Inconceivable! (24 page)

“I’m already in a food coma, and you’re giving me more to eat?” Henri groaned with dramatic flare before devouring an entire cookie in one bite.

There was an exquisite outburst of ohh’s and ahh’s as they each tried the cookies.

Even Leopold seemed pleased. “Did John tell you Pierre Marcolini is our favorite?”

“I confess. He deserves credit for recommending that particular shop.” I patted John on the cheek.

John went next, giving each of us a little black book with a leather cover, just like the one he used during our trip to Ghent. He encouraged us to find a creative use for our notebook. Aunt Elinore said she’d jot down her final to-do list for Winter’s Feast. In a burst of inspiration, I announced I’d use mine as a sketchbook.

“Are you an artiste, Hatty?” The queen stared at me.

“Not really. I’m not very good, but I love to doodle.”

Henri handed out bottles of wine made from the first harvest of grapes in Burgundy, France the year he was born. “It was a good year!”

John’s father gave us each a platinum watch. As he placed them in our hands, he noted he’d like the family to be known for being on time in the New Year.

“Louisa picked them out.” We all pretended like we hadn’t heard him.
Royally awkward.

We each received a personalized photo album from Aunt Elinore. Underneath my name were the words “Winter’s Feast 2013.”

“Don’t store all your photos on your phone,” she admonished us.

The queen went last. She raised her hand to Herr Schroeder who stood by the parlor door. He disappeared, and just a few seconds later, returned with a string of servants. They delivered a box to each of us.

“Go on. Open them.” The queen waved her hands before sipping her tea.

Inside, I found a small wooden box. Carved on top were a series of arched characters I didn’t recognize.

“It means ‘family’ in Thai.” It was one of the seven languages the queen had mastered.

I opened my box and inside was a single pearl and a tiny slip of paper. “Welcome to our family” was written on it in tiny cursive. I looked up in surprise at the queen. I mouthed the words “thank you” and she smiled broadly.

After our gift exchange, John and I politely excused ourselves and headed upstairs. Instead of walking me down the corridor to my room, he opened the door to his bedroom.

“I can’t stand the idea of having you wake up alone in your bed on Christmas morning. How about you sleep here tonight?”

“Of course. And I assume when you say ‘spend the night,’ you mean literally just sleep together.”
Let’s just be clear.

“Yes, my dear.”

“What will your family say if they find out we’ve spent the night together? They’ll think I tried to seduce you.”

“No they won’t, and they’re not going to find out. Since tomorrow’s Christmas, the staff will have the morning off. So, Henri will prepare breakfast for Father, Granny, and Aunt Elinore, and they’ll eat at eight. Just sneak back to your room to get ready while they’re having breakfast.”

How could I say no?

“All right. I’m going to change clothes. I’ll be back.”

When I returned, I tapped on the door. John opened it, wearing a fitted tee shirt and soft cotton drawstring pants. Not even Pierre Marcolini’s chocolate looked this delicious.

I went in and he quickly closed the door behind me. We looked at each other and laughed nervously.

“We’re acting like horny teenagers,” I said with a giggle.

“Well, since we’re a bit older, we have to show more restraint.” John, always the sensible one.

“I suppose you’re right.”

He walked me over to the bed with its blankets and sheets peeled back. After he helped me up onto the high mattress, I handed him a little box.

“Merry Christmas,” I said as he opened it and picked up the piece of canvas. “I know this is cheesy, but I wanted you to have something from America that also honored your mother’s memory.”

John held the micro painting close to his eyes. “Where did you find this?”

“My mother bought it from a Toulenian artist living in Missouri. After your mother died, this artist did a series of paintings to honor her. My mom bought one, but never had it framed. I asked her to send it to me so I could give it to you for Christmas.”

“Thank you. I’ve never seen this painting. It’s extraordinary.”

His mother died December 26, 1998 when John was nine and I was seven. He lightly rubbed the painted fabric of his mother’s face with his thumb. I suppose enough time had passed to smooth over the rough edges of his grief.

He set the square of canvas on the dresser, turned off the light, and got into bed.

As my legs glided between the sheets, it felt cool and summery, even though winter reigned outside. I hoped it would always feel this good being in bed with John. We pulled the layers of covers over us and snuggled into each other as dull light seeped into the room around the edges of the heavy drapes.

“Hatty, you fill a hole in my heart that opened up when Mum died. I love you for that.” He nuzzled my neck.

“Have I told you how much your mother meant to me?”

He stopped and propped his head up on his hand. “No. Please tell me.”

“Okay. Well, it was the beginning of first grade. I was six years old. My teacher asked us to make a collage using photos of someone we admired, and I chose Princess Beatrix. I’d seen pictures of her helping children in Africa in some of my mom’s magazines. I cut them out for my project and glued them to a big pink poster board. She was so beautiful, stylish, and smart. But above all, I imagined she was compassionate.”

“I think you’ll follow perfectly in her footsteps as my wife and mother to our children.” He kissed me on the forehead. “I wish you could’ve met her. She would’ve loved you.”

John lay down and I placed my head on his chest. We soon fell asleep.

he day after Christmas, my parents arrived at Toulene International Airport on the very runway John helped christen a few months earlier. I met them at the arrivals gate with open arms and tears.

“Hatty! You look wonderful!” Mom was as effusive as ever in complimenting me.

Dad gave me a big hug, briefly lifting my feet off the ground. “Don’t they feed you over here?”

“A little too much. You’ll see. Belvoir has an amazing kitchen staff.”

We walked out the front doors to a black limo idling at the curb in front of a Do Not Park sign.

“Is this really necessary, honey?” My mom handed over her suitcase handle to the driver.

“No. But John insisted on sending this monstrosity instead of one of the cars. He wants you to travel first class all the way to the palace.”

“Well, he sure didn’t put us in the cheap seats on the plane,” my dad said. “But you still feel the turbulence in first class, so your mother was a Nervous Nelly the whole way.”

During the drive to Belvoir, I pointed out some of the city’s sights.

When the black limo swung into the side gate at the palace, my mom gasped. “This place doesn’t look real.”

“Isn’t it wild?” My giddiness burst through every word.

Astrid met us at the door, and led us upstairs to a bedroom two doors down from mine.

“Thanks, Astrid.” I turned to my parents. “John thought you guys might want some time to relax. I’ll be back in a couple of hours and we can walk downstairs together for dinner. It’s completely casual so don’t get dressed up. I can’t believe you’re actually here!”

I hugged them again and left. My parents were at Belvoir Palace in Toulene to meet my future husband who also happens to be the future king of this country. Their grandchildren would inherit the throne one day.
That’s crazy, ya’ll!

When we arrived in the breakfast nook, John extended his hand to my parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Brunelle, it’s very nice to meet you!”

My mom went in for a hug. “You’re much cuter in person!”

I laughed. “I told him the same thing.”

My dad shook John’s hand. “Nice to meet you. I hope we’re not a royal pain in the ass!” Yep, there it was, that Brunelle compulsion to use corny jokes and puns to lighten the mood. It must literally be in our genes. My dad’s belly laugh probably startled the staff.

During the meal, John told my parents about the things we’d done at the palace the last few weeks. He also peppered them with questions about their lives, our family, and the Ozarks.

After the staff placed dishes of fresh fruit on the table for dessert, John cleared his throat. “Mr. and Mrs. Brunelle, I’ve fallen in love with your daughter.” He took my hand in his and kissed the back of it. “With your blessing, I’d like to marry Hatty. I promise I’ll love and protect her our whole lives.”

I froze a smile on my face and spoke quietly through clenched teeth, hoping my parents wouldn’t hear. “I thought we were going to wait to tell my parents at Winter’s Feast.”

John answered through his teeth as well. “But I need to ask your parents’ permission.”

Mom and Dad showed no signs of shock at the news―they probably figured things were serious if John was willing to fly them across the ocean―but John had caught them off guard. The silence grew long and awkward.

Then Dad spoke up. “Someday, John, you’ll have a daughter. And you’ll understand how difficult it is to think about her belonging to someone else, especially when that someone lives on the other side of the planet.”

“I don’t belong to anyone!” I said a little too loudly. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not in the room.”

“Yes, George, she’s not chattel. Crawl out of the Dark Ages. You, too, Hatty. I mean, what happens to your career if you get married?” Cue mom’s theme music because she was here to save the day. She might even need a cape.

“Mom, John’s helping me meet some important people in my field, and there are some exciting possibilities on the horizon. My journalism career is still very important to me.”

“What do you mean?” John jumped in, also raising his voice. “You agreed you were done with reporting.” Time for John’s teeth clenching.

I glared right back at him. “Reporting, yes. Journalism, no.”

“Wait just a minute. You’re done with reporting? I don’t think so,” my mom said in disbelief, making her I-have-no-words huffing sound.

“Look. John and I love each other. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been in my life. He’s an honorable man with honorable intentions. I’ll finish my degree, eventually. We’ll see what happens after that. Please just be happy for us.” Get your shit together, Brunelles!