She was twenty again.
The world was easy.
She thought about her piano recitals and classes and how blissful it was to be in love.
She laid her fingers on Dieter’s cheek. His late-night stubble was rough against her hand.
He turned his chin and kissed her palm, never breaking eye contact. His gray eyes held the storms of time. His golden hair shined like a halo.
Angel.
He whispered,“I love you,”and held her as he drove her higher, flying in his arms. The breeze from his enormous, white-feathered wings cooled her skin.
“Hold me,”she whispered. The apex of their flight felt like a sigh, a moment of weightlessness. Her body blossomed with golden light until the glow consumed her.
When Flicka woke, she was happy, but she was alone in her bed.
Her phone screamed texts at her.
The bedside clock read six o’clock.
The other side of the bed was smooth and cold. The pillow was perfectly fluffed, and the sheet hem was neatly folded back.
Pierre hadn’t come back to their room at all.
The dream began to slip away as the bed and hotel room solidified around her. When she checked her phone, twelve texts needed to be answered.
This was real. Nothing else was.
Flicka pushed the sheets and comforter aside and rolled out of bed.
She had another damned royal wedding and reception to plan.
Calling Home
Dieter Schwarz
One of my better phone calls home.
Dieter lay on his hotel room bed, absently fiddling with the pale yellow duvet, and calculated the time change between Paris and the American Southwest. The bed smelled faintly like smoke, and it made him want a cigarette. He’d slipped a few days before and smoked one, but now he was back on the wagon.
His room at the George V Hotel was a decent-sized one. Dieter and Wulf made sure the security guys had reserved some of the larger rooms, which meant that some of the other wedding guests, the royal ones, must have gotten smaller accommodations. That made Dieter grin.
The room had a nice television that could be watched from the bed and a wide desk to work on, so he was happy.
The dark blue curtains coiled on the floor. He didn’t like that they were a tripping hazard in the case of an emergency, so he had tucked the spilled fabric back against the wall.
His phone read that it was 4:08 A.M. in Paris, which meant that it was 8:08 P.M. the previous night at home.
Yes, Alina should be down for the night, at least as much as she was ever down for the night, but his wife, Gretchen, should still be up.
He tapped the contact to call.
After a ring or two, Gretchen answered, “Yes?”
“Hi,” Dieter said, “just checking in. How’s Alina?”
“Fine. Why wouldn’t she be fine?” Gretchen said.
