“I think Imani’s right. John loves you.”
“If that’s true, stop the car, I’m getting out.” Gemma checked on Chandler who was starting to fuss, then stared out the window as Hearts Bend faded away and Nashville drew near.
“Gemma,” Scottie said as they neared the airport exit. “This journey will be one of discovery for both of us. I won’t shy away if you won’t.”
Gemma glanced over at her. “I know who I am. I won’t shy away from the truth. That’s the best I can do.”
“Whatever that means. At least promise me you’ll have fun.”
Gemma laughed. “Fun will be my middle name.”
* * *
The flight over was luxurious. Gemma had never been on a private jet before and now she was spoiled for anything less. Flying commercial, even first class, would be like riding a cattle train.
When they arrived, the pilot balked at little Chandler being a passenger. But Scottie took up Chandler’s defense, assuring her friend the puppy would not destroy the plane’s cabin.
They had packed toys, food, and pee pads. One of those things would keep him occupied.
Turns out, Little Bing, which was Chandler’s new nickname, slept most of the way, waking up in time to charm a cabin of businessmen.
One man, a Music Row executive, texted his wife to go to the farm to choose one of the pups for their family.
“We lost our dog a few years ago and weren’t ready for another one yet. We loved her so much, but this little guy has won me over.” His wife kept asking for more videos of Little Bing.
They arrived in London mid Saturday morning and took a car from Heathrow down to Dover where they caught a ferry to Port Fressa. A driver met them in a dark sedan, chilled champagne in the back. Gemma pressed against the window as the car maneuvered the crowded, narrow, ancient streets.
The city was haunting, romantic, classic, timeless, modern, and old-world. Glass-and-steel structures scraped the late afternoon sky and cast long shadows toward the bay.
Memories of times gone by popped up on the edge of the road in the form of stone shops and thatched-roof homes. All buffered by a skinny walkway. The driver constantly muttered about pedestrians working around each other by stepping into the avenue.
They passed a red and gold brick building five stories tall stretching the length of a city block, flying the flag of Lauchtenland. Parliament, the driver said.
Then rising out of nowhere, a fortress of white stone and iron, spirals and turrets loomed ahead of them. Perrigwynn Palace. The royal standard flew from the top of each peaked rooftop and on every stone pedestal of the surrounding iron gate.
Gemma sank down in her seat. John lived there. In a palace. While sleeping across from him on a bed of hay in a horse stall, she never actually pictured his home residence.
Now she was really embarrassed she’d invited him into her 1970s kitchen with cracked linoleum floors and dark-paneled walls. But he called it cozy and reminisced over her Formica table.
On the flight over, she’d not allowed herself to think of him. But now, seeing his world, how vast and how different from hers, she felt small and insignificant.
What would she say to him when she saw him? If she saw him. Scottie never really said Gemma had to go with her to meet with Prince John, or to meet the queen.
Scottie could deliver Chandler while Gemma could play the tourist. And what if—she’d never thought of this until now—the prince thought she was stalking him?
Gemma jerked forward when the driver slammed the brakes and gestured at a pedestrian. “Step out. Hit.” His sentences were clipped and shortened, thick with his accent.
A few blocks more and he pulled into the Delafield Hotel entrance. A bellhop in a dark uniform trimmed with gold hurried to greet them and unloaded their cases. After a brief exchange with Scottie, he announced he’d deliver the cases straight to their rooms.
Then she concluded business with the driver, who slipped behind the wheel with a parting word. “Luck.”
“Luck?” Gemma echoed.
“He speaks in shorthand, a dialect from Northton,” Scottie said, walking toward the lobby. “My assistant told me about it when she was researching for our trip. They don’t bother with unnecessary words.”
“I think ‘good’ is a necessary word. How do we know he’s not wishing us bad luck?”
“Let’s believe it’s for the good.”
