Mr. Cartwright found a way to rendition both me and Roman out of Bellèno.

I returned to my tiny apartment in Chicago and lay in my single bed where I snuggled with Roman. I cried, ate too much ice cream, and watched my favorite romantic comedies. I could no longer view my favorite medieval show, it reminded me too much of Max and Bellèno and my Ladies. I scoured The Wall Street Journal but didn’t see any mention of Friedricksburgh being sold off to developers.

I hadn’t heard from Max or Leo. Mr. Cartwright left me a couple of messages but I stopped returning them. The Ladies texted me incessantly until I responded that they were killing me and I just wasn’t ready to talk about it. Their texts stopped abruptly.

About a week after my epic part-time job I ventured back into the land of the living. I jogged with Roman around my local park. I secured his six-foot lead to the outdoor weight machines, stuffed a liver treat in his chew toy and let him have at it as I pumped iron. I played ping-pong and hung out with Uncle Florio at Vail Assisted Living. Lola, Mateo and I watched some real football: Chicago Bears vs. The Green Bay Packers on a big-screen at a sports-themed restaurant.

In late October, Chicago’s Indian summer changed overnight from scorching hot to crisp fall. The leaves turned from green to shades of orange, red, and brown. Lawns yellowed. My neighborhood grew quieter. Fewer partiers opened their windows in the autumn. Even the cockroaches calmed down and made room for the spiders. There was a time and a season for everyone and everything.

Roman grew like one of those wild flowers that stuck out of a patch of melting snow in Bellèno’s Alps. First his legs got long, his gait growing more awkward. For a while his butt was higher than his chest.

I cracked open a beer, sat on the kitchen floor next to him and watched him eat dinner. “You miss, Max, don’t you?”

He wagged his tail.

“Too bad. You come from different walks of life. You’re just a Labrador retriever and he’s a prince. Stop your foolish dreaming.” I thanked my lucky stars every night that Queen Cheree had let me keep him.

I couldn’t handle going back to school yet, but I contacted Columbia’s administration, semi-explained my circumstances and deferred my classes to the winter semester that started in January.

One day it dawned on me I really did need to get back to life. I needed to hunker down and find a job. I applied via a website and was hired by Cheswick’s of Boston to be an online chat service representative. I fielded questions about clothing and accessories: color, cut, orders, and other customer concerns. Unfortunately, I quit after being ‘screamed at’ online for an hour in a furious chat session with a woman who insisted she had ordered a suit in autumn brisk orange but received said outfit in spring tangerine dew.

I scanned more listings on Daveslist. The escort service was still hiring. It seemed like the escort service was always hiring. The local donut shop needed help. Would it kill me? I did not want to work at Wieners on Sticks.

Day after relentless day I continued to yearn for Max.

---

In an odd twist of events, in November, I found myself full circle, back at Mugshots, working with Lola and Buddy Paulsen. A nameless investor had bought out Mark Woodman’s share. Woodman left, taking his pinkie ring and privileged party boys with him.

The new owners shut down the place for a week to remodel. And it wasn’t just a deep clean and a coat of paint on the walls. There were some major renovations including a small dance floor built in the middle of the bar. An old fashioned looking jukebox was tucked on a diagonal in a corner. Harley Davidson paraphernalia still hung on the walls but it was broken up with lithographs of hot guys and pretty girls riding motorcycles. I stared at one of the pictures. There were mountains in the distance and it made me think of Max and our wild ride.

Yes—I mean yeah—the art worked for me.

Once again, we wore our Mugshots T-shirts, jeans and biker boots as we cocktailed to a crowd of folks that were, for the most part, likeable. The majority of the customers, old and new, played nice in the sand box.

One night during the first week of December, snowflakes descended from the skies and fell outside the bar’s windows as fall skidded into winter. The bar was packed, probably because it was Mugshots’s first ever ‘Ladies Night’.

“Two Jack and Cokes, two Stolis on the rocks, a fake lemonade for Artie and some stale pretzels, please, Vivian,” Mr. Fitzpatrick said.

“Are there any other kind?” I asked. “Coming right up.” I stacked the empty glasses on my tray and hoisted it to my shoulder.

“I don’t know,” Artie said. “Things are looking a little fancier around here since the remodel. Look at that jukebox. The music’s changed up a bit since the new owners took over. I wanted to hear “Born to be Wild” and emptied my pockets looking for quarters. But when I walked up to that machine, dang if it accepted my debit card as well as my coins. Maybe the new management will serve organic pretzels. Or even gluten-free.”

“And maybe we’ll all get a pony for Christmas. It’s a bar, Artie. We serve drinks, not Happily-Ever-Afters. Dreams don’t come true. It won’t happen for you. Accept that and you’ll enjoy your pretzels the old fashioned way. Stale.”

“It’ll be Christmas before you know it, George Bailey—I mean—Vivian DeRose.” Mr. Fitzpatrick said. “What do you want for Christmas, Vivian?”

“My two front teeth. Because I no longer believe in It’s a Wonderful Life or Zuzu’s petals.”

“Aw, come on! You gotta ask for more than that,” Artie said.

“Fine. I’ll hold out hope for you on the organic pretzel thing.” I smiled and schlepped my tray to the long, mahogany bar.

I unloaded the empty glasses onto the rubber mat. “I need two Jack and Cokes, two Stolis on the rocks, and one fake lemonade. Hey Buddy, how did you find the bucks to buy out Mark Woodman and lose his crowd of dickwipes?”

“Yes on the drinks, but hell no on the buy-out, Viv.” He mixed and poured cocktails from behind the bar. “I didn’t have the cash. Some swanky corporation did the deed.”

I looked up at the banner on the dance floor emblazoned with the words, “Ladies’ Night Out every Thursday at Mugshots.”

I smiled. “I’m liking the job the new majority share investors did updating the joint. A dance floor? A jukebox with better tunes? Score! And Ladies’ Night? What does that include?”

“Two for one specials on drinks for the ladies from five to seven p.m. A little entertainment. Some swag. Festivities.”

“Festivities?” Lola hustled up to the bar and unloaded her tray of dirty glasses. “A pitcher of margaritas, that new Champagne that’s on the menu and a pitcher of pineapple daiquiris. What kind of festivities?”

Buddy shrugged. “Up to the new majority share owners. I don’t know the details. They informed me a couple of hours ahead of time. Said it was on the itinerary and it’s all just supposed to just magically unfold. Tonight’s the first night. Let’s see how magical it is.” He loaded up my tray with drinks.

I hoisted the tray onto my shoulder. “Have you actually met the new owners?”

“Nope. The attorneys walked me through the paperwork. Step by excruciating freaking step. Which reminds me.” He stepped out from behind the bar, walked to the jukebox and slid a credit card through the slot. He punched a few keys in the music box’s keypad. “I was instructed by Mugshots’ new co-owners to play this song at,” he looked at the huge clock on the wall that hung over the front door, “now.”

He waved his arms in the air. “Quiet! Quiet please!”

The crowd hushed.

“As you know, we here at Mugshots have loved our customers like crazy for nearly the past four decades. But we’ve been through some changes in the past year. And change isn’t always easy. So thanks for sticking with us. We’re under new management. Again. I’m proud to announce that tonight is our first Ladies’ Night. So if you have any requests, make them known. All liquor is two for one for the ladies! And that includes the good stuff. Thank you. My name is Buddy Paulsen. Co-owner of Mugshots.” He bowed.

“Get off the fucking stage, Buddy,” Mr. Fitzpatrick yelled. “Attention hog.”

“It’s not a stage, Easy Rider, it’s a dance floor,” Buddy said, making his way back behind the bar.

“Ladies’ Night” by Kool & the Gang blasted from the bar’s speakers. A few people actually got up from their tables and danced.

“Seriously?” I asked.

“It’s a popular song from the 70s.” Buddy shrugged and poured beers. “You of all people like that music.”

My gaze was drawn to a four-top table of folks in the far corner of the bar. They wore matching pink ball caps, dark sunglasses, and black leather bomber jackets. They hunched over their drinks. There was a bottle of Champagne resting in a stand-alone cooler next to the table.

“Psst! Lola!” I said.

“What?”

“That’s your table, right?” I nodded at the four-top.

“Yeah.”

“Something’s slightly off with them. Who wears sunglasses at night in a bar? And the matching hats? From the looks of them I’d say they’re in a sorority, which means they’re probably underage and we could totally get in trouble and be shut down. And not to be selfish, but I really don’t want to be looking for another job again any time soon.” I squinted. “Except, from here, one of them looks like an older man. Or a very challenged-in-the-looks-department older woman.”

“Yeah, one of them is definitely an older guy.” She loaded up her tray filled with glasses, pitchers and a sweaty bottle of Champagne.

I stared at the bottle of bubbly and my eyes widened. “That Champagne’s not on our menu. That’s…”

“2004 Perrier-Jouet Belle Epoque Rose Cuvee,” Lola said. “And surprisingly, yes, it’s now on our menu. How weird is that? So far I’m liking Mugshots’s new owners.” She hustled toward the table.

“Wait! Can we switch? Like, seriously, I have a reason for asking. I’ll take their drinks and you take mine to my guys in the corner.”

She shook her head. “Sorry, mi amiga. I’m under strict orders to be their only cocktail waitress tonight. That might sound weird, but they offered me a huge tip. I need to pay for Mateo’s Christmas presents. You cool with that?”

“Yes. Yes. Go!”

There’s no way it could be. It simply wasn’t possible!

I meandered back to my guys’ table and unloaded their drinks and a big basket of pretzels. “Sorry, Artie. I fear the pretzels are still stale.”

All the lights suddenly went out but were replaced with twinkly lights from hundreds of strands of Italian light bulbs They lit up the room like a Christmas parade. The jukebox launched into Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)”, and the next thing I knew the pink hat gang was on the floor dancing.

I saw a few bump and grind dance moves that reminded me of my Bachelorette Party at Club Tiefencastle. The tall older dude wearing the pink hat kept his head down and made his way gingerly to the mic.

I wobbled for a second. My free hand flew to my chest. “Oh holy crap!”

Mr. Fitzpatrick pulled out an empty chair from the table. “You need to sit down for a second, Vivian. You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“Thanks, but no. I’m fine, really. I’m just fine.” I stayed standing.

“On behalf of the new co-owners of Mugshots,” the man said into the mic, “we’d like to welcome you to the first Ladies’ Night. We’d like to dedicate this event to one of our favorite ladies, Vivian Marie DeRose.” Mr. Cartwright looked up, smiled and pointed at me. “That’s her, right there.”

“Ack!” I screamed as Ladies Bea Hapfligher and Joan Brady made their way across the bar. They seized my arms and escorted me to the dance floor.

“What the hell are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“We bought the place,” Bea said.

“We have our ways,” Joan said. “Jeez, Vivian, I’m a barrister. I have a million connections.”

Esmeralda pulled something bulky into the middle of the dance floor and whipped off a cover to reveal a petite, gilded throne with a pink, velvet seat.

“Sit down, Vivian,” Esmeralda said.

“But, but…I’m working.”

“Your shift’s over for the evening.” She pushed me back onto the chair. “We have a different part-time job for you tonight. Who has the scepter? Did we forget the scepter?”

“It’s in my satchel under the table,” Mr. Cartwright said.

Bea strolled to their table, leaned down and rifled through it. “Got it.” She held the small, golden scepter in the air and walked back.

The crowd was hushed except for Lola who shoved her hands over her mouth, but couldn’t stop giggling.

“Go ahead, Mr. Cartwright,” Esmeralda said.

He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and read it into the mic. “We, the citizens of Bellèno—,”

“There are five of you here,” I said. “That does not constitute an entire country.”

“Shut up Vivian,” Esmeralda said.

“We organized a Changedotorg petition. We received over one million signatures from Bellèno citizens,” Joan said.

Mr. Cartwright harrumphed. “We, the citizens of Bellèno, on this date do solemnly declare that Vivian Marie DeRose of the hamlet of Chicago in the country of the United States forthwith be called Lady Vivian Marie DeRose, aka, Lady with a Royal Bellèno Heart.”

Esmeralda, Bea, and Joan joined hands on the scepter and—

“Hang on!” Joan said. She grabbed a tiara from the arm of the throne and placed it gently on my head. “Perfect,” she said. “Okay, now.” She placed her hand back on the other hands. “On three. Two. One.” They anointed me.

And I burst into tears.

The entire Mugshots crowd leapt to their feet applauding and stamping their feet. There were even a few wolf whistles. All my ladies, including Lola, hugged me. Someone handed me a glass of Champagne.

“Oh my God!” I said. “I can’t believe you did all this for me.”

“We saved the best for last,” Esmeralda said.

The door to Mugshots opened with a bang. And perhaps I was hallucinating, or perhaps I was drunk on adrenaline, or perhaps the gods smiled upon me and saw fit to shower me with pixie dust because Prince Maximillian of Bellèno walked across the bar toward me.

His hair was still ginger. He wore jeans, scuffed boots, a black leather biker jacket and a big, fat smile on his gorgeous face.

“Oh my God. Oh my God!” I nearly dropped my Champagne glass.

“I missed you, Vivian,” he said.

“I missed you too, Max.”

“I thought you’d like an update on The Crown Affair.” He unzipped his jacket.

“Of course…. what are you doing here?”

“Taking care of what matters, Vivvie. The Crown Affair might have started as a part-time job.” He pulled a black velvet box from his coat jacket and got down on one knee. “But I’m here to ask you if you’d be interested in a permanent position.”

“Permanent…” I fanned my face. “Position?”

He smiled, popped open the lid on the box, and revealed the most gorgeous engagement ring I’d ever seen in my life. “Full-time wife. I love you. Will you marry me, Vivian Marie DeRose?”

“Yes!”

He slid the ring onto my finger, placed his hands on either side of my face and kissed me long and slow and sweet. He whispered in my ear, “It’s always been you, Vivian. It always will be you.”

More Champagne bottles were popped open. Toasts were made. And this time I got engaged to the right prince.

And I learned that maybe, if you hold out hope despite disappointments, if you open your eyes to the magic around you, maybe Happily-Ever-Afters can actually happen. Maybe fairy tales really do come true.