Star Promise (10 page)

Jean-Luc had taken the extraordinary step of taking the morning off work to supervise her while she carried out his list of chores, and as expected Bridget tried her best to scheme her way out of it. We were standing outside the castle door when the theatrics began. “I’m very sick today,” she began.

I put my hand to her forehead. “You seem fine to me.”

“Why do I have to work?” asked Bridget. “I’m only a small girl.”

I held her hand and headed for the elevator. “If you’re not happy with the arrangement, you can always give the pram back,” I suggested.

Bridget stretched up and pressed the elevator button. “Treasure needs a bed to sleep in,” she grumbled.

“That’s the problem with kids, Bridge.” It took all I had not to smile. “They’re demanding little creatures.”

In my opinion, the foyer of the Décarie home was a huge waste of space. I’d always found it barren and unwelcoming. The only bright spot came from the colourful arrangement of flowers on the console table near the stairs. I’d never once seen the vase empty, which led me to think the lady of the manor thought the room was cold without flowers too.

Fiona was arranging a new bunch when we arrived, pointedly snipping at the stems and jamming them into the tall crystal vase. “I’m not happy with this at all,” she said, taking a step back to study her handiwork.

“I like it, Mamie,” announced Bridget. “I can help you do the rest.”

Fiona glanced down and smiled. “Thank you, darling, but Papy has plans for you this morning.”

Bridget’s cheerful demeanour was replaced with a pout. “I might be busy,” she replied.

Whatever she had in mind was abandoned the second Jean-Luc appeared at the top of the landing. It was my own fault that I didn’t understand what he said to her – my attempts at broadening my French skills had slipped long ago, and laziness set in when my kid became old enough to translate for me.

Bridget held up her finger. “One day of work,” she clarified. “Okay, Papy?”

His familiar laugh reminded me that for the most part his princes were carbon copies of him. “That was our agreement, yes.”

Satisfied that she wasn’t going to be worked to death, Bridget reluctantly trudged up the steps. Jean-Luc patiently waited. As soon as they were out of sight, I quizzed Fiona about Bridget’s tasks for the morning.

“Oh, it’s nonsense really,” she replied, fussing with the flowers in front of her. “I think he mentioned getting her to dust the bookshelves in his office – as if she can reach higher than the third shelf.”

I knew differently after finding her box of contraband girls, but kept that information to myself. “I can’t stay long. I’ve got to be at the gallery by ten.”

“Of course,” she replied pityingly. “I heard all about your childcare issues – and that Ryan was your solution.”

“He offered,” I explained.

“I would’ve offered too,” she snapped, “if you’d thought to mention it to me.”

Clearly her feelings were hurt. Talking my way out of it wasn’t going to be easy, or truthful. “You’re always so busy with your charities and other commitments. We didn’t want you to feel obliged.”

A more honest explanation would’ve been that we didn’t want our kid hanging out at the palace every day. Her grandparents spoiled her rotten, and we resented it.

“I adore spending time with Bridget,” she replied.

“I know you do.”

I brushed down the back of my skirt and sat down on a step, immediately earning myself a lecture. “Don’t sit on the floor, darling.”

“Why not?”

“We’re not peasants.”

“Will my dress get dirty?” I asked cheekily.

She huffed out a sharp laugh. “Not in my house, Charlotte.”

We were quiet for a moment, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The days of sweating bullets in her company were long gone. “Why don’t you just buy a plant instead of cut flowers?” I asked. “It would last much longer.” Fiona frowned across at me as if I’d said something foolish. “It’s wasteful,” I added.

“How so?” she asked.

“Flowers are the ultimate replicas of human life,” I explained. “They’re planted, they grow, they bloom and eventually they wither and die. Cutting their lives short seems pointless to me. It’s such a waste.”

Fiona turned and began plucking at the arrangement. “I might agree with you in this instance,” she replied. “If I can’t make this look right, I’ll have to throw them away and start again.”

I stood up and wandered over to her. “You know why it doesn’t look right?” Fiona tilted her head, studying the flowers while she pondered my question. I didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s a whole bunch of confusion in a vase,” I told her.

She flapped her hands, motioning to the flowers. “Fix it, darling.”

I started with the tall yellow asters, pulling them out of the vase one by one. “Asters are an open declaration of love,” I explained. “It’s bold and loud and only used when you’re absolutely sure.”

“I see no problem with that,” she said, frowning. “There is much love in this home.”

“I agree,” I replied. “But you need to get your story straight.” I plucked a few white gardenias from the mix. “Gardenias are also a declaration of love, but they’re not bold and in your face. They’re sent as a symbol of secret love – a private billet-doux.”

Fiona pushed the gardenias to one side, as if putting distance between the two bunches was necessary. “Continue,” she ordered.

I turned my attention back to the thinning display. “Well, carnations are a whole bag of ugliness.”

Fiona jumped in and stripped every carnation from the arrangement before I had a chance to explain why. She waved a stem at me. “I quite like the striped ones.”

I pulled a face, emphasizing my distaste. “They’re the worst. They denote unrequited love, and the yellow ones signify disdain and rejection.”

She gasped, looking horrified. “Oh, that will never do. Ryan and Bente are coming for dinner on Friday. I don’t want to jinx them.”

It was the first time she’d mentioned Ryan’s budding new romance to me, and I wished she hadn’t. The last thing I wanted was her grilling me for information. I turned the tables instead, bravely reminding her that she needed to play nice. “He likes Bente very much,” I said strongly. “You’ll make her feel welcome, won’t you?”

The queen didn’t attack. She didn’t even show a hint of annoyance at my question. If anything, she seemed embarrassed that I’d asked. “Mistakes were made in the past,” she said. “Lessons were learned.”

It wasn’t my intention to make her feel bad so I quickly smoothed things over. I plucked a white chrysanthemum from the vase and held it out to her. “In Australia, we call these chryssies. We give them to our mums on Mother’s Day.”

Fiona took the flower from me. “Thank you, my darling,” she said quietly. She looked to the vase. “The yellow ones are lovely too.”

“We’re past yellow chrysanthemums, Fiona,” I said seriously. “The yellow ones denote slighted love. I value the love you show me now. We’re in a good place.”

It was as close as I’d ever come to making the queen cry for a good reason. I didn’t want to see her break down and blubber so I quickly got back to the task at hand. “So there you have it.” I pointed at the now straggly looking floral display. “It didn’t look right because it was a whole bunch of emotions and sentiments that don’t gel.”

The queen stared at the arrangement. “I just thought the colours were wrong.”

I glanced at her. “Nothing to do with colour. The picture is always much deeper than the one we see with our eyes.”

Bonding sessions with the queen tend to come on hard and fast, and disappear just as quickly. She returned to fixing her flowers and I escaped upstairs to check on Jean-Luc and his little workhorse.

The door to his office was open, which saved me the dilemma of deciding whether to knock. The king spotted me the instant I poked my head around the doorway. Bridget wasn’t as observant. Her back was to me while she haphazardly scrubbed a cloth across one of the front windows.

“Come in, Charli,” he invited, pointing at the chair opposite his desk. “Sit down, please.”

Bridget spun around. “Mummy,” she said desperately. “I can go now?”

I sat and looked to Jean-Luc for an answer. The king didn’t bat an eyelid. He continued the monotonous task of signing his name on the stack of papers on his desk. “There are three windows, my love,” he replied. “You’ve only cleaned one.”

I looked past Bridget to the window she’d been scrubbing. Whatever she’d done to it wasn’t really working for her. The glass at Bridget’s height was cloudy, smudged and obscure. Above that was spotlessly clear.

“Are you sure you want her to continue?” I asked quietly.

Jean-Luc spun his chair and checked out her handiwork before turning back to me. “Of course.” He winked at me. “She’s doing a wonderful job.”

Perhaps false praise was part of the lesson plan. Intentional or not, it worked for a while. Bridget went back to clouding up the windows until all three were a mess. When she was satisfied with her efforts, she turned and stood behind her grandfather’s chair. “Now?” she asked hopefully.

Bridget couldn’t see his sly smile, but I could. “Now what, child?” he teased.

My little girl looked down at the sodden cloth in her hand. I knew the wicked expression on her face well. It was like looking in a mirror. She had only a few seconds to decide if she’d take the Adam route and clarify her question, or the Charli route and sock him in the back of the head with the wet cloth.

All I could do was hold my breath and wait.

“Am I finished now?” she asked finally.

I felt my shoulders slump – one part relieved and one very secret part disappointed.

Jean-Luc spun his chair around to inspect his thirty-four dollars worth of child labour. “
Magnifique
, my love,” he praised enthusiastically.

I had to give major kudos for his acting skills. Even from a distance it looked like a giant Labrador had spent an hour licking the glass.

“Don’t you feel wonderfully accomplished?” he asked.

Bridget nodded as if she had half a clue what he meant. The king kissed the top of her head and sent her downstairs to find her grandmother. “Mamie will make you a snack,” he told her.

Bridget handed me the cloth on her way out the door. “Don’t touch those windows, Mummy,” she instructed. “I just cleaned them.”

“I won’t,” I promised.

Perhaps Bridget was aware of Jean-Luc’s need to get the last word. She didn’t walk out of the room – she ran.

I should’ve followed her but I was in the rare mood to engage the king in conversation. I started by asking what he thought of his new artwork.

Jean-Luc set his pen down and glanced at the picture. “It complements the room nicely, don’t you think?”

His answer was banal, but not unexpected. “No one buys expensive art purely because it suits a room,” I told him. “It has to call to you. It grabs you and sucks you in the very first second you lay eyes on it.”

He chuckled blackly, the same way he always did when toying with me. “You have a flair for the bizarre, Charli.”

“It wouldn’t kill you to be honest with me,” I retorted. “I’m just asking about the picture – not looking for chinks in your armour.”

He surprised me by getting up and making his way over to the art in question. “I think it’s a nice piece,” he replied thoughtfully. “I like it very much.”

“But why?”

Jean-Luc folded his arms, glancing at me only momentarily. “It calls to me. Is that what I’m supposed to say?”

I shook my head, warding off a bitter retort. “If you don’t believe in magic, you’ll never find it.”

“Explain the magic in this.” He pointed at the picture but looked only at me. “It is impossible to take you seriously when all you spout is nonsense. How Adam puts up with you is beyond me.”

As harsh as his words were, I didn’t get the impression that he was trying to hurt me. I frustrated him and confounded him. And that wasn’t his fault.

“He likes me,” I muttered.

I didn’t need to look at him. His glare was burning a hole in the side of my head. I focused on the cloudy windows and waited for him to speak instead, which took forever.

Jean-Luc returned to his chair. “Bridget told me that there is a certain breed of dog that lives in the ocean,” he began.

“Yes, I know,” I replied. “Sea dogs.”

“It’s criminal to teach her such rubbish,” he scoffed.

“I never taught her that,” I snapped. “I have no idea what a sea dog is but I do know that my kid’s imagination is perfectly in focus.”

The king leaned back in his chair and let out a breath. “How far through this life do you think a good imagination is going to get her?”

“I have no idea,” I admitted. “How much further do you think you’d be in life if your imagination was in good working order?” I walked to the picture on the wall. “You’d see everything so much clearer,” I said wistfully.

“Nonsense.”

Infuriating him was easy. Holding my ground until I was ready to end the conversation was trickier. I refused to lose this round. I was losing too often where he was concerned.

“Two fairies from Egypt,” I announced, holding two fingers at him. “Habibah and Eshe.”

“Stop it, Charlotte,” he warned. “I’m not interested in the punch line.”

I wandered back and sat down, making sure I had his full attention. “There is no punch line. It’s not a joke. I’m telling you something very important.” The king slouched and sighed. As far as I was concerned, it was permission to continue. “They were very talented seamstresses. The finer the threads, the more nimble their fingers.”

“Move it along, please.” He waved his hand in a circle.

“They sourced the finest cotton and crafted it into the most fabulous –”

“Sheets?” he asked, smugly cutting me off. “Or towels. Egyptian cotton is supposed to be the best.”

“No.” It was impossible not to smile. “Dresses. They made dresses.”

“Fascinating,” he drawled insincerely.

I shrugged. “It paid their bills.”

His level of interest was low to begin with, but it was almost non-existent by that point. I got out the rest of the story as quickly as I could. Eshe fell in love with a boy with a wandering eye, so she hatched a plan to make keeping an eye on him a little easier.