Corina peered out the cab window as the driver turned down the long driveway toward her parents’ home, exhausted. She tried to sleep during the long flight home, but the moment she drifted away, the fullness of Stephen’s embrace jolted her awake.
Then she realized she wasn’t in his arms, so she tried to sleep again. But rest never came.
She hadn’t planned on coming back here, but she’d miss her flight home to Melbourne. She needed to talk to Daddy anyway, tell him the truth about Carlos face-to-face.
She was grateful for the light traffic and quick drive from the airport to Marietta. For the driver who didn’t ask too many questions. For when he pulled past the front gate and down the long, live-oak-shaded drive of home.
She was even more grateful for Adelaide and Brill, her guardian angels, if not in reality then in theory, who said good-bye with sad looks on their angelic faces.
“I told him I forgave him, Adelaide. And I meant it. I–I think that’s the core of loving well, don’t you?” she asked, wanting truth, wanting confirmation that she’d succeeded in her mission.
Adelaide caressed Corina’s arm. “Indeed I do.”
“Maybe I should stay? He might come around.”
“Leave it to the Father, lass. You needn’t fret so. You’re in his gracious hands.”
“Adelaide, I wish I had your confidence.”
Then the taxi arrived and there was no time for more discussion. She was going to miss those two. Whoever they were.
Adelaide and Brill watched her go in the thin light of dawn, and Corina captured the image of the old inn with its single-pane window filled with gold light and the odd and ancient proprietors waving good-bye.
Halfway over the Atlantic she realized she’d not taken one photograph of them. She pulled out her laptop and journaled her thoughts.
The cab driver curved around in front of the veranda and stopped. He popped the trunk as Corina stepped out into the early afternoon heat. Mid-June promised a sweltering summer.
Had it only been a little over a week since she was here? It felt like a lifetime.
“Here you are.” He set her suitcases by her feet.
Corina paid him and he bid her a good day. She picked up her luggage and started for the house. She missed Stephen. If she’d stayed longer, could they have started over, fallen in love again, and repaired their annulment?
She wondered if he’d let her know when he received the Pissarro. She wondered if he’d keep it but well, that was up to him. She’d done all she could to remind him of who they were. Who they could be.
She swished up the porch stairs through pockets of cool shade, her stomach rumbling for home cooking, for some of Ida Mae’s chicken and dumplings.
At the door, she tried the handle and the front door eased open.
“Hey y’all.” She deposited her suitcases in the airy grand foyer then crossed toward the kitchen. “Anybody home?”
“Hello?” A masculine voice boomed from the foyer hall.
Corina spun around. “Daddy!”
“Welcome home, Kit. How was Brighton?”
“It was . . .” She sighed. “It’s a long story. You’re home. I’m glad.” Corina fell against the man who’d been her first prince, her rock, her harbor.
He kissed her head. “I came home to check on a few things.” He was somber, and when he motioned with his folded paper for her to sit in the formal living room, dread coated her joy.
“Daddy, what’s wrong?” She sat on the edge of the sofa while he perched on the arm of the wingback chair.
“I’m going to live in the Atlanta condo for a while.”
“Daddy, don’t do this.”
“Your mom and I need some space.”
“Daddy, you don’t need space. You need to come home. She needs to leave home. You two need to go back to being Donald and Horatia Del Rey.”
“Darling, I’m not sure we can ever find those people again. By the way, our accountant called. Said you took ten million out of your Del Rey trust.”
“I bought a painting. A Pissarro.”
He looked impressed. “Well done.”
“I left it there.”
He regarded her for a moment, then nodded. “Are you planning on going back then?”
“No, I don’t think so.” If she told him it was a gift, then he’d ask for who and she didn’t want to tell him like this, when she was tired, when he was telling her about moving out. But none of this surprised her. “Daddy, are you and Mama moving toward divorce?”
“At the moment, no.”
“Because you know this is not what Carlos would want.”
“He’d not want to be dead either, but he is.”
“But you and Mama are one of the great love stories.” Corina heard Adelaide’s sweet, “It’s a gift.” “How can you not be there for each other?”
“We are, Corina. In our way.”
“What way? From a distance? By letting Carlos’s death drive you apart? Drive us apart? What about me? I’m out here all alone. It’s like I died too.” One sob broke loose and the tears followed. “Isn’t there any hope for true, lasting love?” She shot up from the sofa and paced toward the fireplace. “This ticks me off.”
“Corina, are we still talking about your mama and me?” Daddy unfurled his paper. “Or this?”
On the front page, under the Sunday Post masthead, was a full-color picture of Corina and Stephen from the King Stephen I premier. The headline read:
PRINCE STEPHEN MARRIED!
Gigi!
Corina snatched the newspaper from Daddy’s hand. “How in the world . . . Where in the world . . . I’m going to kill her.”
Daddy hooked his arm around Corina’s and walked her through the living room into Mama’s library—her chair was oddly vacant—and steered her to the kitchen. Corina trembled the entire way.
“She’s a scoundrel.” She slapped the kitchen island. “A news hound if there ever was one. Daddy, I want to sue her.”
“No you don’t.” Daddy retrieved two glasses from the cupboard and started to fill them with ice and sweet tea. “And she’d cop to all of those names. With glee.”
“Why can’t I sue her?” Corina spread the paper before them. “She just told the world my business. Stephen’s going to think I did this. To get back at him. The phones in the King’s Office will ring off the hook.”
“Corina . . .” Daddy took the paper away from her and handed her a glass. “Calm down. Forget the press. Tell me about you and Prince Stephen.” He sat on the stool next to her, cupping his hands around his own glass. “I take it the headline is true?”
“Was true. We were married six years ago. Before he deployed.”
“I knew he was Carlos’s friend. Never thought of him as yours.” Daddy toasted her with his raised glass. “The prince has splendid taste in women.”
“I signed annulment papers yesterday. We’re no longer married.” She tugged a napkin from the center dispenser and wiped her eyes. “The Archbishop of Hessenberg married us in secret.” She recounted the story of the midnight wedding, the secrets, the hidden marriage certificate, and Stephen’s surprise trip to Florida. “When he came back from Afghanistan, he didn’t want to be married, so I came home. I wanted to be with you and Mama anyway.” She yanked another napkin from the dispenser.
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
She shrugged. “We wanted it to just be our secret for a while. We didn’t feel we could tell you and Mama without telling his parents and—”
“That came with complications.”
“A few.”
Daddy sipped his tea, leaning his elbows on the counter, being available to her for the first time since he walked off into the dusk after Carlos’s funeral. “So why did you go to Cathedral City?”
“Gigi sent me to cover the premier—”
“This is Dad you’re talking to, Corina.”
“I wanted him back.” She ran her finger along the etching of her glass. “I thought God wanted us together.”
“But he had other ideas?”
Hearing the hard, concrete fact dried her tears. Surprisingly. But Daddy’s voice carried a certain tone of authority and comfort. “Pretty much.” She turned toward him, shoving her tea aside. “He was with Carlos when he died, Daddy.”
Daddy took a long sip, averting his gaze. “Yes, I know.”
“You know?” Her eyes followed his broad back as he went to the fridge for a refill.
“I’ve always known, Kit.”
“Then why didn’t you tell us? I thought you hit an information desert at the Pentagon.”
“I found a way around it. Had a connection in Senator Smith’s office.” Daddy returned to the island, this time sitting next to her, adjusting the open collar of his Polo, his eyes glistening as he looked into hers. “He put me in touch with the Joint Coalition, who told me only under the condition of utter silence, after they investigated me for six months.”
“Considering what happened, I don’t blame them.”
“I only learned the news last year. I didn’t tell you or your mother because it wasn’t prudent. First, I had to get clearance to tell you. Second, it didn’t comfort me to know he died saving Prince Stephen’s life. How would it comfort you or your mother?” Daddy’s dark gaze locked onto hers. “They looked into you, too, Kit. Never came back that you were married.”
“I told you, it was in secret.”
“Hats off to the Archbishop Caldwell.” Then, “How did you find out Carlos was with the prince that day?”
“When Stephen came here telling me about the annulment, I wouldn’t sign it. Since he was also with the Joint Coalition, I demanded he use his influence as a prince to find out about Carlos.”
“Did you know they were on the same crew?”
“No, I just figured he was the brother of the king, he ought to be able to do something besides host charity functions and cut ribbons. It was just too strange to me we didn’t have details—that you couldn’t find out anything.”
“Did he tell you the suicide bomber was a mate of his? From uni?”
“Yes.”
“And that based on Stephen’s recommendation, he was assigned to their unit as an interpreter?”
“It’s why he blames himself. He said he’s not worthy of the lives given for his.”
“For the longest time, I agreed with him. I didn’t consider him worth my son’s life.”
“For the longest time? What do you mean? Did you change your mind?”
“When I read the article in the Post this morning, I pondered if Prince Stephen was the kind of man worthy of my daughter. Would he love her and treat her kindly, be faithful, and be a good father? Then I realized he was the man my son willingly gave up his life to save.”
Corina lowered her head to his shoulder, curling her arms about his strength, a blend of weeping and sobbing.
“There, there,” Daddy soothed, his hand over her head. “It’ll be all right, Kit.”
“I still love him, Daddy.” She raised up, reaching for another napkin.
“The heart wants what the heart wants.” Daddy’s smile seemed a bit brighter, but still, the sadness haunted his eyes. “It’s good to have someone to share this with now.”
“Are you going to tell Mama? Speaking of, where is she? Where’s Ida Mae?”
“Your mom left the house right after breakfast. Ida Mae scooted out of here a half hour ago, said she had to go to Publix.” Daddy finished his tea and set his glass in the dishwasher. Multimillionaire or not, Ida Mae did not abide anyone leaving dishes in the sink when the good Lord gave them hands to load the dishwasher.
“Work it out, Daddy. It’s worth it.”
“Give us time, Corina.”
“Daddy, I bought the Pissarro for Stephen. For him to remember. That’s what you and Mama need to do. Remember who you were when you fell in love, when we were all together, happy and loving life.” Corina drank down her tea and stowed her glass in the dishwasher.
“How did you get so wise, Kit?”
“Listening to my father.”
Daddy laughed, and Corina heard a small echo of the man he used to be. “What about your job?” He reached again for the Post. “I hear she’s having financial struggles.”
She sighed, looking over Daddy’s shoulder. With an objective eye, it was a fantastic scoop, and Corina rocked that Melinda House dress even if she said so herself. But Stephen? Oh, he was a prince of a man, rugby strong, smoldering, and handsome. “I don’t know. I haven’t had time to really think about it. My gut says to quit. Gigi broke that story with no regard for me.”
“When Carl Hatch read the story, he called.” Carl was Daddy’s lawyer and partner in the golf courses. “He said Gigi wouldn’t risk a libel suit unless she was desperate. So he did some digging, made a few calls. She’s in trouble. If you’re interested, we can buy the Post, relaunch the brand, and—”
“Daddy,” Corina said, patting his hand. “I love you for believing in me this much, but I just started back into the workforce, learned the truth about my brother’s death, and got an annulment. I think I’ll lay low for a while. Get my bearings. Besides, I’m no Gigi Beaumont, conqueror of media empires.”
“Could be fun, Kit. We can hire the best in the business.”
“Like Gigi?”
“Sure, why not?” Daddy’s dark eyes danced a little. He was lean and handsome for his fifty-nine years, without grey in his hair or a spare tire around his middle. “She can stay on as news director. We’ll hire someone like Fred Kemp as CFO. He’ll have the Beaumont Post in the black within a year.”
“Oddly enough, Gigi gave me some wise advice once. She said, ‘Don’t confine yourself to a life of insignificance.’ I think that’s why she runs so hard through life, trying to be significant. I don’t want to mimic her. I want to mimic . . . Jesus.” She cleared her throat and peeked at Daddy. Did she sound corny?
“Now that’s the best plan of all.”
“Have you come back to the faith, Daddy?”
“Not as far as you, but I’m making my way.”
“Well hurry up.” Corina started out of the room, tossing her papa a glance. “Who knows what First Baptist will look like in another year without you.”
Daddy laughed and she paused at the door. “I love you, Daddy.”
“I’m sorry about your prince, Kit.”
She leaned against the doorway. “It’s not easy to catch a prince, even harder to keep one.”
“Seems you didn’t lose him, darling. He chose to walk off.”
“Either way, my love for him wasn’t enough to conquer death.” She shoved away from the counter. “But then you and Mama already know that, don’t you?”
“Kit . . .,” Daddy said.
“Right, give you time. What does Mama think about me marrying a prince?”
“She never said. All I heard was a gasp from her library. Then she was on the phone and, I don’t know, ran out shortly after breakfast. Haven’t seen her since.” Daddy tapped the newspaper against the kitchen counter. “Shall I fly to Brighton and have a talk with your young man?”
She laughed. “It’s too late. But thank you for asking.”
“Shug, if he really is your prince, don’t give up.”
Corina stopped his line of thinking with a flash of her palm. “I just spent a week trying to love well, and what I got was an annulment. But I did forgive him, Daddy.”
“That sounds like loving well to me.”
Corina jerked her thumb in the direction of the stairs. “I’m going to fix my flight home for tomorrow and take a nap. Tomorrow I’ll quit my job, then spend a week on the beach plotting my next move.”
“I know a few movie people if you need some help.”
“Hey, now you’re talking. We can get Clive Boston to star in the movie version of How to Catch a Prince. And lose him.”
“Don’t laugh, Kit. It can happen. Sounds like an Oscar winner to me. But don’t you think Clive’s a bit long in the tooth for such a role?”
“Don’t let him hear you say that.” Her laugh mingled with Daddy’s, and for the first time in five and a half years, Corina felt a little piece of the way things used to be. “Daddy, I know losing Carlos has been hard on us all, especially you, losing your son and heir, but don’t let it destroy us.”
“You’re my heir, Corina. But you’re right.” He nodded, but she could tell he still wrestled with his heart. “I’ll work on it as long as you promise me that the next time you get married, I walk you down the aisle. I’ve been looking forward to that since the day you were born.” He waved the newspaper at her. “I felt a little cheated when I read this.”
“I promise. And you know I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Your Highness.” Archbishop Caldwell stepped aside for Stephen to enter his seaside cottage. A cozy abode with a clutter of books and papers stacked around the small living room. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I hope I’m not disturbing you.” The place felt like home the moment Stephen walked in and sank into a plush, deepred sofa.
“No, no, not at all. This is my wife, Lola.”
“Your Highness.” She curtsyed. “Would you care for tea?” She picked up the magazines and books by Stephen’s feet and stacked them on an end table.
“Thank you, kindly. Tea would be lovely.”
“I’ve baked blueberry scones. Would you care for one?”
“Again, thank you.” Now that he was here, the tension eased from his gut and his stomach reminded him he’d walked out on his breakfast. “But please, don’t go to any bother.”
Her laugh bubbled. “Pshaw, ’tis no trouble a-tall. Mack, I gather you’d like some tea as well.”
“As long as you’re serving the prince.” Archbishop Caldwell removed his glasses, setting them on the table next to his chair. “It’s good to see you. It’s been a number of years. I heard your service in Afghanistan ran into a bit of trouble.”
Stephen sat forward, rubbing his hands together, warming away the chill of nerves. “Some, yes. Lost everyone on my crew but me.”
“Do you care to talk about it? Is that why you’re here?”
“No, I’m here on another matter.”
“Whatever it is, I can see it troubles your soul.”
Mrs. Caldwell returned with the tea and scones, giving the men and the conversation a moment to breathe. Gain direction.
Stephen stirred his tea, his spoon clicking against the china cup. He peeked at the archbishop, who drank his tea with a look of contentment, offering nothing to Stephen but the space to speak.
Which he didn’t exactly know how to fill. Setting aside his tea, he stretched his legs and cramping ankle. Lately the pain seemed much more intense. He was starting to believe the injury would be with him the rest of his life.
He regarded the spiritual leader. “Sir, may I ask you a question?”
“Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“Why did you marry us? In secret? Corina and me? We woke you up in the middle of the night, asking you to break Brighton royal law.” Six years ago, the archbishop was a servant of the House of Stratton and the Church of Brighton, avowed to keep the nation’s and God’s laws.
The sister island nations were hobbled together by a hundred-year-old entail until Hessenberg discovered their own long-lost princess last year and established themselves as a sovereign nation once again.
“You tell me,” Mr. Caldwell said.
“Why you married us?”
“Yes, why do you think I agreed to your request, keeping quiet all these years?”
“Because I’m the prince? Because you . . . I don’t know . . . wanted us out of your hair so you could go back to bed? Leave me to sort out my own mess?”
The man laughed. “I’ve said no to kings and queens. Do you think I’d have any qualms about denying a young prince his seemingly impetuous request?”
Stephen sat back, holding his teacup in his palm. “Her twin brother died. In Afghanistan. I was there.”
“Ah, I see. Is that why you’ve been apart?”
“Yes.”
“And what does she think of this arrangement?”
“She says she loves me. She only recently learned the entire truth and why I cannot be with her.”
“Can’t be with her? Are you still married?”
“She signed annulment papers.”
“And it’s bothering you?”
“A little. I want to know why you married us.”
“Why did you want to marry Corina a month before you deployed?”
“I just wanted to be with her. Not just for a night, not to . . . you know . . . and then leave. I wanted to give her my name, a title. I wanted to spend my life with her. I love her.” He set down his tea, having no desire for it.
“And she loved you?”
“Yes, she loved me. She says she still loves me.”
“There’s your answer. Why I married you. That night, when you knocked on my door rousing me from sleep, I was a bit irritated. Then I opened the door to two people very much in love. I saw my reflection in your eyes. The way I felt about my missus when we married forty-five years ago. Otherwise, don’t think I’d have hesitated to send you back home. Prince or not.”
“You see, sir, when I look at her, I see . . . her brother . . . bleeding and dying. I’ve had a dream of her walking among the dead, wailing, her white wedding dress splattered with blood.” Stephen gripped his hands together, squeezing, cleansing away the invisible stain. “I did that to her, to those men.”
“You are somehow responsible for their deaths?”
The old man was trying to understand the details Stephen could not speak. He’d trusted him with a secret six years ago, but he could not betray the Defense Ministry’s classified files again. He was the Prince of Brighton, after all.
“Indirectly, yes.”
“A wrong decision?”
“Indirectly.” Asif appeared to be a stellar choice at the start. But . . .
“You cannot tell me more, can you?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“I’ve enough to understand, I believe.” The archbishop reached for a scone, then settled back in his chair. “Would you care for one?”
“No, thank you.” He thought he did, but the conversation had filled his empty belly.
“As I see it, whatever transpired over there has left you feeling responsible, perhaps guilty, and you cannot face Corina.”
“Not as my wife, no.” A soft, blue word slipped from his lips, but he didn’t apologize or wish it back. “Her brother, the others, did not deserve to die, not for the cause that spilled their blood.”
“You alone survived?”
He nodded, dropping his chin to his chest, his eyes filling, a peppery heat trailing along his emotions, burning his thoughts. “I’m not worthy. I–I hesitated. They died.”
“And this hesitation makes you responsible in some way.”
“Yes, precisely. And betrayed by someone I’d once considered a friend.”
“Quite a sticky wicket.”
“Quite.” Slumping forward, Stephen crashed his head into his hands. “I dream of them, their suffering.”
“And you can’t forgive yourself, can you?”
“Never!” He fired to his feet, leaning on his wounded ankle, pain striking his bones, spiking down through his foot. “I am not worthy.”
“No man is worthy until Christ makes him worthy.”
“Don’t you see? They died in vain.”
“Did your Lord, the Christ, die in vain as well?”
“Pardon? I don’t follow. The Christ had nothing to do with my men.”
“He has everything to do with you, and your men. If he counted you worthy of his death, then you were worthy for those men. No greater love is this than a man lay down his life for his friends.”
“Stop!” Stephen pressed his palms to his ears. “Lie. It’s a lie.”
“But you count yourself as unworthy, and therefore not worthy of a woman like Corina and unworthy of Christ’s love.”
“Because I am unworthy. I may be a prince on the outside, but on the inside I’m a man like every other, and war or no . . .” He hesitated, on the brink of sharing too much. “My life is not worth that of another. And I certainly don’t compare to Christ. He perhaps is worth men giving up their lives, but not me.”
“He was also man. With emotions. He was also betrayed by those closest to him.”
“He’s also God.”
“But he was also a man.”
The archbishop chuckled, though Stephen failed to see the merriment, and considered his tea, taking a hearty sip. The old man broke off a corner of his scone, closing his eyes, hmmmming his enjoyment, spiking Stephen’s irritation.
He should just leave. This was an ill-planned quest.
“What do you want from me?” the archbishop finally said. “You seem set on your answers.”
Stephen regarded him. “I–I . . .” What did he want by coming here? “I thought I wanted to know why you married us.” Stephen picked at the upholstery threads, feeling his heart and foolishness exposed. “But now I don’t know.”
“If you could go back, do it all over again, would you? Marriage, deployment, serving with those particular men?”
“I–I don’t know.”
“What might you do different? Not marry her? Perhaps serve with different men? Make different choices?”
“No, I’d probably be foolhardy enough to marry her.” Face it, you love her! “And the boys in our crew were the best in the entire squadron. It was an honor to serve with them. But yes, there are a few different actions I’d take.”
“In hindsight.”
“In hindsight.”
“My dear prince, you need a new perspective.” The archbishop struggled out of his chair to join Stephen on the couch. “Your worth is not determined by who you are or what you do, even what you don’t do. It’s determined by the work of your Savior. If our Lord bore the cross to declare you worthy, then indeed you are, and nothing—not war, nor death, regrets, injury, broken hearts, or tabloid headlines—can change it. Only if you choose not to accept it.”
“I confess I’m not a religious man, archbishop.”
“Then can you be a believing man? One of faith in God? Let him forgive you so you can forgive yourself. Let this matter go to him. Otherwise, your mates indeed died in vain if you confine yourself to a life of regret, bearing a burden that doesn’t seem like yours to bear. And not forgiving yourself for it.” He spoke in an even, calm tone, sorting through Stephen’s emotions with the fine edge of his wisdom. “In the end, you die with them, but only after years of a slow, withering kind of death, fulfilling your own prophecy. They died in vain. That banged-up ankle you sport will seem a welcome respite when it’s all said and done.”
His words melded with a heavy, oily presence in the room, creating a spicy-sweet fragrance that washed over Stephen. When he closed his eyes, he felt as if he were floating.
“What choice will you make? Your Highness, you cannot undo the past. But you can blanket it in the Lord’s blood, not that of your mates, and the Son of God will heal you and ensure your future days.”
The declaration rattled him. Disquieted his self-righteousness. He felt the rumble and shift in his chest. He’d believed in God most of his thirty-one years. But after Torkham, doubt and confusion shattered his small faith. “What do you want from me?” His spirit churned, addressing the question more to the One who hovered in the room than the archbishop sitting next to him.
“He wants everything, Your Highness. I’d say he earned it. If you could meet with your mates, somehow in the beyond, wouldn’t you give them everything for dying for you?”
“My royal scepter. My crown, my title, my money . . . yes, my everything.”
“The Christ will do the same for you. If you give him your everything. Come to the cross.” The archbishop’s voice seemed to stir the oil in the room.
Stephen remained planted, shaking so violently on the inside, his hands and legs trembled. He gripped his knees, trying to control the waves coursing through him, but he could not.
“Best give in, lad. The Lord has come for you, and I dare believe he’s not leaving until he has your surrender.”
“Surrender to what?”
“To him, to his cross, to his love and the fact that you, my boy, were worth dying for.”
Worth dying for . . .
The phrase crushed him so intensely, Stephen slid off the sofa, unable to command his muscles, and hit the floor on his knees, weeping, the heel of his hand pressed into his eyes. Humiliating, undignified . . . But he could not stop it.
His chest expanded with each sob, filling with the reality of his own weaknesses and sin. Sin he’d never contemplated, actions and thoughts he’d once delighted in ground him down, further into the unseen presence in the room.
“Lord, forgive him.” The archbishop’s soft prayer demolished Stephen’s last wall.
A wail exploded from his chest, a sound he’d never heard. “Lord, they died for me. An unworthy man.” He sucked in a sharp, shallow breath, unable to fill his lungs. “Lord—” The name smoothed over his tongue, and from his lips he confessed. “Jesus, you are Lord and died for me. Forgive me. Let me forgive myself. Please, remember Bird and Carlos, the lads who died. Asif . . . remember Asif. And Corina, my Corina.” The words continued to flow as he lowered his chest to the floor, prostrating himself, and letting every hidden thing come to the light.
And moment by moment, Stephen Stratton, Prince of Brighton, became the man he’d always longed to be.