The Grumpy Count, page 16
As I stroll across the wintry park, I breathe in the crisp air with a hint of wood smoke from the surrounding chimneys and shove my hands into my pockets. I’m wearing warm wool gloves, but the cold stings my fingers like it never got the memo.
Yesterday, after Jonas turned up on my doorstep and then walked out an hour later with Jean Capot’s key, he left a check behind—£2 million. He must have scribbled the amount when I turned away to dry my stupid weepy eyes. Enough to buy any of the mouthwatering properties he teased me about. The check is currently in my purse, and I am still undecided about what to do with it, or if I should tell my parents about it.
Finally, I make it to the front door of their house. They made a good choice. In cream stucco and brick like the neighbors, it has two bay windows flanking the entrance, which give it extra oomph.
I knock on the door. Papatte’s excited barking greets me from inside. Mom opens the door and gives me a hug before ushering me into the house. Papatte does her usual dance of joy. She circles around me, wags her tail frantically, and rubs her head against my legs. Every time I see her reaction, I think to myself, “She adores me; I must be special.” But the truth is, this is how she greets everyone—and I mean everyone—from family members to random delivery guy.
I take off my coat and hat in the hallway and follow Mom into the living room. It’s old-fashioned but tastefully so. Oil paintings hang on the walls. Shelves upon shelves of books cover an entire wall. A wicker basket full of logs sits near a crackling fire, and Persian rugs are scattered about to keep my parents warm. I plonk myself into one of the deep leather sofas arranged around an oak coffee table.
I sniff the air. Something fragrant is cooking in the oven. Roast duck with spicy plum sauce is my best guess.
“Dinner will be a little late,” Mom says, “but I’m assuming that’s OK since you’re sleeping over.”
“Pas de problème,” I reassure her.
Dad steps in from the kitchen and gives me a hug.
“Is Doreen coming?” I ask as we sit down again.
Dad shakes his head. “She’s too busy with work. It’s Monday, kid! People with regular office hours have more constraints than the likes of us.” He sweeps his hand from me to Mom.
“Well, Mom has no constraints at all,” I say, leveling my eyes at her.
I’m being mean and I know it. On the other hand, I’m not bad-mouthing Mom—just stating a fact. She made those life choices, so she should be able to handle it when someone brings up her chosen financial dependence on Dad. Mom hasn’t been in the labor market for as long as I can remember. I wonder if she ever held a job, or if her plan had always been to find a successful guy and become a kept woman. Pardon, housewife.
Every time Doreen or I taunt her, I pray she will bite back. But she never does. A fervent Catholic, she must’ve internalized the whole “Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth” business.
As always, Dad stands up for her. “Despite your snark, I know you secretly wish that one day you can have a happy life like hers.”
“I don’t, because the price would be my autonomy.” With a smirk, I add, “Doreen does, though.”
“Doreen?” Mom gives a disbelieving snort. “She thinks even less of me than you do. Your sister can’t go five minutes without belittling me.”
Her lucidity gives me pause. Mom is so shy and stingy with words, especially negative ones, that I didn’t even think she had realized. Or that she minded.
Suddenly, I feel like saying something to please her.
“Doreen’s career,” I begin, “isn’t an end in itself. It’s a means to an end.”
“The end being?” Dad asks.
“To increase her chances of meeting a rich, titled man and marry him.”
Mom points at Dad. “A man like your dad? He’s Doreen’s hero.”
“Dad is nowhere near as rich as what Doreen is aiming for,” I say. “And he isn’t titled.”
“You’re wrong about your sister’s life goal,” Dad says.
“Nope, because she told me those things herself.”
Mom makes a rueful face. “Then she’s headed for disaster.”
“What do you mean? I thought you’d approve…”
“Gold diggers do get lucky,” she says. “Sometimes they catch a man who’s very rich, but isn’t too old or too ugly. Sometimes, they even get him to believe he’s in love.”
I shrug. “Maybe he is.”
“It never lasts. Sooner or later, he figures out she’s there only for his money.”
Slitting my eyes at Mom, I ask, “Are you sure?”
“No one,” she says, “not even the best actor, can hide the absence of love for more than a year. In a marriage, there are too many situations, big and small, that together end up unmasking the charade.”
“What are you saying, Mom?”
She lifts a hand and lets it fall. “I’m sorry, I can’t explain it any better.”
“When your mother and I met in Bordeaux,” Dad says, “she had a good life there and a great job at the mayor’s office.”
“Really?” I goggle at her.
“It was an entry-level position but a good one,” she says. “With prospects.”
“You never told me about that job.”
She frowns. “It was just a detail…”
“It wasn’t!” It changes my perception of you.
Mom searches my face.
How can I explain this with tact?
Cautiously, I begin, “I thought you finished PA school but never earned a living, to come into your own. I thought you went straight from living off your parents to living off your husband.”
“When we met,” Dad says, “I hadn’t graduated yet. I was in debt, broke, a lot poorer than your mom.” He chuckles. “She paid for my drinks when we went out.”
Now it’s him I’m gawking at.
“It was the following year,” he continues, “that I joined a law firm, moved on to the London Stock Exchange, and started making money.” He glances at Mom. “We were in a long-distance relationship at that time.”
“What happened then?” I ask.
I can’t believe they never told me their story before! I mean, I was familiar with the general plot, but not with the finer details, which sort of changes everything. Then again, I never asked. I had those patriarchal archetypes in my head, and my parents fit in them all too neatly.
“I hated it,” Mom says.
I blink at her. “What?”
“The long-distance thing. And, so…” She glances at Dad. “Pretty Woman had just come out, so I shamelessly stole Julia Roberts’s line and told your dad I wanted the fairy tale.”
He laughs. “Yes, you did.”
“I said to him we couldn’t go on like that anymore,” she continues, “and that I was willing to quit my job and move to London to be with him. My English was good enough to work as a waitress in a café or a pub.”
“And?” I lean toward her.
“I moved in with him, and waitressed for two years.”
“Is that true?”
She flinches at my outrageous question.
“I’m sorry, Mom!” I take her hand. “I had no idea. I’d assumed…”
Her expression softening, she pats my hand. “That’s OK. I had assumed things, too. These details are clearly important to you. It follows now that I think of it.” She stands up. “I must check on that duck.”
Dad and I watch her rush to the kitchen.
“Sweetie,” he says, “I often get this feeling that some basics that are obvious to most people, aren’t so to you. A loving couple is a very special team. They build a life together. They create life together. They take care of each other. They find comfort and joy in simply being with each other.”
As I listen to him, my mind forms an image of a man. It’s a tall, well-built, dark-haired, dark-eyed man with thick eyebrows and a firm jaw. A man who is objectively handsome to anyone, and painfully handsome to me. A good man who I fell hard for despite his ideas and despite mine.
Dad speaks again, “Even if your mom hadn’t worked a day in her entire life, it would’ve changed nothing for me. I’d love and support her just the same.”
A pang shoots through my chest.
Here I am, stuck on a man who doesn’t love me back. It’s an open-air prison. If I’d known love was like this, I would’ve enjoyed my freedom so much more!
CHAPTER 32
JONAS
I stare out the window of my office at the grounds before me. It’s a slushy, gray day, but the castle’s park is beautiful regardless. Although I’m happy to be back home, and many good things have happened this week, I find myself in a rather dark place.
Must be the weather.
It’s been a week since I got home from London. Three days ago, I traveled to Pombrio and was received at the royal palace by Reigning Prince Richard himself. The sovereign awarded me the Royal Mount Evor Order of Chivalry and made me a Knight of the Brassiere. I am officially part of “the Club” now.
The prime minister held a reception in my honor. I fear he’d regret it when Margot cashes the check. I paid her the highest amount I was pre-authorized to disburse without checking with Pombrio.
For the first time in the two and a half years since the events that brought tragedy and shame to the d’Alenq family, I can walk with my head high. I feel like I am a man in my own right now, no longer tarnished by the scandal, no longer just an heir who had everything handed to him on a silver platter. I am now a man who accomplished something not for himself or his family, but for his country. It’s a good feeling.
The dark part is that throughout this past week, I’ve been thinking about Margot practically nonstop.
Granted, a lot of the thinking has been happening at night, when I stare at the ceiling, unable to find sleep, thinking about her body, her scent, her breasts, her ass, her sweet, sweet pussy… My bed is just too big. Definitely, too empty. But when I try to picture a woman in it, a nice Evorian lady with traditional views that align with mine, it feels wrong.
How weird is that?
When I fall asleep, I dream of Margot, which doesn’t help at all. And even during the day, my mind wanders in her direction. I picture her expressive eyes when I asked her why she wouldn’t take the check, the plea in them when she responded with an enigmatic, “Can’t you see?” and the disappointment when I told her that no, I couldn’t.
If one good thing has come out of so much rumination it is a theory about her refusal to accept payment for the key. What was a complete enigma at the time, is less so now, a week later. I may be wrong. I may be too cocksure, and even fuller of myself than Margot thinks, but I believe I know what she was trying to communicate by refusing the payment.
She was telling me she’d rather have a chance with me than a house with a garden on Roupell Street or a villa in Tuscany.
I am being presumptuous, aren’t I?
What regular woman, be it a pretty dimwit or a plain sage, would forego two mil for a relationship, knowing it might end too soon and in tears?
My phone rings.
It’s Mrs. Everly, calling in for her biweekly update on the Bloomsbury house. I press the video icon. She talks for the next fifteen minutes, and I provide inputs from time to time.
When we get to the mail, she picks up the first of the three piles in front of her. Usually she has two piles, “To Discuss” and “Likely Junk,” unless something stands out. She reports on the bills and other administrative correspondence. Moving on to the second pile, she lists the senders as I say “junk” to each. And then she gets to the single-letter pile.
“Who is it from?” I ask.
“Margot Nolan, registered mail.”
Judging by the suppressed smile on her face, she’d figured out something was going on between us.
“Is it a letter?” I ask stupidly, while deciding what to do.
If Margot wrote me a letter, I can’t have Mrs. Everly open and read it to me. I’ll have to ask her to forward it to the d’Alenq castle. Because Mount Evor has been hidden from the general public since its founding, a system of relays was put in place centuries ago. The system works very well, but speed isn’t one of its strengths. It might be a week before I receive that letter. I can’t wait a week!
Mrs. Everly feels the envelope before holding it up to the light. “It isn’t a letter, or a postcard. It’s a slip of paper. I believe it’s a check.”
Did Margot…? I can’t believe she took a week to reflect and decided to forgo two million pounds. It’s a lot of money even for someone like me, but it is a fortune for her.
“Open it, please,” I say to Mrs. Everly.
She does. It really is my check. Margot really did return it.
Crazy woman!
Mrs. Everly peeks inside the envelope. “There’s a tiny note in there, too.”
I hesitate.
Fortunately, she comes up with a solution. “I could take it out without looking, hold it up to my phone, then put it back, and reseal the envelope with Scotch tape.”
“Mrs. Everly, that’s a great idea!”
I’ll burst if I have to wait a week to read it.
She goes on to do exactly what she said she would, taking care to show both sides of the note to the camera, since she can’t see which side has the writing.
I want the fairy tale.
That’s it, just those words.
Wait, I know that line! Julia Roberts’s Vivian says it in Pretty Woman when Richard Gere’s character offers her cash and a condo.
I lift up my phone. “Mrs. Everly, I’ve read it. You can pack the note away.”
We wrap up the session after that. I lean back in my swivel chair and grin, validated in my assessment of Margot.
That note, it’s just so her!
When I decided against suggesting that we start a casual relationship, no strings attached, it was because I didn’t see her agreeing to it. I was correct. Spot on, as the Brits would say. She would’ve said no. She refused a consolation prize of two million, for Chrissakes!
The fairy tale, huh?
A flash of clarity chases away the fog that’s been hanging inside my head for much too long. I fire up my laptop, insert Prince Richard’s and the prime minister’s email addresses, and begin to type.
CHAPTER 33
JONAS
I’m strolling around the park with Margot. She’s had a lot to process since she was flown in here this morning. I drove over to the Pombrio Airport, picked her up and brought her to the estate. To keep up appearances, I had her settled into a guest room adjacent to my office, but she’ll obviously sleep in my bed.
Eyes on the slush, Jonas! You can’t roam the grounds at three in the afternoon sporting wood.
Margot halts to appreciate the oak tree alley on our left, magnificent even when the crowns are bare.
“Would you like to head that way?” I ask.
She nods, shifting her eyes to me. “What was the nickname the royals gave me? Something to do with the key…”
“Key to the Key,” I say. “It isn’t a nickname, but more like an honorary title. It’s the reason you are allowed to visit Mount Evor.”
“I had to sign a draconian nondisclosure agreement before boarding the plane!”
My lips curl up. “You think that was all? Our secret service had vetted and cleared you, but the PM was unwilling to let you in. Crown Prince Theodor had to intervene with his uncle and the PM.”
“What did he say to them?”
“He pointed out that the first three Keys to the Key had been allowed in, and that it would be discriminatory to deny the fourth.”
“I like the way your crown prince thinks,” she says.
What I haven’t told Margot is that Theo, his mother Princess Felicia, his uncle, his siblings, cousin Louis, and everybody in the know assume Margot and I will be married soon, since she is my Key to the Key.
Free will, my ass!
“How long can you stay?” I ask her.
“Not sure yet… Why?”
“I’d like us to get to know each other better, and I’d like you to spend time with Matteo.”
“I’d like that, too,” she says to my relief. “Your son is adorable.”
Which reminds me. “How much did he tell you in the London house before Celeste arrived? What did Celeste tell you?”
“Not much.” She rubs her chin, thinking. “Ah, yes! When I referred to you as his dad, he said you weren’t. He said his dad was dead.”
She eyes me, and I hold her gaze, collecting my thoughts.
Margot speaks again, “You two seem to have a complicated relationship for your son to invent plots like that. From a psychological and pedagogical perspective—”
“He told you the truth,” I cut in. “His dad is dead.”
That wins me an open and shut mouth.
“Matteo’s dad is my twin brother Stephen,” I explain.
“You have a twin?”
“He died in a car crash, and his wife… um, that’s a story for another time. For now, just know that I have officially adopted Matteo. I love him like a son. In every way that matters, Matteo is my son.”
“I had no idea, Jonas.” Her magnetic gray eyes search my face. “I’m so sorry about your twin brother!”
“It’s been almost three years. The pain has lost some of its edge. For us all.
“Now I understand why you let Matteo call you Jonas.”
“I don’t like it, but what choice do I have?”
She gives me a compassionate smile. “None.”
“That’s right. I can’t tell him to forget his dad, nor can I lie and tell Matteo that Stephen was his uncle, and I was always his dad.”
“No, you can’t,” she agrees.
We keep quiet for a few seconds.
I take her hand. “It would be great if you could stay through the rest of the winter and the spring, until you’re due to play in Bath.”
