Deck the Palace (A Duched Series Holiday Novella), page 3
Boyish mirth instantly invades his less than boyish complexion. “I could not.”
“You want the world to see your handiwork?”
“Absolutely.”
“You are still quite proud of your naughtiest natures, aren’t you?”
“Unquestionably.”
“Ohhhh,” flows freely on a giggle and gentle nudge, “off you go.”
“And out,” Trenton teasingly adds prior to gently removing himself.
Getting ourselves properly cleansed – again – is – of course – a lengthy process made even longer by my partner.
Yes, I most certainly adore the fact he wets a cloth with warm water, lovingly wipes me down, and sweetly litters kisses all around my anatomy during the course; however, I less appreciate the fact his tongue has a habit of getting away from him when time isn’t particularly in our favor.
What I appreciate even less is my own inability to resist it.
And him.
Eventually, untangling ourselves must occur in order to fulfill our various changing needs.
My attire is dangling from its post laundry service steaming hangers – waiting to be put on once my hair and makeup are complete – and Trenton’s is laid out, across the mattress, each piece occupying its own area for him to visually approve or judge or criticize, a tactic he claims he owes to his nephew Kellan.
The same nephew who married a beautiful brown skinned woman the country did not expect, but most certainly loves.
And that same woman is who we are honoring with their chosen events this holiday season.
She’s American.
So.
I am a wee bit skeptical.
They have their fair share of…strange traditions.
Such as the pickle ornament nonsense.
Who thought of that?!
God, I hope that is not one we will be partaking in.
Honestly, I would much rather participate in something vaguely more familiar such as leaving our slippers by the fireplace for small gifts as the French do.
“I love this band,” announces Trenton from the other room the instant Georgian ArKtecture begins flooding through my phone speakers.
“Desi introduced me to their music a couple years back when her company catered a quaint meet and greet for them at one of the Frost Beachside Resorts.”
And her catering is also how the two of us ended up in the same room after decades of being parted.
She owns Ex-Cuisine Me? – a semi-clever pun on excuse me – however it now operates underneath the bigger umbrella of Bennett Enterprises. Due to this, she has to use their meat – which is high quality, so a win – and she is also often suggested to their clients – which is also typically a win. A few years back – near Christmas – a different company pulled out – rather last minute – and BE insisted she cater that holiday, charity gala in their place. Desiree insisted I tag along because I had reached a point in my post Patton existence where I only left the house for groceries, work, or to have family time with them.
That gala just happened to be for the K&T Aquatic Institute, Trenton’s company he uses for protecting, repairing, and advancing oceanic causes.
Why?
Why would a literal prince invest so much of his money towards an avenue that is less about profits and more about charity?
Very good question.
Most would assume it’s because the dirty blond haired – pre all the silvers – piercing blue eyed, self-proclaimed beach king – who sports an aquatic leg mural to prove it – simply wanted to ensure the safety of his sanctuary.
Quite the believable train of thought.
Shallow shored, sure; nonetheless extremely plausible.
The truth?
The two thousand, two hundred meters, this is where deep-sea squat lobsters, known as yeti crabs, blindly dwell reality?
It was how he learned to cope with living a life that did not include me.
Our inevitable ending – all those years ago – was terribly tragic.
Hurt us both.
Deeply.
“I think Georgian ArKtecture might be my new favorite,” Trenton happily informs.
“They are currently Raelyn’s favorite.”
“Should we plan a trip?” inquires my boyfriend during his reappearance in the doorway. “Should we take her to go see them live?” His hands begin theatrical drumming motions. “Perhaps to see them in the states and then soar off to Universal or Disney?” The movements get more dramatic. “Give her mum and dad a small break while rightfully earning the titles of ‘best grans ever’?”
More giggles are accompanied by a small headshake.
He loves being an honorary grandparent.
His daughter – Katherine – is in college and children just very well may be the furthest thing from her mind.
I do not blame her.
I did not want them at her age.
I did – at one point – want them with her father.
Her father who had her on a complete accident while I had Desiree intentionally.
Trenton…never…quite…fully…healed from losing me.
I, however, learned to move forward.
Managed to find love again.
Let myself be loved properly.
Away from pretentious titles and people.
Away from money and power.
Away from values that did not align with my own.
Patton Acaster – my late husband – was a small, commercial fisherman until his literal dying days.
No, it was not glamorous or even the most financially fruitful, but he loved selling to local markets and was happy.
And he made sure I was happy.
And that I led a life that was filled with happiness.
And I did!
We were wed, had one lovely daughter – pregnancy was absolutely misery for me – and not only thrived in careers that we were both passionate about, but had memory making moments that would’ve been thrown to the wayside had I attempted continuing to make things work – when they clearly weren’t – with Trenton.
Do I feel guilty for allowing myself all that I have?
No.
Do I feel minor pain for him not granting himself the same permission?
Yes.
However, I have come to understand – therapy has most certainly helped – I can only be held accountable for my own actions. Others are to be responsible for theirs.
“You know Kristopher loved Disney while Kellan did not do well,” he proceeds as I reach for my curling iron. “People in character costumes were one of the things that gave him nightmares. And I would bet my favorite Manu painting that they still do.”
“And Katherine?”
“Was never interested in attending.” His shirtless bicep that boldly bears the date of when we first met braces itself against the frame. “Crowds have never been something she is a fan of.”
“I cannot imagine that has fared well for her in this family.”
“It is…a battle,” he confesses on a small snigger. “One I am capable of winning whenever I attach a defined amount of time to it.”
Continuing to smile is effortless.
Just like it was when we were first together except now, we have wrinkles.
And gravity is not always on my side.
Nor are my bloody fucking hormones.
“And you are certain she will like these tickets to Chicago the day after Christmas?” Beginning the curling process of my carob-colored hair occurs next. “I know it is not Broadway or the West End-”
“The Grove is the literal equivalence, my everything.”
“And I know they are not the best seats-”
“They are fifth row, center.”
“And I know that it is the understudy as opposed to the principle actress-”
“The principle actress who you have been nursing – pun intended – back to health in PT by providing unmatched hydrotherapy and rehabilitation.”
“And I know being allowed backstage to meet members of the wardrobe crew is not necessarily as exciting as meeting the cast or director-”
“To her it will be more exciting.”
“However-”
“I do not believe you have heard a single word I have said,” he quietly chortles.
“However,” momentarily pausing is executed to evaluate how many pieces of hair I worked through while rambling, “I think it is a unique experience for someone with her particular interests.”
He joyfully nods at the same time he folds his arms across his firm chest.
“So,” I put the tool down to begin fluffing out my strands, wanting a fuller bodied look, “do you think she will like that I got the two of us tickets?”
“No.” He waits until my dark brown glare finds his in the mirror. “I am certain she will love it.”
There’s no use in resisting the urge to beam.
“Katherine has found her calling in costume design, and Chicago is – currently-”
“Emphasis on currently,” is muttered while fixing a couple of the unfluffed curls.
“- her favorite musical of all time.”
“A phrase that young ladies love yet constantly change their attachment to.” An amused grin is offered. “You will learn this.”
“I am learning this.” Soft redness tints his cheeks. “And I appreciate you being the reason that I am.”
“You are providing me with far too much credit.”
“And you, my everything, still stumble in an accepting all that you are owed.”
Warmth begins to swirl around the pit of my stomach along with my cheeks pushing me to busy myself with something else.
Anything else that isn’t his flattery.
Unyielding devotion.
It is quite remarkable; although, at times, I find myself asking, is it too remarkable?
Do I really deserve someone willing to wade across the ocean for a seashell if it is simply meant to make me smile?
Someone who gets out of bed at five in the morning to make me coffee before my shift?
Someone who rubs my feet after a twelve-hour day to the sound of ocean documentaries or Roxane Gay’s audiobook or Ella Fitzgerald?
Someone who fights tooth and nail with me about taking care of me and not just everyone else?
Am I truly entitled to be this happy after having previously been happily married?
Isn’t this wrong?
Should I really get another chance to be mindboggling blissful when others haven’t even had the opportunity to do it once?
“Speaking of gifts,” the man I can still hardly believe is mine for a second time slowly begins, redirecting my attention back to him, “I am ready to give you yours.”
I immediately spin on my heels to point a firm finger in his direction. “We do not have time for another round of shagging, Trenton.”
“Bloodyhell, my everything, even when you are fussing at me, my name sounds perfect.”
Rolling my eyes and shaking my head are all I’m capable of.
And those are the two steady actions next to smiling and moaning he constantly has me doing.
“I actually have one that I want you to have prior to all the family festivities.” My mouth barely has time to twitch before he’s adding, “The family festivities that you are very much welcomed to.”
Sinking my teeth into the corner of my bottom lip can’t be stopped.
Technically, I am not family.
I am simply “the girlfriend”.
These events are typically meant for those that are wed and who they are wed to and the children tied to them of course.
I will admit that no one has actively expressed my presence being an issue, unlike decades ago when they did.
Much like our time at boarding school, the years of women are to be seen, never heard, have long passed.
Had things then been as they are now, I do believe our relationship would have had better odds of survival.
However, had it survived, I would not have my daughter or my granddaughter, and they are everything to me.
I would not trade them or having them for anything in this world or the next.
Not even the once-in-a-lifetime romance I share with Trenton.
Who understands.
Who respects that they will always matter first.
The fact that he acknowledges my disposition and happily accepts coming in second simply makes me love him more.
“And if Desiree and Boston and Raelyn were not in Canada to visit his parents and watch his baby brother finally play in his first NHL game of his career they would be welcomed as well.”
Arguing grows more difficult.
“You are family.” One hand links to mine the second I’m within reaching distance. “They are family.” All of a sudden, his other hand holds up a half emerald, half diamond engagement ring attached to a chain. “And this,” he abandons his holds to unclasp the piece of jewelry, “is to remind you of that.”
“Trenton-”
“I know,” he casually brushes off while struggling to undo the fragile metal, “you do not wish to be married again; however, that does not change my wish to marry you.” His arctic stare latches onto my brown once the action is complete. “Nothing and no one ever have. Nothing and no one ever will, Paislee.”
The certainty in his tone untenses my shoulders.
Softens my demeanor.
“This ring,” Trenton sweetly precedes in tandem with draping it around my neck, “will be here as an open invitation.” It’s impossible not to glance down at the platinum jewelry finding its new home. “You are already forever mine in my heart. You are welcomed to be forever mine on paper whenever,” he leans in closer to get a better view of what’s he doing, “and if ever you are ready.”
Unfortunately, his loving words and light touch are not permitted long to linger due to loud knocking on our bedroom door. “Prince Trenton?” Two more taps are delivered by a male house attendant. “King Kenneth has instructed me to retrieve you for the indoor tree ceremony.” A single beat is taken to execute one more knock. “He is concerned you will be late without a chaperon.” This time no pound appears. “I am that chaperone, Sir.”
Trenton
Nuzzling my face into the crook of Paislee’s neck receives the same response it always does.
Giggles.
And my god, I swear to King and Country, there is no sound on this planet I love more.
“Trenton,” she softly scolds convincing my hands that were sliding down her hips to steer themselves together at the point where her off the shoulder evergreen top meets her flowy red skirt.
That one is a very close second.
Whether she’s saying…moaning…screaming…does not make a difference.
I love them as though they are triplet children.
Likely due to the fact that for ages and ages and ages I had not been blessed to hear her say it and was highly convinced I never would be again.
Our…reunion…at the annual K&T Christmas gala – a gala I usually make an excuse to leave after a single glass of Wilcox – was – to be comically cheesy – a bloody Christmas miracle.
One, a person might find or fall for, in a trite Netflix holiday film.
She was simply standing near the bar.
Looking lost.
Waiting for attention from the overwhelmed child who obviously had no idea how to make a candy cane Cosmo.
Her long, dark hair was pinned to the top of her head.
Dress so modest that nuns would likely have fast tracked her application.
And I?
I was across the room.
Prepared to put down my empty glass.
Bow out for the night.
Return home to stretch out beachside, share a tomato and anchovy aioli sandwich with Sammy, my seagull, and down a fresh pint while avoiding any additional holiday revelry – per tradition.
Yet I stopped.
Midmotion.
Realized I knew that head.
That neck.
That tiny beauty mark shaped like a crescent moon.
I didn’t just know those things.
I truly knew them.
With more than my eyes.
More than my heart.
My bloody soul ached in its recognition.
The amount of hours in my life I had spent thinking, dreaming – both day and night – wishing for another chance with the person those attributes belonged to left no room for doubt that it was her.
And when I finally – yes it took a minute to come to the conclusion I was not currently dreaming – crossed the room to…reconnect…to…do the unfathomable…I embarrassed the hell out of myself.
Literally.
I managed to trip a waiter, spill cocktail sauce on my white shirt, and get bubbles – actual fucking bubbles – in my eyes.
Had all that not happened, she would not have rushed to my aid.
She would not have spared me the awkward speech I had practiced and forgotten.
A speech that I now know would have repelled rather than drawn her in.
Allowed us the opportunity to truly talk for the first time in decades.
Truth be told, the “embarrassment” is one I now proudly brag about as a badge of honor to anyone and everyone willing to listen.
Quite similar to how I behaved the very first time we met in boarding school.
“Wearing my baby brother as a sweater is an interesting choice,” taunts Kenneth upon his arrival beside us. “Very bold.”
“He would like that,” Paislee cheekily quips in return.
“Correction, my everything.” My lips deliver another chaste kiss to her brown skin, exposed shoulder. “I would love that.”
“You would love to be worn as clothing?” Kenneth lightly laughs. “Are you auditioning for the role of Buffalo Bill in a musical adaptation of Silence of the Lambs?”
“Who would watch that?!” scoffs the love of my life.
“You would be surprised at the odd stage play pitches our acquaintances have received over the years,” our King warmly chuckles post a cringe.
He is King.
And he is a bloody brilliant one at that.
Which is quite difficult in this day and age – might I say – yet he handles it effortlessly.
With grace.
Style.
