The Frog Prince (8 page)

“So I’ve already figured out that we’re in Aspen,” I say. “It’s getting too late for mountain biking and too early for skiing. Are you going to tell me what we’re doing here?”

“You’ll see the signs for it as soon as we’re in the city.” he promises.

Ten minutes later we pass a green sign reading “Aspen City Limits Elev 7908.” I assume we didn’t come all this way to celebrate the altitude of a ski town, so I keep my eyes peeled for something more telling. We spin through a roundabout and Roman slows the car as we enter the town's picturesque Main Street.

About a quarter of a mile down Main Street, I see the first one: a huge purple banner stretched over the roadway, strung from the street lamps on either side.

~Welcome
(almost)
Royals~

Roman slides the car into a diagonal parking space in front of a coffee shop. The drive has made me sleepy again, and he clearly notices. “We’ve got to get something to wake you up!” he teases, reaching over and squeezing my hand before getting out.

This causes my body to dump a gallon of adrenaline into my system, and suddenly I am wide awake. I wonder if he plans to use this type of touch-based adrenaline infusion to keep me awake all day. My door opens, and I realize that Roman is still sticking with his original plan of buying me a bucket of caffeine.

I hesitate for a second. These types of trendy coffee shops are really not my kind of place. Once making coffee got more complicated than chucking a few tablespoons of Maxwell House into a cup and adding hot water, I got off the train and just started drinking tea. I will never say with any kind of confidence: “Yes, I’d like an énorme ricin berry latte with a squirt of methadone and a splash of yak milk.”

Also, I’m a supertaster, which means that I have more taste buds attuned to bitter flavors than most people. I personally think that this trait was carefully honed over millions of years of evolution in order to steer me clear of dangerous wild plants such as broccoli and coffee beans.

With very little enthusiasm I follow Roman into the shop. A line of half-awake people queue up in front of a fancy pastry display case. One of them, a tall, lithe blonde, catches Roman’s entrance in the reflection of the glass. I see her eyes brighten before she unwinds in our direction. At the same time Roman slows to a stop. I look at him just in time to catch a frown before his lips turn up into a hollow smile.

“Roman!” she calls, breaking out of line and closing the distance between them in two long strides. I take a step backwards as she invades my personal space and wraps him in a big bear hug.

“Isabella,” he says without a trace of enthusiasm. He leans in and just touches the back of her shoulders before stepping away.

Isabella glances at me, giving me a quick up-and-down appraisal before dismissing me by turning away. I whither instantly under this kind of catty behavior, and reflexively move towards the pastry case to comfort myself with a blueberry muffin. I’m stopped by Roman’s hand grabbing mine, pulling me back.

“Isabella, this is Leigh Fromm,” he says, dropping my hand and sliding his around my waist.

This move does not go unnoticed, and the frozen smile Isabella bestows on me is not one of friendship. Instead of a “nice to meet you” or “how are you?” she stumps me with this: “I don’t think we’ve met before…which house are you from?”

I’m about to launch into the details of my high-end double-wide when Roman steps in and rescues me.

“Isabella’s mother is Queen Margrethe the Second of Denmark of the House of Glücksburg,” he explains. “She’s not a phony like the rest of us.”

Isabella flashes him a knowing smile. “You know there’s a fix for that, Roman.”

I have no idea what either of them are talking about, but sense that I am being left out on some private joke. In this case ignorance must be bliss because Roman ignores her comment.

“Good to see you, Isabella,” he says, leading me towards the comfort of simple carbohydrates, refined sugar and mild stimulants.

I don’t need to look over my shoulder to know that she’s burning a hole in my back. I wait for her to take her place back in the line, but she never reappears. In the reflection of the pastry glass I see her stalk out of the shop, jump into a smart red convertible and drive away.

“What
is
the fix for phoniness anyway?” I say, hoping I’m not inserting myself into the middle of some royal squabble.

Roman rolls his eyes. “Isabella’s my third cousin, four hundred times removed, something like that. We’re all inbred, you know.”

I almost say “I know,” but am saved by the guy at the counter asking us for our order. Roman rattles off some incomprehensible latté verbiage for himself and a simpler green tea order for me, and we continue edging our way in the line towards the register.

“Anyway, her mother, Queen Margrethe, wasn’t supposed to be queen because daughters couldn’t inherit the throne back then. Margrethe’s mother didn’t have any sons, so Parliament passed the Act of Succession in the nineteen fifties so she could succeed her father.”

“Like Queen Elizabeth the Second in England,” I say.

“Exactly!”

Roman seems pleased with my knowledge of royal history. He doesn’t know that I’ve just scraped the bottom of my knowledge barrel, but I send a silent thank you out into the universe for
People
magazine anyway.

I stare at him, waiting for more, but he’s apparently done talking. I realize I’ve been skillfully diverted with a clever “Act of Succession” red herring, so I gently turn him back to the original question. “How does this fix your imposter status?”

Roman shifts his weight to his other foot and pretends to peruse the menu board above the counter. “I dated Isabella for awhile. She wanted things to be more serious than I did.”

He looks to his right, hoping to be saved by the cashier, but there’s some guy there arguing over the temperature of his avocado antibacterial espresso. I wait patiently.

He sighs. “There was always pressure–from her, from her family–to get married.” His eyes flit to my face and then away. “If I married Isabella I’d become Prince Consort.” He waits a heartbeat to see if this is all coming together for me, but I’m still totally oblivious so he continues. “In which case I would become actual royalty again?”

This last bit is presented as a question, as in “You’re getting this now, aren’t you? I don’t have to continue this painful conversation for much longer, do I?”

“Oh,” I say. I get it now. The fashionable, blonde Danish princess with the red convertible wants to institute a little
ius primæ noctis
on my would-be prince, and churn out a new litter of royals.

“Anything else for you guys?” asks the cashier as we finally slide up to the register.

“I’d like to sink my teeth into a Danish tart,” I spit.

The guy seems taken aback my ferocity for a berry pastry, but gamely fetches it while Roman flips through his wallet and pulls out some cash.

We’re back in the car, me balancing the tart on my knee and shifting my tea from one hand to the other so I can slip into my seatbelt. “Where do almost-royals hang out around here?” I say. “Is there, like, an almost-castle?”

Roman backs out of the space and heads back in the direction we came from. “A place fit for a prince, where else?”

Chapter Seven

“Roman Lorraine and one guest,” Roman says to the man in the guard house. The guard takes his driver’s license, and compares it to something on a clipboard before handing it back.

“Have a good time, sir,” says the guard.

The iron-wrought gate slides to the side, and we join a line of other cars on the winding road up the hillside.

“That’s where we’re going,” says Roman, pointing to a house at the top nestled on a plateau among groves of aspen and pine trees.

Perhaps ‘house’ is an understatement. ‘Mansion’ is only somewhat more appropriate. Even from this distance I can see the place is the size of the Death Star.

I glance at Roman’s clothes and then my own. “Aren’t we going to be a little underdressed?”

“We’ll find out what the itinerary is going to be,” says Roman. “Then we can change.”

Ten minutes later we’ve pulled the car into a circular driveway. A seemingly limitless supply of valets relieves each driver of their car. None of the guests in front of us seem to be unloading suitcases. I feel panic at the thought of being separated from my wardrobe. At the same time I don’t want to muscle my own luggage through the front door like a hayseed fresh off the turnip truck.

As if sensing my confusion Roman says, “Just leave your suitcases in the car. The house staff will take us to our rooms and make sure our luggage finds its way to us.” He chuckles. “I’ll bet our luggage will get to our rooms before we do. Faisal runs a very tight ship.”

“Faisal?” The name sounds vaguely familiar.

“He’s the eldest son of the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia. This is his house. He lets us use it for our Almost Royal weekend every year.”

“This has been going on all weekend? Then why are you just getting here?”

Roman eyes the line of cars in front of us as he replies. “I was supposed to be here Friday. But then I met you,” he says, shrugging as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I am stunned. He sacrificed a weekend of hobnobbing with the cream of worldwide almost-royalty so that he could hang out with a semi-functional social defective? Part of me glows from the weight of his simple compliment. The other part of me instinctively wonders if this is part of a cruel joke–perhaps a game of Pin the Tail on the Peasant or a round of Poor Provincial caps the weekend’s festivities.

A valet spies Roman behind the wheel and immediately barks something into a walkie-talkie. He then motions Roman out of the line of cars and onto a side drive. Another guy comes running from the main entrance to meet the car. “Welcome, Mr. Lorraine,” he says, opening Roman’s door and taking the keys. “The gatehouse alerted us of your arrival.”

The second man pulls my door open and helps me from the car. From further down the drive a black golf cart descends on us. The driver leaps from the cart and loads our luggage onto a rack affixed to the back. This all happens so fast that we are in the cart and rolling down a paved path before I have time to say so much as a “thank you.”

“We hope you will be comfortable in the Orchid Guesthouse,” says our driver. “There are separate accommodations there for yourself and Ms. Fromm.”

I start at the sound of my name.

The man hands Roman a business card. “Transportation to and from the guest house will be provided by our shuttle fleet. You need only call the number on this card and a driver will take you wherever you wish to go on the estate.”

He points to an enormous modern-looking barn in the distance. “His Highness has made all the amenities of the estate available to you and Ms. Fromm, including the stables, the hiking trails, and the pools. There will be meals served throughout the day at the main house, but if you or Ms. Fromm has a specific request do not hesitate to contact me and I will make arrangements with the kitchen staff to have your meals brought to the guesthouse.”

“Thank you,” says Roman. “Prince Faisal is always extremely kind.”

“You are a most welcome guest, Mr. Lorraine.”

We glide along in near silence. The driver abruptly turns onto a smaller side path into the woods. A few minutes later we come to a stop in front of an adorable cottage. Roman helps the man carry my stuff into the foyer while I follow empty-handed.

“I have placed a copy of the itinerary on the table here,” he says, pointing to a coffee table in a fully-furnished living room. “Guests are welcome to attend the poolside luncheon at the main house in one hour. Dress is business casual, but there will be swimming so please bring your swimwear with you.”

He moves back towards the door. “There are no planned afternoon activities until the cocktail party at five o’clock. Cocktails will be immediately followed by the formal dinner.” He steps out onto the porch. “Is there anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable?”

“I think we’re good,” says Roman. “Please thank Prince Faisal for the warm welcome. We’ll be ready to go to the luncheon in one hour if you would please send a shuttle.”

The guy performs a quick bow of acknowledgement. With a “certainly, sir” he closes the front door, leaving Roman and me standing awkwardly in the foyer.

“I guess carrying you over the threshold would have been a little much, huh?” he asks, smiling.

Before I can respond he grabs my stuff and is carrying it up the stairs and down a hallway. I follow him with his duffel bag, stopping when he turns into a doorway. “Here’s your room,” he says, stepping into a bedroom about the size of my trailer house. He points towards the opposite wall. “Your bathroom is right around the corner there. If you need an iron there’s one in the closet. Ironing board’s in there too.”

"So…business casual now, and bring a bathing suit?"

Roman nods. "There are cabanas poolside. We’ll come back here to shower and change for the dinner.”

He heads for his own room to change. I hang my garment bag in the spacious closet, then with a great heave I flop the big suitcase onto the bed and inventory the contents.

After changing and modeling multiple iterations of different outfits in the full-length gilded mirror, I finally settle on a thin, sleeveless white blouse with a soft cowl neck. The form fitting fabric accents my figure and makes my boobs look large and (more importantly) firm, and the lace pattern has a see-through effect that is sexy without being too revealing. I pair the top with gray straight-leg slacks, and a pair of "glass slippers"-essentially silver slip-ons with tiny rhinestone accents and a clear heel.

Then it's off to the bathroom with my makeup bag. I stare at myself in the mirror and have an internal debate on how to wear my hair. Will wearing it down seem too casual? Will it look like I'm trying too hard if I wear it up? I meet my indecision in the middle and go with a partial up-do. I remind myself that I'll be swimming afterwards and will have to re-do my hair when I shower anyway.