Gemma
She’d been settled into her new, old room about a week when she reached for her last suitcase.
Her closet and dresser were filled to the gills but she wanted everything unpacked and as organized as possible. It helped her adjust to this new way of living.
Opening the case, she almost passed out. Truly. The amazing, crystal-studded shoes Princess Daffodil lent her for the ball had come home with her.
Impossible. She was sure she left them in her suite by the feathered gown. And she’d not taken this little case with her to Lauchtenland. How did the shoes end up inside?
With a cold dread, she’d messaged The Chamber Office at once, asking for instructions on how to return them. But so far, almost two weeks later, she’d not heard from them.
Should she just mail them to the palace? Let them sort it out? What if they got lost?
In the ensuing weeks, Gemma spent a lot of evenings at Ella’s Diner. Imani was off with schoolwork and clubs. She’d been elected Junior Class President. She had volleyball practice and soon, basketball. If she wasn’t tied up with practice or projects, she was with Justin and Penny.
Gemma missed her but she remembered what it was like to be sixteen.
She ate dinner with her parents then excused herself before the card playing friends arrived. At twenty-nine, she wasn’t ready to be drawn into their life of hearts and pinochle.
Every evening she returned from Ella’s with napkin notes stuffed in her bag. Then she stored them in a box in her room.
One sip of her coffee or tea, or hot chocolate, and she had an urge to write. Tell what happened in L.A., in Vegas, this past summer. Just pour it out. Get rid of the acid and the bitterness.
During one such frantic writing session, Tina came by with a large stack of napkins and set them on the table, then kept going. Later when Gemma cashed out she said, “You know about this new invention called ruled paper? Also, these handy devices you hold in your hand and type. Tablets. Phones. Even a laptop.”
“It’s cathartic to write with pen and paper. Or in my case, napkin.”
She wrote about the lights and fragrances of the Heart of God and how she felt different, cleansed, after being filled with the heart’s glow.
She described the ball and dancing with a prince. She wrote about the puppies and the herd.
Then there was the weird Brillo-haired lady that Daffy also knew. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed less of a coincidence and more of a divine plan.
But Gemma was no princess. What did she and Princess Daffy have in common?
She scribbled about her land-purchase folly. That was an entire napkin pack according to Tina.
Last but not least, she wrote about the Vegas video going viral. Surely everyone in town knew about the land deal and the video by now. Even stern-lipped church ladies wanted to see how Gemma Stone took off her clothes on a Las Vegas stage so they could be appropriately appalled.
She wrote about her kitchen conversation with Daddy. About his love and affirmation. She wrote about the cracked mirror and the slightly new look in her eye.
She wrote that she loved the prince.
But these were notes for her eyes only. No one would ever see. Well, not until she was eighty-five and decided to write her memoirs.
On her days off she visited Hercules, Whinny, and Silver. They were so well loved she was almost jealous.
The family in Nashville sent pictures of Ross and Rachel sleeping in the children’s beds. Penny and Justin kept Gemma informed on Joey and Phoebe. And Mr. Paul, who finally came for Monica right before the move, said he never had a better creature living in his house.
“Including my wife.”There was certainly more to that story.
Writing about her past was one thing. The words flowed. But where she fumbled was her future. Last night she grabbed a napkin and wrote GOALS on the top.
Nothing. Blank.
This afternoon, she set an appointment with a social worker to get Imani’s adoption into motion.
“Anyone home?” Gemma stepped into the kitchen and settled her Prada on a hook by the door. “Mama? Daddy? Imani? Anyone home?”
