Inconceivable! (12 page)

“Sounds perfect.” I took a sip of wine. “So, here goes. Jack and I met on campus at the gym. I used to go workout after class to blow off steam, and Jack was always there. You know his real name is Jacques, right? But he likes everyone to call him Jack. Whatever. At first, I thought that was cute, but then it just seemed like he was trying to be someone else. Anyway, we started talking, and then one night, he asked me to go with him for coffee.

I paused to swallow.

“We quickly became a couple. I loved going to his rugby matches… until I didn’t. I competed with rugby for his time and attention. One evening when he was supposed to be hanging out with his teammates, I decided to go to the gym. He was there jogging around the track with a beautiful, petite blonde. In terms of appearance, she was the complete opposite of me. The way their bodies brushed against each other without flinching and the way they looked so comfortable together, I knew he was sleeping with her.” I stopped again, tears threatening to spill from my eyes.

“Hatty, you don’t have to keep going.”

Oh yes I do. The spigot’s wide open.

“Jack confessed right away when I asked him about it. He told me he simply had more in common with Hilga from Germany than with Hatty from America. He was so matter-of-fact about it, and that really hurt. He used to say looking at me was like seeing a movie star from the early days of Hollywood. I thought it was a lovely compliment, but after I found out he cheated on me, it made me feel frumpy. So you can see why I’m kind of mystified by the fact that you want to spend time with me.”

I took a deep breath, willing the lingering anger to settle down.

John reached across the table and took my hand, squeezing it gently. “The woman I loved is named Claire Léglise. Her family owns one of the most popular casinos in Monaco. I courted her. She knew I was close to proposing, but she chose to end our relationship.”

Close to proposing
. A cocktail of excitement, nervousness, and expectancy prompted my brain to dust off a memory of my seven-year-old self wearing a wispy white nightgown and my mom’s slip as a veil. But the prospect of John proposing, even at some distant date, worried me. What would that mean for my career?

It was almost imperceptible, but I was staring at him so intently, I noticed the flicker of pain in his eyes. I squeezed his hand. A twinge of jealousy confirmed my budding affection for John.; clearly, he still cared for Claire, and clearly, that bothered me.

“She blamed my family because she thought they weren’t sufficiently welcoming. She also didn’t want to spend the rest of her life under constant scrutiny from the press. She felt it could ruin her family’s business. So, we said goodbye, and I haven’t seen her since.”

“Since when?”
I’m not sure I want to know.

“Since July.”

“Three months ago? Are you ready to go through this process again so soon? And with someone you hardly know?”

A soft knock again stopped our conversation. Jean-Paul entered and supervised as two men brought the food to our table and served us. I gave the requisite ohh’s and ahh’s, but felt eager to return to the topic at hand.

When we were once again alone, I said, “John, are you really ready for this now?”

“My brother asked me the same question last night. Yes, I’m ready. I don’t believe in letting the past bind you. Hatty, you’re so completely different from Claire or any other woman I’ve ever dated. You don’t hold back. You speak your mind. I need more people like that in my life.”

“You might get tired of it. Before too long, you’ll want me to keep my mouth shut.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

I picked up my spoon and tasted the meat stew. “Oh, my goodness. So. Good.”

“I’m glad you like it. I love Flemish cooking,” he said, digging into his bowl of stew.

We spent the rest of the meal talking about our favorite movies and the books we love. Both of us laughed too easily thanks to the wine; it bathed reality in a soft, warm glow.

When we arrived in Toulene, we waited by ourselves in the train car while the rest of the passengers emptied into the station. It was time for us to leave, but he slipped his arm around my waist and pulled me close. He kissed me softly on the lips. Slower this time. It felt the way kisses in the movies look: intense, sensual, not one movement out of sync. There was a sense of restraint; we stood on the precipice of a new relationship, only beginning to get acquainted. Even so, this kiss hinted at the depth of our attraction.

“Sleep well. I look forward to seeing you soon,” he said, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. His tenderness and the way he gazed into my eyes eased my concern about his fairly recent break-up with Claire.

Before I started my car, I sent James a text:
No story tonight. The event was a bust, just a low-key family gathering.

Turning the ignition, there was a tune simmering on my lips.
Ding, dong, the blog is dead.
I couldn’t wait for Monday when I’d walk into James’ office and tell him I was done with First Rate Royals. I was about to find out just how first rate the royals really were.

he noisy vibration of my new phone zapped me out of my dream―a surreal recap of the previous day’s trip to Ghent. I thought James might be calling to chew me out for not filing a story last night; it was strange he never responded to my text. The words “No Caller ID” flashed across the top. I fumbled with the slim rectangle and answered just before it went to voicemail.

Before putting the phone to my ear, my eyes noted the time on the phone’s screen: 6:30 a.m.

“Hello?”

“Hatty Brunelle?”

“Yes. This is she.”

“This is Cilla d’Hiver. I’m head of the public affairs office at Belvoir. Do you have a minute?”

I grabbed my glasses and sat up in bed. “Is this about the paperwork I need to sign?”
John doesn’t waste any time.

“I’m calling about the story you wrote for today’s edition of
The Morning Dispatch
.”

Surprise and confusion swished in my brain. “I didn’t write a story.”

“It’s on your blog. It’s also in today’s print edition above the fold. Your story reveals information and details you collected from the prince yesterday.”

I reached for my laptop sitting on the nightstand and flipped open the lid. “Hang on… I still don’t know what you’re talking about.” Struggling to keep my voice steady, I inhaled deeply, reminding myself I’d done nothing wrong.

“I’m calling to put you on notice and say the palace has no comment…”

“Wait! My laptop’s not on yet.” My school-issued laptop was half a step above two Dixie cups and a piece of string.

“In the future, if you want to contact the Meinrad family, come through me. Good day.”

The line went dead. What just happened?

My laptop finally woke up, and I opened my blog. The top headline tattled the precious secret John had entrusted to me:

Secret Charity Work Revealed! In Her Final Days, Princess Beatrix Established a Foundation for Cancer Patients

From staff reports

The Morning Dispatch has learned exclusively that shortly before her death, Toulene’s Princess Beatrix set up and funded a foundation to support cancer patients in Ghent, her hometown.

Public tax records for the foundation reveal the Meinrad family continues to funnel yearly donations to the organization even though it provides no services to the people of Toulene.

“I can’t believe the royal family is sending Toulenians’ tax money outside our borders to fund a pet project of the late princess,” said Assemblyman Henk Haas who chairs the finance committee.

Prince John traveled to Ghent Saturday to visit patients who receive medical supplies and other services from the foundation.

“He visits us as often as he can, usually two or three times a year,” said a cancer patient leaving the foundation office Saturday.

A sick feeling rose up in my chest. Who wrote the story and how did they get this information? I dialed James’ cell phone, knowing he’d pick up even though it was early on Sunday morning.

He answered on the second ring. “Did you see the story?” he asked.

“What the hell are you doing?” I yelled into the phone.

“I’ll ask you the same thing because your text said there was no story.”

“John made me promise to keep the information about his mother’s foundation off the record.”

“Fine. But Paul made no such promise. He followed you because I knew you’d need back-up.”

“Back-up? Don’t you trust me to do my job?”

“The prince promised to take you to a private event. I expected him to gag you with an off-the-record request, so I sent Paul along as your wingman.”

“Wingman? I didn’t know he was going to be there. Look, I’ve done my best to earn the prince’s trust and do my job. Do you have any idea how hard it is to strike that balance? And now you’ve ruined it.” I huffed as though I’d jogged a mile, and I had runner’s adrenaline screaming through my veins. “I quit. I’m done with the blog and I’m done with your paper.”

“You can’t quit. You’ll fail your internship.”

“We’ll see. I’ll talk to my advisor tomorrow. If I have to stay in school an extra semester, that’s fine. But I’m not going to let you undermine my credibility and burn my sources.” I mashed the red button on the screen to end the call. Then I threw my phone into my pillow and let my tears pour over the injustice of the situation.

After washing my face and blowing my nose, I picked up the phone to call Tilda. She’d help me figure out how to fix this cluster. I was in no shape to formulate a plan.

The lights were low, and only a couple of people remained in the front room of Finn’s―Monday evenings were slow after ten. Sitting at the bar, I nursed a diet soda. My phone showed thirty minutes had passed since I sent my napkin note to the back room where the prince, Plato, and some other guys were playing poker. The message I sent him?
I refuse to fold.

I typed a text to Tilda, telling her our plan didn’t work.

“I don’t think you want to hit send,” a deep voice behind me said.

John put his hand on my arm and I flipped my phone so it was facedown.