“June is very busy in Cathedral City.”
“Yes, I know . . .” She leaned over the desk and lowered her voice. “My father is Donald Del Rey.” Never before in her life had she used her daddy’s name. It wasn’t how the Del Rey’s rolled. But desperation drove her over her boundary lines. “Are yousureyou don’t have any rooms?”
“Oh, I see.” The clerk leaned closer still, whispering. “Is he on The Wellington board?”
“No.” She grimaced. So, The Wellington had forgotten the Del Reys. In five and a half short years. Corina looked to where a bell cap waited with her things, the morning light cascading through the glass ceiling and pooling at his feet. “Can you tell me where I might find a room?”
“We’ve a computer in the guest center, Miss Del Rey, and a phone book. But most hotels, if not all, will be booked.”
“Let’s hope somewhere in this big ole city there’s a cancellation.”
“I’m sure there is, but”—he leaned toward her—“not at an establishment up to your standards.”
“Right now, any room with a bath and bed sounds perfect.”
“Then I’m sure you’ll find something. After all, your father is Donald Del Rey.”
Oh fine, now he mocked her. Whatever happened to customer service? Across the lobby, Corina met the bell cap and tipped him generously. Can you carry my things outside?”
“Certainly, ma’am.”
The bell cap collected her suitcases and rolled them through the giant sliding doors, depositing them and Corina next to the bustling guest driveway, where two vans loaded with young rugby players had just arrived.
She watched them for a moment, envying their freedom and exuberance, their passion. She needed her passion back. Her exuberance for life.
Daisy’s dream drifted across her thoughts from time to time, pieces of it starting to become Corina’s own. The part where she was happy.
As for Prince Stephen? She wasn’t strong enough to hope on him yet.
“May I help you, miss?” The bell captain approached, his starched white shirt already sweat stained.
“Yes, a taxi please.” She’d cruise around the city until she found a decent hotel. She’d start with the Royal Astor and go from there.
“It will be a moment. We’re quite busy.”
Another van rounded into the hotel drive and deposited more rugby players. Corina watched as they hoisted their gear to their shoulders, laughing, full of camaraderie.
The air around them, in the city, was electric. Summer in Cathedral City. There wasn’t anything like it.
Corina inhaled the scents and sounds. She should’ve done this a long time ago. But she allowed herself to be locked away. Allowed herself to feel rejected, scared, and frail.
Across the city, cathedral bells chimed the hour. Nine o’clock. Corina closed her eyes, listening to the clarion tones, grateful there was no one to stop it.
Three . . . four . . . five . . .
The gothic and Romanesque cathedrals with their heavenward bell towers were enchanting. The pride of the city. Of Brighton.
Seven cathedrals, built over a period of four hundred years, were a monument to the nation’s Christian history. To faith in Christ. To prayer. For over two hundred years, the bells rang out at 6:00 a.m. and 6:00 p.m. in an orchestrated, syncopated, glorious sound. Corina never tired of hearing them.
The tradition began when one of the ancient archbishops wanted to remind the people of morning and evening prayers the year Brighton sided with the newly formed United States against the British during the War of 1812.
Tourists came from all over the world to experience the choreographed melody of the cathedral bells.
Meanwhile, Corina waited for a taxi. She checked with the bell captain, but he was busy with a limousine full of guests.
“I’ve not forgotten you, miss.”
Corina tipped her head to the pale patch of blue peeking down between the buildings and listened to the last chime. The last beckoning to prayer.
