Good. Are you sure? You’ll have to go straight up after your holiday. Won’t you miss Thomas?
He’ll understand. Seeing the Princess Louisa in person? I’m in.
“Ella, sometime this century, love.” Leslie Ann joined Daffy on the couch. “What was your mum’s message? Something about Hadsby?”
“Mum assigned me to the wedding dress parade at Hadsby.”
“You’ll finally get to see theLouisa?” Leslie Ann gripped Daffy’s arm and gave her the look—the one that said,“Get me in to do a feature.”
“You know the RT has strict media rules. You want to see the dress, go through the office.”
“What’s the benefit of having a friend with the Royal Trust if she won’t do me favors?” Leslie Ann tapped on her phone. “I have so many stories developing I won’t have time anyway. Ella! Coming or not?”
ThePrincess Louisahad set the standard in late nineteenth-and early twentieth-century wedding gowns. At least with the aristocracy and wealthy. Designed by an obscure Dalholm designer, Taffron Björk, the gown remained timeless. Taffron quickly faded from the fashion world, and theLouisawas his only known gown.
As for Daffy, both the gown and Björk fascinated her. She wrote her dissertation on its unique mark in the fashion world and how the RT maintained the gown one hundred twenty years later. She also recapped the life of the man who designed a wedding dress for a princess and was never heard of again.
He died in ’48 at the age of ninety-two. In her research, Daffy stumbled upon a quote from his beloved wife, who died in ’55, claiming he’d designed one last special gown before his death. If he had, no one had ever seen it.
“Help.” Ella appeared in the lounge wearing a yellow sundress, which only accentuated her radiating skin. She held her arms out to the side, her steps mimicking a bowlegged American cowboy. A bottle of Bactine dangling from her finger tips. “Spray me. I’m dying.”
“Come here, love. You’re not dying.” Daffy reached for the bottle and coated her sister’s skin with the liquid contents.
“I’m wondering why Ella and I look like Rudolph’s nose,” Leslie Ann said. “While Daffy looks like ‘The Girl from Ipanema.’ All golden and brown.”
“I inherited the Italian blood.”
“Italian blood? With your mass of red curls and blue eyes? Ella’s the one with dark hair and eyes.”
“Take it up with the Almighty.” Daffy applied another layer of Bactine. For good measure. Ella winced with every touch. “I got the Lauchten and Italian side of Dad’s family. Ella is stuck with Mum’s Lauchten and Irish. I had no choice in the matter.”
“Interesting.” Leslie Ann moved to the sliding glass door and stepped onto the deck. A saline breeze brushed through the cottage. “Well, you may have Italian blood and an enviable tan, but your face glowed this morning after talking to that shirtless chap with the abs.”
“So? I was warm from my errand. And what abs? He had abs?” Daffy capped the Bactine and walked with Ella out to the deck.
“Warm? The breeze was like ice. And don’t even tell me you didn’t see his abs. Lying doesn’t suit you.”
“No, that’s your thing.” With a laugh, Daffy linked her arm through her friend’s. “We’re in Florida on holiday. How glorious!”
“You lovelies go ahead.” Ella’s pace matched that of a hermit crab. “I’ll be along. Save me a seat.”
“We can’t leave you behind.” Daffy and Leslie Ann flanked Ella and headed down the beach.
The evening was stunning, cool and salty, full of sounds only God could create. Above them, the pinkish sunset swallowed the blue sky, and the scene demanded contemplation.
Daffy sank into the silence as the three of them walked to the pub. Any more questions from Leslie Ann about the shirtless chap, and she’d blush again. This time she couldn’t blame the sun or a jog to the cottage and back.
She didn’t understand the blushing. She wasn’t one to do so easily. But it started when she was a girl. Whenever the prince came round. Well, no worry. She’d not see him again.
The Captain’s Hideaway was packed on this Monday night. A group of uni students hovered on the deck, the lads in Ohio State shirts and caps, the girls in tops adorned with Greek letters.
“Excuse us. Pardon us.” Leslie Ann pushed inside, past the picnic tables to the high tops on the other side of the dining area. “Broadcast presenter coming through.”
“They have no idea who you are, Leslie Ann,” Ella said as they cut through the crowd. “I thought this was a quiet, private beach. Where did these people come from?”
“Probably on holiday, like us.” Daffy chose the only vacant seating and passed out the table menus. She liked the feel of this place. Peaceful, homey, as if one could come here to raise a pint and laugh with one’s mates.
That’s what they did at home. The three of them along with their friends. They migrated to Pub Clemency on Friday nights to hang out with Kayle and Frank, Tonya and Marlow, Albert, Rick, Jones, and Thomas. If she moved to America, she’d miss those nights.
