To Save a King, page 8
Have you met Scottie yet?
On my way there today. Arranged things with her father Trent last night.
Keep us posted. And don’t get caught up in America. I know it’s tempting after heartbreak but you must come home. I’m not born to be a king.
I must be there for Holland’s memorial and place the one-year wreath on her headstone. For the record, I’m not sure I’m fit to be king either.”
He’d been with Buck and JoJo all day Sunday and off social media. Not that he was on social media very much. Apparently he’d missed an explosive post of him carrying Gemma. He could kick himself in hindsight. What did he think would happen? Carrying a beautiful woman in his arms was too much for people to resist. And he’d seen the hordes of watchers holding up their phones. The Lauchtenland media must be eating it up.
He would ring Gemma after his meeting, see how she fared. Most people longed for a viral social media post, but he had a sense she was not one of them.
However, the task at hand was meeting his sister. He’d arrived at the modern O’Shay’s Shirts home office, and as he walked into the clean, white, almost-sterile lobby, with Gunner on his flank, John collected his thoughts, arranged his expectations. Today he was meeting his sister.
The woman at the receptionist desk glanced up from her computer, then launched to her feet, toppling her chair.
“It’s you.” She yanked off her headset as she stumbled around the desk and curtsied. “Prince John.” She reached over the desk’s riser for her phone. “Can get a selfie? Please?”
“Thank you but no,” Gunner said, stepping in front of John. Security details forbade posing for photos when out and about.
“Alena, leave the prince alone.” A crisp, resonating voice echoed through the cavernous lobby.
An elegant, well-built man in a pale blue button-down and khakis ambled down the wood-and-steel floating staircase.
“Trent O’Shay,” he said, greeting John with a firm handshake. His bold manner was welcoming while broadcasting he was a man of means. The king of an international enterprise. “Come on up.”
John nodded to Gunner, who indicated he would wait in one of the modern, lime-green leather chairs.
“Alena, show his man to the cafeteria.” Trent pointed to Gunner before heading to the second floor.
His man? Gunner would not like that much. He was a trained special forces officer serving in HMSD—Her Majesty’s Security Detail.
“I trust you had no trouble finding us.” At the top of the stairs, Trent led John down a row of glass-and-steel offices with a view toward the river, then down an L-shaped corridor where the offices doubled in size. Overhead, the mountainous ceiling brought in light from every angle.
“This is impressive,” John said.
“After years and years of working in a dark, enclosed, ’60s-era brick structure, we finally came into the twenty-first century.” Trent’s headquarters had a view of Hearts Bend from the river to the highway. “Come on in. Have a seat.” He paused between his desk and a seating area where a rather grand leather couch faced two matching chairs and a designer center table. “Can I get you anything?” He pointed to the paneled wall where John imagined a hidden kitchenette. “Coffee, tea, water, soda, sports drink, juice.”
“I’m fine, thank you.” John started to sit but noticed the company’s pictorial history on the walls.
Trent took a seat on the couch and John knew he was being inspected. Not as a prince but as his daughter’s brother. As Catherine Blue’s son.
“How do you like Hearts Bend? It’s no Port Fressa but very sweet and inviting. We’ve got Nashville and Memphis for culture, should we feel the need.”
“I’m enjoying it. Very peaceful.” John scanned the pictorial avenue and moved down the wall to the beginning.
“Have you tried the Fry Hut yet? Best burger and fries anywhere.”
“Not yet. But Buck has mentioned them.”
“When I was in high school, my buddies and I ate at the Hut every night after football practice. Then went home for dinner and gobbled up whatever our folks made.” His laugh was smooth and rich. John liked him.
“Founded in nineteen hundred.” John read the brass plate tacked to the white oak frame. The history progressed from grainy black-and-white images to the high tech, brilliant colors of the present.
“My great-grandfather started out with a seamstress and a bolt of cloth. He was sixteen.”
“Quite the entrepreneur.” John spotted a young Trent by an industrial loom. His expression bore the same confidence and swagger he displayed in the few photos he’d shared with Mum, which she’d finally shown the family. “I’m sure he’d be impressed with what you’ve done with the business.”
“Maybe. I sometimes think he wonders why we work so hard. He was ambitious, no doubt, and wanted to live well, but he was a family man. And he loved his travels. I’ve not left the office for more than a long weekend fishing trip in seven years.”
“Then you must schedule time away.” John paused at the final photo. It was taken at what appeared to be a new plant with Trent and the striking brunette that was his half sister.
“With all of our construction finished, I’m inclined to agree with you, but I can’t seem to break away.”
John inquired of the revenue—not specifics—the number of employees and the company’s charitable work. Trent answered with open ease and handed John a pamphlet of the shirts they manufactured for the homeless and men in recovery programs.
“We have a Fresh Shirt Foundation, and a Back to Work program provides training and clothing for men ready to reenter the marketplace. We’ve actually hired quite a few of our graduates to work for O’Shay’s.”
“Nothing for the ladies?” By the look of Scottie, he’d have thought she would’ve championed a women’s division long ago.
“We’ve researched a possible women’s market but it’s vibrant with companies doing a stellar job. Though we do partner with charities that help women return to the workplace. In the end, we decided to stick with what we know, our expertise, and uniqueness. But you didn’t come to talk about O’Shay’s Shirts, did you?”
“No, I suppose not.” Taking a seat opposite Trent, John noticed a large backpack in the corner. The kind he’d used the year he trekked across Europe then North America. “Is she—”
A feminine voice echoed in the hall. A door clicked. “Okay, Dad, I’m going home and—”
John stood as Scottie walked in. She was the image of Mum. Piercing blue eyes peering out from a regal, sculpted face, the embodiment of the glass-and-steel structure surrounding them.
Her brunette hair was dyed a white blonde, worn short and neat. Dressed in hiking trousers and boots, she appeared to be on her way somewhere. Or perhaps returning.
“What’s going on?” She glanced from John to her father.
“Why don’t you sit down?” Trent motioned for Scottie to join him on the sofa.
“What for?” That was intended for John, he knew. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m hungry and desperate for a long, hot bath.” She reached for the corner backpack.
“Alena can bring you something from the cafeteria, Scottie, and you can wait ten minutes to clean up.” Trent turned to John. “Scottie has been in Guatemala for six weeks.” He ordered a sandwich lunch box with fruit, chips, and milk via the smart device on the center table. Then one more time admonished Scottie to sit down.
“I don’t know what you’re up to, Dad, but today is not the day.” She hoisted her gear onto her shoulders. “Sorry, Prince John, I know you’ve come a long way but I hope your purpose was for something more than meeting me.”
“Scottie, sit down.” Trent didn’t bother to disguise his exasperation.
“Why? So I can hear the queen’s excuses along with yours? Even more from her son. Yet none from her own lips. I’m not in the mood.” She turned to John. “I suppose they lied to you too.”
“We didn’t know you existed.”
“Better than being told a bald-faced lie. For thirty-four years I think my mother died but turns out she’s not only alive but a queen. A queen!”
“Scottie, I know you’re tired,” Trent said, “but please act like we raised you right.” He angled forward, arms on his legs, fingers loosely laced. “Her grandmother, my mother, Shug, and my father, Fritz, wanted to shelter her. So we told her, well, the big lie. Plus, I think Mom secretly wanted a daughter and this was her chance to mold someone into her mini-me.”
“Don’t blame them, Dad.” With a sigh, Scottie unloaded her backpack and dropped into the nearest chair. “You could’ve told me the truth at any time.”
“I’m afraid the queen didn’t want him to, Scottie.” John wasn’t defending his mother or Scottie’s father, just interjecting the facts, the complications. “Even in nineteen eighty-five, a pregnant crown princess without a husband was scandalous.”
“She knows,” Trent said. “I’ve told her everything.”
“So everyone looked out for themselves with no regard for me.” Scottie stood and squared off in front of John. “Why are you here?” She was way more steel than glass.
“Well…” He’d prepared a speech but with her staring him down, he couldn’t recall a single word. “First, it’s nice to meet you.”
Her tense posture broke with a smile. “Yes, of course, it’s nice to meet you too. It’s weird, I guess, to have a brother.”
“Two brothers. And it’s weird for Gus and me as well. We’ve a big sister.”
“Watch her, Prince John, she’s bossy.”
“Please, call me John. Both of you.” Ah, he remembered his speech. “Scottie, on behalf of the queen and the royal House of Blue, I welcome you to the family.”
That was ghastly. Sounded like he was offering her a palace job.
“Thank you, but can I be clear? You can tell your mother and the Blues I am not a member of your family.” She stated her truth without guile or resentment. “I’m an O’Shay. Princess of a different kingdom. One that makes and sells one of the best men’s clothing lines. I’m happy my mother is alive, and it’s interesting, if not awkward, to know I have blood siblings, but let’s not try to mend fences or create some sort of happily blended family. We’re from very different worlds, John. I have no interest in yours and you certainly have no interest in mine.”
“My daughter doesn’t mince words,” Trent said.
Scottie’s box lunch arrived but she didn’t reach for it. “I hope you didn’t come all the way to Hearts Bend just to meet me.” Retrieving her backpack once again, she hooked it over her shoulders with ease.
“I’m afraid I did. At the behest of the queen.”
“You’re her olive branch?”
“She sends her greetings.” Should he relay any of her private musings? How the woman, not the queen, felt vulnerable to rejection? How she knew she’d done her daughter a disservice. John stood to meet his sister’s kind but hard gaze. “My mother, our mother, wears a crown as well as any queen. She’s strong and stable, wise, just, and kind. She listens. She tries all sides. But when the crown comes off, she’s just a wife and a mum, a woman with flaws and failings, struggles. For what it’s worth, Scottie, she hurts over this situation as much as you, probably more. Because she knew you, carried you in her arms, kissed your wee forehead and handed you over to your father knowing she could never look back.”
He stopped, restraining any farther emotional soliloquy. Scottie’s eyes glistened and he felt a bit of a teary burn himself.
“Does it matter how I feel? Everything seems to be about her and her position as queen.”
“I understand, believe me. It’s complicated. But she’s reaching out to—”
“Reaching out? Why now? Our story broke over a year ago and I’ve heard very little from your family. What’s so important that I have to accept her olive branch?”
“That I cannot tell you, but here we are. To be fair, after the news broke, she did, I believe, send an inquiry?”
“Her secretary wrote to Dad. That’s not a mother reaching out to the daughter she abandoned.” Scottie adjusted the backpack, holding onto the strap with her hands. “It’s too late. I’m sorry. I’m thirty-five, not a child.”
“It’s too late for your childhood but not for the rest of your life, Scottie.” Trent’s fatherly wisdom turned her tears to ire.
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten your part in this.”
“Scottie, my hands were tied. Come on, let it go. Or try to understand.”
“You could’ve at least told me she was alive. Know what? Forget it. I’m not going to rehash this. John, enjoy your time in Hearts Bend.” She stuck out her hand. “Nice to meet you. Give my regards to your mom, brother, dad, aunts, cousins, whoever.”
“And if I’d told you, Scottie, then what?” Trent wove his question in between her flippant salutation. “You’d have started asking to meet her. Wondering where she lived, what she did with her life, why she left.”
But Scottie was already at the door. With the soft click, John was alone with Trent.
“She’s bullheaded.”
“Like mother like daughter.”
“She and I are having dinner tonight. Join us. She’ll be more affable after a bath, a bit of food, and a nap.”
“Are you sure?” Gemma came to mind. If he agreed to dinner, he’d like an ally at the table. But was she an ally? “She seems resolved to her position.”
“I’ll text you the address.” Trent retrieved his phone from his desk. “Bring a guest if you’d like. Do you know anyone in town besides Buck and JoJo?”
“I’ve made a recent acquaintance, yes.”
“The girl from the Fourth of July three-legged race? Alena showed me a plethora of social media posts when I came in on Monday.”
Plethora? Understatement of the year.
“Gemma Stone. Do you know her?” John’s phone pinged with a text from Trent. He tapped the screen to find a map to the man’s home.
“Not personally. I know of her. After Scottie graduated from Rock Mill High, Gemma became the school’s new darling, being voted prom and homecoming queen. You know, those crazy All-American traditions we both love and loathe. I’m sure you have similar ones in Lauchtenland. Anyway, I believe she even won a local beauty contest and then bugged out to Hollywood. I didn’t know she was back in town.”
So it was Trent O’Shay who peeled back the first layer of Gemma Stone.
“Apparently. I don’t know much of her except she can’t weigh more than nine or ten stone. We were paired in the race by Jo who wanted to win a trophy for her wedding shop.”
Trent laughed. “Everyone wants to take down Pops Yer Uncle. They win every year. So, yes, bring Gemma. Buck and JoJo too. Scottie knows them. Friendly faces might defuse some of the tension.”
“Buck’s playing the Ryman tonight but I’ll bring Gemma if she’s available.”
“Seven o’clock.” By Trent’s manner, John could tell he wanted to return to work so he said goodbye.
On his way to the truck with Gunner, John texted his brother.
I met her. Tough but tender. Reminds me of Mum and Great-granny.
She’s a Blue then.
In her DNA but otherwise she’s an O’Shay.
Does she want to meet us?
Not really but having dinner tonight.
Have you informed Mum?
Let’s see how things progress. How is she by the way?
Good, I think. She and Dad are at Hadsby for holiday. Give sis my regards.
John smiled.
Will do. She sent hers, btw.
Driving the quiet Tennessee roads—with Gunner riding silently beside him—John sorted and categorized the meeting, wondering all the more why Mum wanted to meet Scottie now.
Her challenge was spot-on. It’d been a year since the truth came out. So why ask to meet this summer? And if one wanted to be technical, the truth had been alive for Mum and Trent for thirty-five years.
Well, he’d done his bit. Met his sister. After dinner tonight, he’d enjoy the rest of his holiday before returning home to face reality. The anniversary of Holland’s funeral and the memorial service where he’d lay the final wreath. Then on to his investiture ceremony. Would Mum indeed change the old writ?
But for now, he’d shove all that aside and extend a dinner invitation to Gemma. His rather lovely plus-one, if she’d do him the honor.
“Eloise Ltd. is claiming something afoul with the sale of a Midlands tract of land to Hessenberg manufacturer Reingard Industries. ‘Three months ago we were denied the purchase of the north Midlands tract. Today we learned Reingard Industries is breaking ground for a massive plant. We are asking for an investigation.’”
— Clark Wilson, the News Leader
“Cecily and I were wondering whatever happened to the portrait of Princess Holland? Was it completed? Will it ever be revealed? We think it should be, don’t you?”
— Loyal Royals Blog
“The queen and king consort are on holiday for the month of July, enjoying Hadsby Castle in the Old Hamlet part of Dalholm. Here’s our royal reporter Melissa Faris on what it might be like to live in the ancient castle.”
— Stone Brubaker, the Morning Show
“Can anyone tell us what’s going on with Prince John and the mysterious woman in his arms?”
— @StefwithanF on Instagram
Chapter Eight
Gemma
Okay, life was getting weird. First the call from Matt Biglow. Which she did not answer.
