Clouds and rain trailed Tropical Storm Anna and covered Melbourne and the beaches all weekend.
Corina distracted herself Saturday by cleaning and running errands through semi-flooded streets, regretting that she’d shared such a tender part of her heart with Stephen. He’d not earned the right, and now he’d carry another part of her away with him.
But as the day passed, she felt his absence and wondered how he and Thomas filled their day.
She also felt lighter. Her thoughts clearer. A melody bubbling in her heart. Maybe that’s what she needed all along. An unburdening. A good therapy session. She’d been to grief counseling years ago, but it had taken time for all of her thoughts and feelings to manifest.
She slept fitfully Saturday night but woke Sunday with the need to worship. To fix her heart on Someone greater than herself. Tugging on a pair of jeans and a blouse, she made her way to the House of Freedom in Viera.
Church had been a staple in the Del Reys’ home until Carlos’s funeral. Afterward, Daddy resigned from the church board and Mama left all of her committees as well as the Georgia Women’s Charity she’d founded.
The years of mourning wearied Corina, made her spiritually dull, and she found herself drifting a bit from Truth. She’d spend her Sundays sleeping in, reading the paper, watching movies. Escape of the carnal kind.
But coming out of the fog, she knew she must return to the One who held the answers. He had to be the true solution to her dark years. Because he was the only true light.
She’d visited Freedom a handful of times since she’d moved to Melbourne, so Sunday morning, as she slipped into the back row and the music started, she was instantly caught up in his presence.
She closed her eyes and raised her hands as high as any Baptist girl could do, weeping, and whispered, “Here I am, Lord.”
The music changed and Corina moaned, pressing her hand to her heart, feeling as if another door had cracked open. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she didn’t care who saw her.
Her adrenaline surged when she thought she heard cathedral bells. Opening her eyes, she scanned the musicians on the stage for bells or chimes. But there were only guitars and drums today.
With a dry swallow, she repeated her prayer. “Here I am, Lord.”
That’s when she heard his voice, an echo of the divine guidance she’d heard that night in the Marietta chapel five and a half years ago. The simple phrase vibrated through her.
Love well.
But what did that mean?
Corina pondered it all afternoon Sunday and spent a good portion of the evening reading the gospel of John, seeking, asking, believing.
Now it was Monday morning, raining, and Corina drove to work grumpy and tired after another restless night of sleep. She woke up far too many times thinking of Stephen, then muttering prayers until she slipped back into slumber, only to jolt awake again.
She had a meeting first thing with Mark this morning and wanted to be on her A game.
The GTO’s engine rumbled low as Corina pulled into the Post parking lot. Slinging her cross-body bag over her head, she grabbed her grande green tea and made her way to the building, dodging the rain, and wishing for sunshine.
And missing Stephen.
No, I can’t love him. It was just the residue of the weekend. In a few days it would pass. But the last four days had packed an emotional wallop. Last Thursday morning she had walked into work as a single woman jump-starting her life, and by the day’s end, she was married. To a prince.
The idea sparked a zip of electricity through her. On the surface, how many women could say they knew a prince, let alone be married to one? Though that’s not why she married him. She rather preferred he was an athlete and soldier to being a prince.
But really, what was the point to this line of thinking? No good, that’s what. As of this morning, the annulment papers remained where Stephen had left them, and there they would stay until he coughed up some information.
“Your brother died a hero.”
Stephen knew something or Del Rey blood didn’t flow through her veins.
Climbing the stairs, Corina entered the quiet bull pen.
Dropping her purse in the bottom drawer of her desk, she sat and tried a sip of green tea. Too hot. Corina peeled off the lid, letting out the steam.
“Hey you,” Melissa said, stopping at her desk. “I tried to call you Friday. See if you wanted to join our tropical storm party.”
“Really?” Corina yanked her phone from her purse. “It doesn’t show missed calls.”
“I hated thinking of you home alone. Did you come through it okay?”
“Sort of, y–yes. What fun, huh? All that wind and rain.” Melissa made a face. No, she didn’t consider the storm all that fun. “I bought all the tropical storm food you suggested—M&Ms, cookies, fruit.” Add one prince and his protection officer and she had herself a par-tay!
Corina smiled on the inside. It was a rather outlandish situation. Funny in a sad sort of way. My husband the prince stopped by for a chat.
“Okay . . .” Melissa moved to her desk. “Just as long as you had fun. Some of us are going to River Rock tonight, if you want to come.”
“Sure, why not.” Corina tried her tea again. Still too hot. So she powered up her Mac and launched e-mail, then the Internet, making her way through her morning list of newspapers. She had a few minutes before her nine o’clock meeting with Mark.
Suddenly Gigi perched on Corina’s desk. “How are those roses doing?”
“Blooming.” Corina blew over the surface of her tea.
“And you?” Gigi said. “Are you blooming? This business with Mark isn’t getting you down?”
“Getting me down? No. This is just a blip in the road. Listen, Gigi, I have a meeting with speak-of-the-devil in nine minutes. Do you need something?”
“You, darling.” Gigi floated a gold embossed invitation through the light and onto the desk in front of Corina. “Your first road assignment.”
Corina read the script on the heavy card stock.
On behalf of His Majesty and the Royal House of Stratton
You Are Cordially Invited to the Gold Carpet Premier of
King Stephen I
14 June, 8:00 p.m.
RSVP to His Lord Chamberlain
“What is this?”
“An invitation. See right there. ‘You are cordially invited . . .’ I want you to cover the premier.” Gigi was in full-fledged media-mogul form. “I’ve also spoken to the film’s star, Clive Boston, and he’s agreed to do an exclusive with us.” She grinned with a wink. “He owes me one.”
“Clive Boston owes you one?” The boisterous but reclusive star hadn’t given an interview in ten years. “Do I want to know why? Or how?”
“No, trust me. Anyway, I want you to—”
“No, Gigi. No.” Flat out. No. Corina handed Gigi the invitation. “We’ve got stringers in London who can go down to Cathedral City to do the job.”
“Fine if I wanted a piece on tourism or the opening day of the summer season in Cathedral City, but this is a royal invitation to a movie premier. I’m not sending just any ole body in my stead. I’m sending you.”
“You’re sending me all the way to Cathedral City to cover a movie premier? That’s a mighty expensive junket.”
“Don’t forget Clive. The fact we’re getting an interview, my dear, is what separates the big dogs. Who gets the scoop, the inside story, is the one everyone will turn to for their news. Anyway, I had to sweeten the deal with Clive, so I tossed you into the bargaining. Told him you’d be doing the interview.” She gave Corina a hard stare. “You need to leave by the end of the week.”
“Gig, did it occur to you to ask me? Clive Boston? He’s an arrogant blowhard.” Corina had crossed paths with the iconic actor in years past—when she traveled with Daddy to L.A.—but they had nothing more than a “Hello, how are you?” relationship. Certainly not enough to lure the actor to the interview couch. “He’s notorious for not showing up.”
“He seemed really keen on seeing you. Said he’d always wanted to know you more. He’ll be in Cathedral City for the premier next week, so you can do your interview there. Two birds, one stone.” Gigi slapped a sticky note to the desktop. “Here’s his information. He said texting works best. We need this scoop, Corina. The Beaumont Post is due for a scoop, a righteous exclusive.” Gigi stood to leave, jerking the hem of her suit jacket. “Don’t let me down, shug.”
“Corina?” Mark stuck his head into the bull pen from his corner office. “You coming?”
“She’s on her way, Mark,” Gigi said.
“Just a sec, Mark. Gigi,” Corina called after her with a righteous hiss, gathering her notes for her meeting with Mark, “I’m not saying yes to this.”
Cathedral City? She couldn’t go to Cathedral City. He, the man she was married to, lived there.
“Sure you are. This is perfect for us. An American heiress on the gold carpet . . . Everyone will be talking about it. Then we run an exclusive with a major recluse, a star the world wants to know more about, interviewed by the Corina Del Rey.” Gigi shivered and sighed. “Brilliant. I’m ecstatic with myself.”
“Gigi!” A few of the staff lifted their heads above their computer monitors as Corina’s call rocketed through the bull pen, “Send a stringer.” She dropped her tone. “It’s a movie premier. An interview. Clive is a sucker for any gorgeous face. Send . . . I don’t know . . . He’s going to probably be a no-show anyway.”
“He’ll show. I’m sending you. Why would I send anyone else but you, darling? A stunning, wealthy, intelligent woman. A Del Rey, the South’s answer to the Kennedys. I dare say you’re as much an interest to the world as Clive.”
“I’m nobody, Gigi.” Corina glanced toward Mark, who waited for her with his arms crossed, leaning against the door frame. “Why are you doing this?”
Did the woman know something? Did she see Stephen this weekend? Or perhaps one of her spies? Corina suspected Jones from the night security desk was an informant of some kind, and he had seen her with Stephen in the parking lot last week. But Corina had been careful. She felt sure she’d not given Stephen away. Could the roses have tipped her off?
Surely if Gigi had any kind of a story on a royal like Prince Stephen, she would’ve run it on the front page of the Sunday Post, the newspaper’s only online and print edition.
Corina assumed her weekend secret remained safe. Yet this sudden go-to-Cathedral-City rattled her. Raised her suspicions.
“It’s a royal invitation and I’m sending my A team. Live a little, Corina. Take an adventure. Remember what kind of life you had before your brother died.”
“That life is over, Gigi. All that remains is life after Carlos died.”
“Well then, start carving out your destiny. Goodness girl, don’t confine yourself to a life of insignificance.”
“Excuse me? What did you say?”
“I said carve out your destiny.”
“No, after . . .”
“Don’t confine yourself to a life of insignificance. Make Carlos proud. Do something. This?” She flagged her hand toward the corners of the building. “A baby step for you. Now, don’t keep Mark waiting.”
But Corina couldn’t move. Gigi’s words, so off-the-cuff and flippant, nailed her to where she stood. Corina’s heart cracked open a little bit further. She was uncomfortable with an internal trembling.
“Do I have a say in this, Gigi?” Mark called, finally engaging the conversation.
“Not really.”
With a shrug, Mark turned into his office. Oh sure, he was exactly what the Post needed. A weak-bellied Gigi Beaumont pawn. He’d be no help in this fight.
“Darling, what are you thinking on so hard?” Gigi waved her hand in the air. “I can almost smell the smoke. It’s a simple decision. Yes. Tell you what—you can stay at The Wellington. On me.”
“The Wellington?” Cathedral City’s luxury hotel. Corina’s family had stayed there when they visited Brighton in the summers.
“Corina,” Mark said from the far corner, exerting what little backbone he possessed, “any day now.”
She made her way to his office, trying to figure out how she could get out of this outlandish assignment. Surely she’d run into someone from the royal family at the premier. Maybe Stephen himself. Then what?
Besides, how was going to a movie premier and conducting an interview with a long-in-the-tooth actor living a life of significance?
Just as she crossed into Mark’s office, the peaceful voice from the chapel, from church yesterday, moved across her heart.
Love well.
The simple communication aroused all sorts of ponderings. She still didn’t know exactly what it meant. Love well? Love who? Love how?
Shaking off the residue of the divine whisper, she set up at the conference table, preparing to show Mark, again, how the Post online assignment board worked. But he was on his phone now, so she paced over to his window, which faced the road and the community beside the Post building.
Across U.S. 1 was a Catholic church with a cross perched on the highest point of the pitched roof. The midmorning sun highlighted the icon, sending a long shadow of the cross over the four-lane road. The shadow also fell through Mark’s window and across his floor.
When Corina glanced down, the cross also covered her. Shivering, she stepped back. How was that possible? The church was sixty, seventy yards away.
Backing toward the conference table, she felt light and swirly. She steadied herself with her hand on the table.
“Ready?” Mark said, hanging up, coming around to the head of the conference table. “Let’s get to it.” “I’m meeting my wife at ten to look at a house.”
“R–ready.” But she wasn’t ready. For anything. She couldn’t collect her thoughts into anything cohesive. They were buckshot with the events of the weekend. And the shadow of the cross that had just fallen over her.
At that moment, a grandfather clock in the corner chimed the hour, it’s tone rich and resonate, coursing through Corina. She pressed her fingers to her temples, her heart palpitating with each bong.
For a wrinkle in time, she was atop the Braithwaite, in Stephen’s arms, dancing to the glorious symphony of Cathedral City’s nine o’clock bells.
“Stupid clock. Can’t keep time.” Mark shoved away from the table with an angry huff and opened the clock’s glass door, stopping the pendulum on the third chime.
“Wait, it wasn’t finished,” Corina said.
“Who cares. The time is wrong. My wife insisted I bring this thing in here. Give the office some charm, she said.”
Mark returned to the table, but Corina felt robbed, cheated, of the music that flowed from the clock’s time.
“Cheap old thing . . . my grandfather made it when he was a kid. In shop or something. I think I’ll tell maintenance they can have it.” Mark scooted up to the table with a glance at Corina. “Listen, I know you love working with that albatross of an assignment board, but come on, it was designed for Windows 3.1.1. I want to develop a new online board. I have a friend who is a developer and—”
“Give it to maintenance? You are willing to discard your grandfather’s clock because ‘it’s not working’?” Corina didn’t mask her emotions. Mark’s furrowed brow warned her she danced around crazy.
“It’s a clock, Corina. I don’t even think my grandfather liked it.”
“But it’s worth fighting for. You can’t just d–dismiss it—”
“Corina, what are you talking about?”
Love well.
Then she knew. She couldn’t just dismiss it. The door had been opened. Not just her heart, but his. A peace filled the cracks and holes of her soul. For the first time in over five years, she recognized a piece of herself. Until now she’d only been going through the motions.
“Mark, I’m going to do it. Cover the premier.” She left the conference table, her thoughts forward. She’d need to book a flight and the hotel. Do some research. Beef up her knowledge of King Stephen I history. And what had Clive Boston been up to lately? She’d need a premier gown. But she had just the one at home in Marietta. At the door she turned back to Mark. “I think a new assignment board is a fantastic idea. The staff will love it.”
She strode into Gigi’s office with her head high, shoulders square. “I’ll do it.”
“Of course you will.” The boss dragged her eyes away from her computer. “But what brings you in here to tell me?”
“The chimes of an old grandfather clock.”