How he managed to get it to her so quickly was a feat for princes and kings.
Worse,why’dhe returned it. Her tears surfaced again. Did she want the Pissarro? All those memories hanging on her wall instead of her heart?
Digging the hammer out of the kitchen junk drawer, Corina laid the box on the floor, questions pounding her heart. Did she want to open it? Was she fortified enough to fall into the imagery and sensation of the Rue du Roi?
Whispering a prayer, she aimed the hammer, prying open the lid. If nothing else, the Pissarro would remind her of the night atop the Braithwaite when she caught the heart of a prince.
She’d regale her grandchildren with her story.
When the lid lifted free, Corina anchored it against the foyer wall. She expected to find a mound of bubble wrap but instead found layers of packing and tissue paper.
Kneeling beside the crate to discover what lay beneath, she gasped when the white sheen and feathery beauty of the Luciano Diamatia emerged.
“Oh, Mama.” Corina lifted the gown from the crate, new tears rising. A pink envelope dropped to the floor by her feet. Reaching for it, Corina found a simple note inside.
Corina, please forgive me. Your loving mama.
A laugh bubbled over Corina’s tears as she hurried to her room, Diamatia’s voice, with all of his inflections—rollingr’s and slurreds’s—paraded across Corina’s mind.
At their first meeting, the renowned designer walked around her, musing aloud.
I see a swan. A glorious swan!
Standing in front of her bedroom mirror, Corina held the gown against her, aching to try it on.
Please fit, please fit.
Mourning and grieving wreaked havoc on a girl’s body.
Corina spread the gown across her bed, found her phone in her purse, and dialed home. Ida Mae answered with a curt, “I’ll get your mama.” Bless sweet ole Ida Mae.
“So you received the gown?” Mama said with more emotion in her voice than Corina had heard in years. She drank from her tone as if she pulled a cup of water from a deep well.
“Thank you so much, Mama. But what made you go after it?”
“The story, in the SundayPost . . .about you and the prince.”
“Oh, I see.” How to tell her the marriage was annulled? “Mama—”
“Your father told me the rest of the story. I’m sorry, Corina. I truly am. Nevertheless, when I read the article I realized what a lovely, capable woman you are and how lucky any man would be to have you as his wife. Especially Prince Stephen. So, I hunted down the dress and hired a special courier to deliver it to you. Besides, you were right, it wasn’t mine to give away.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Corina stood at her bedroom window, the subtle hues of the fading sun soaking the June evening, a sense of enrichment swelling in her.
“Say you’ll wear it. And soon.”
“I married Stephen in that dress.”
Mama was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to see it.”
“I’m sorry you weren’t there, too, Mama.”
“But I’m sure it was all terribly romantic.”
“Terribly.”
“I’m trying, Corina, I sincerely am.” Mama’s long sigh brushed Corina’s heart. “Be patient with me.”
“Always, Mama. Always.”
