but I know what death feels like.”
“Au contraire, your sympathy means a great deal. I take it to heart.”
Their eyes met over the bottom of their wine glasses. So far, this evening, this moment, made his whole trip to Hearts Bend worthwhile. Scottie or no Scottie. In the ’70s kitchen he wasn’t an object of pity to anyone, most of all himself.
They sat on the deck, saying nothing except to comment on the lovely breeze until a horn sounded and Gemma pushed up, adjusted her stance, favoring her hip.
“Pizza’s here.”
John followed to pay then carried the large pepperoni to the deck and set up their dinner on the little table between the chairs. Gemma refilled their wine and as the last of the sunlight clung to summer leaves, John almost felt right with the world.
The pizza was hot and delicious, touching a hunger in John he didn’t know he possessed. Or was it the brunette beauty next to him who touched his hunger?
As the twilight sky faded to black and they each reached for a third slice, Gemma said, “Prince, can I ask why you’re visiting little Hearts Bend?”
“The queen asked me to come. Meet with Scottie O’Shay. You know that story, do you not?”
“How she’s your long-lost sister?”
“Not so much lost as hidden.”
“Why didn’t your mother come?”
“Because she’s a queen and made me her envoy. However, I arrived with no concrete plans—which is rather unsettling. The House of Blue does nothing without weeks, if not months and years, of planning and preparation, forming lists upon lists. But since this was more of a personal, family venture, Mum said, ‘Off you go,’ and here I am.”
Gemma considered another piece of pizza but decided against it. “How can you tell when you’re speaking to your mother or the queen? That’d be so weird.”
“She’s my mother. Always. But every now and then, she speaks as my queen. To be honest, Queen Catherine would’ve come to Hearts Bend in any other circumstance. The wife and mother, Kate, was terrified. But if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll emphatically deny it.”
As the words left his lips he realized he was confessing heart secrets to a stranger.
“You’re safe with me, Prince. I’m not on social media and I loathe drama.”
John took the pizza slice Gemma passed over. “What can you tell me about the O’Shays? Do you know them?”
“Not really. But they are kind of like Hearts Bend royalty. Wealthy, longtime citizens. Scottie’s ancestors were founders.” Gemma closed her eyes and leaned into the breeze. It was fragrant with the aroma of land and open spaces. “I love the quiet out here.”
A string of lights tacked along the deck rail popped on, and while they finished the wine, the first distant boom of gunpowder exploded a white, arching flame across the inky sky.
Blue whined and tucked in under John’s chair while his mates hovered around Gemma. Another boom and Silver could be made out trotting into the barn.
John sat back, his legs stretched long. Explosion after explosion, the knots he’d been wrestling with for eleven months began to loosen, and muscle by muscle, he felt truly relaxed.
Holland, darling, you don’t mind, do you?
He may have a new friend in this Gemma Stone, but he’d not forget his wife. His true love. After all, she’d delivered a white feather at his feet the day of her funeral and he knew. She would always be with him.
“Prince John saves a woman. More at 5:00 on LTV1 News.”
“Swoon! Sign me up for whatever is happening here. Does anyone know where this was taken? Who’s the lass?”
— Brighton Kingdom’s Madeline & Hyacinth Live!
“Does anyone know the story?”
— Loyal Royals Blog #princessbride
“Prince John is in America? Does he have a new love? Can’t make out her face very well. Name? Details!”
— #princessbride #princejohnsnewlove
“Late breaking news here on Cable News PF. Hamish Fickle, MP, is calling for federal investigation of Reingard Industries, a Grand Duchy of Hessenberg company, who purchased land in the Midlands. ‘All I’m asking is for the Crown Investigation Bureau and Crown Justice to look into it.’”
— Cable News PF @ 6:00
Chapter Six
Gemma
By the time she arrived at The Wedding Shop Monday morning, Gemma was frustrated and hungry.
Note to self: go grocery shopping.
She sent Imani into town for a pre-basketball camp breakfast at Ella’s Diner, so she had to handle the herd herself. While she was inspecting the rabbits, Taylor Gillingham called to confirm the wedding shoot at the wedding chapel on Wednesday.
“Do you have everything you need for Wednesday? This is a new client for me and if it goes well, I’m golden.”
“Checked your storage locker last night. We’re good. See you at 8:00 a.m.”
Just when she was ready to head to work, she noticed a flood in the barnyard. A water pipe had burst. Mr. Sweet Pea, the Velveteen rabbit, gained lakefront property.
By the time she shut off the water, called Daddy for advice, and moved the rabbit cages, she was sweating and covered in mud.
In moments like these she found it hard to believe she’d ever aspired to greatness or ever lived in Tinseltown, consumed with her looks, her clothes, and her career.
If they could see me now.
Except Matt Biglow. Her life would be complete if she never clapped eyes on him again.
“Sorry I’m late.” Gemma burst through The Wedding Shop’s back door, grabbed a Haven’s cinnamon bun and cup of coffee, and headed to her mezzanine office, pausing by Haley who worked a white gown over a headless mannequin. “A water pipe broke this morning. The whole barnyard was flooded. Mr. Sweet Pea was about to go swimming.”
“Did you call Cole?” Haley bent to fluff out the voluminous skirt. “What do you think, Gemma? New from Elnora. Her designs get better every year.”
“Nice. Pretty.”
The brilliant white silk seemed to flow in the light coming through the large display window. The pearls seated on the seam of the V-waist radiated pops of color down the skirt. It was the sort of gown that would make any bride feel stunning.
“‘Nice, pretty’? That’s all you got?”
“It’s beautiful.” Gemma adjusted the strap of her bag and took a closer look, careful of her precariously perched pastry on her coffee cup. Careful of the cathedral train. “Fabulous really. I love it.”
“That’s better.” Haley regarded her for a too-long second. “Gemstone, everything okay? I mean besides poor Mr. Sweet Pea going for a swim?”
Gemma sighed. What were friends for but to look beneath the surface and ask the real questions? In L.A., her friends mostly cared about her auditions, her callbacks, her party invitations, her workout routine and diet, and how in the world was she lucky enough to meet Matt Biglow.
“He’s gorgeous.”
“He’s the hottest thing in L.A.”
“What? You’re going to Vegas to be on a Biglow reality show?”
“Yeah, I’m good. Just can’t seem to get organized. Imani had to eat at Ella’s this morning before camp. Why didn’t I grocery shop yesterday? Aren’t the weekends for cleaning, shopping, and binge-watching TV shows? What’d I do? Work. Researched designs for Taylor’s shoot on Wednesday. Spent three hours in the storage locker organizing everything I needed. I’m a bad mom.”
“If you mean you’re showing Imani how to be a kind, caring, conscientious woman, who maybe isn’t the best housekeeper in the world, then you’re a great mom. You can’t be good at everything.”
“Feels like I should be. Especially for her. I want her to feel safe, you know, that she belongs with me. I want her to go into the kitchen, open the fridge or a cupboard to find it full of food and yell, ‘There’s nothing to eat. Can we order from the Fry Hut?’”
“She has all of that, Gemma. Well, except the full fridge.” Haley embraced her with a laugh. “She knows she’s safe and loved. When she first came to live with you, she never smiled. Now she glows. You’ve given her a life after so much death.”
With those encouraging words in the air, Gemma’s phone sounded. She set her breakfast down on the stairs and pulled the device from her pocket.
“It’s Paula the Plumber,” she said to Haley who waved off the call.
“Don’t answer. She takes forever and then overcharges. Let me text Cole. He can have someone out there this afternoon.” Haley’s husband ran the fastest-growing construction company in middle Tennessee. “By the barn, you said?” She was already typing out her message.
“Hal, you don’t have to do that. Paula maybe be slow and overcharge, but for sure I can’t afford one of Cole’s crew.”
“For what I’m paying you, he can toss me some pro bono plumbing work.”
Gemma teared up as she headed into the office. This was why she came home. Friends, family, support. This was why she’d never leave.
She launched the shop’s email account and bookkeeping program, took a bite of her roll, then laughed when she spied the Fourth of July Three-Legged Race trophy on the file cabinet.
Pops Yer Uncle won the overall event, once again, but the shop took one heat from them. Next year, they’d take two if not the “whole blame thing.” Haley was determined. Even mentioned something about starting to train in June.
“Cole’s sending one of his guys to the farm after lunch,” Haley said, leaning into the office. “They’ll get it fixed. It’s on the house too.”
Since JoJo was off on Mondays, Gemma and Haley ran the shop in quiet camaraderie. In the afternoon when Gemma finished sorting a new shipment, Haley left to take her one-and-a-half-year-old daughter for a checkup.
She loved when she had the place to herself. The shop was peaceful, quiet, staged with symbols of love and commitment.
Gemma walked through the grand salon—which had an old Hollywood feel with a curved, gold sofa and two mid-century modern end tables—and glanced at the town from the picture window. When she turned back to the room, she noticed a layer of dust on the tables.
Grabbing a cloth from the supply closet, she worked her way around the shop, humming to herself, feeling rather, well, lighthearted.
When Imani came home Saturday night, she caught Gemma and the prince on the deck, in the dark, watching the stars, saying nothing.
When he left, Imani grilled her.
“W-what was he doing here? I didn’t know he was so gorgeous. His eyes are like blue. Really blue.”
Gemma recounted the three-legged race mishap, how he carried her over the finish line, and showed up later to check on her.
“He helped me with the herd because you abandoned me.”
“Aren’t you glad?”
“Then we ordered pizza. No big deal.”
“No big deal? Gemma, he’s a freaking prince.”
“Tell me about your night at Justin’s. Did his dad have good fireworks?”
She’d just finished with the shop dusting when a customer entered. A newly engaged woman with her mother.
“We drove up from Alabama. My grandmother bought her dress here in the forties when Miss Cora owned it.” The young woman paced around the mannequins in the small salon where Haley staged the vintage gowns. “She said she donated it to the new owner when she reopened. I’d really love to find it and buy it back. Mom, do you see it?”
“If you don’t find your grandmother’s,” Gemma said, “we’ll try to find you one like it.”
In the middle of helping them scout the older gowns, wondering what might be preserved in inventory, Gemma excused herself for her ringing phone.
Behind the counter, she gazed at the screen and sank slowly to the stool by the cash register. Matt Biglow. You must be kidding. What did he want?
“Miss, are there more vintage dresses? We can’t seem to find my mother’s.” The bride’s mother couldn’t have been much older than Gemma’s mom. She was pretty, with the countenance of success.
“Um, yes, forgive me. I’ll go to the mezzanine and bring out the rest. Some of them are quite old so we preserve them.”
The phone still buzzed in her hand as she took the stairs. The last time she communicated with her former boyfriend-slash-producer, it was with a string of hate-filled cuss words as she lay in the hospital, in post hip surgery pain, her head throbbing with a concussion.
She remembered every word she said but had convinced herself pain meds also played a part.
She let the call go to voicemail as she sorted through the vintage gowns, studying the pictures on the boxes, reading the details. She should ask the name of the grandmother. Haley labeled all the older, donated gowns with the donor’s name and information.
But she couldn’t concentrate. Matt Biglow had reached out. Why? She glanced at her phone to see he’d left a message.
Should she delete it? Listen to it and then delete it? The only reason she’d not removed him from her contacts was for a moment like this. If Matt texted or called, she wanted to know it. Just in case he was up to something. Legally he could do nothing with the reality show without her permission. But legalities never stopped him before.
In the dark, cool storeroom, Gemma gathered more vintage gowns and invited the women up.
“I do hope your grandmother’s is among these. If you find it or one you like, I’ll unbox it for you.” She excused herself “for only a moment” and disappeared into the office.
Leaning against the closed door, she breathed deep and listened to his message. More than likely she was fretting over nothing. Of course. He called to say he’s getting married. Or was getting out of show biz. Please, let it be.
“Gee Stone, long time no talk or text. Wow, you’ve gone up in the world. At least I think you have. Did I see you with Prince John?”
As if he knew she was listening, her phone buzzed with a text. On her phone screen was an image of her in Prince John’s arms, laughing. Those redneck rubberneckers. They posted pictures?
“This thing has gone wild. So, is it you? Sure looks like you. Can’t see your face really but I’d know that profile and those curves anywhere.”
Her face was partially blocked by her arm and her laugh, but to friends and family, she must be recognizable.
“You’re viral babe. #princessbride.”
Viral? Gemma left Matt’s text and searched the hashtag. Sure enough, there were pictures all over social media of her in Prince John’s arms. And there were hundreds of questions.
Who is she?
Where was this taken?
Anyone know her?
There was even a video clip on something called the Morning Show with a reporter talking about this viral event.
There were hundreds of photos. Some before the fall. Some after. Some before the finish. Some after.
Even a video of Gemma charging the hoverers and calling them rednecks. This was a disaster. For the prince. For her. Because the one person, absolutely the one person who should not get ahold of this was Matt Biglow. Oh, he was seeing an opportunity here. And he would ruin her life all over again if he thought for a moment it would get him ahead.
Chapter Seven
John
He had a series of texts with his brother Monday morning in which he discovered scooping up Gemma to cross the finish line had reached the palace.
Spent the weekend at Hadsby. Came home to find you all over social media. What’s with the woman in the IG post?
Just a friend of Buck and JoJo’s. We were in a 3-legged race and fell. I carried her over the line. How’s Daffy?
Nesting. Starting to think of nursery decorations. We didn’t get to talk before you left. Are you okay with all this?
Please. I can handle my younger brother having a baby. Mum needs an heir, doesn’t she?
I just don’t want to make you remember…
That I lost a child as well as my wife? I’ll always remember but I don’t want to miss out on your joy.
