“All it took was you adjusting to a world where you had to share.As I recall, two weeks later you didn’t want camp to end.”
“The moral of this story is—” Scottie searched the drawers for scissors to open the flour bag.
“Think of your time in Lauchtenland as camp.What can you learn from it?How can you grow?Adversity is one of life’s greatest gifts if we allow it to do its work.How could you turn the tide in your favor?Win over the people.I’ve seen you do it so many times, Scottie.It’s your superpower.”
“I’ll still have people chanting for me to go home.‘No more Americans in the House of Blue.’That MP, Hamish Fickle—he’s got a grudge against the royal family.”
“Do they know why?”
“They don’t ask questions, Shug.They try to live above it all.”
“Then if you’re not a legal member of the Blues, you ask.See if you can help.Resolve this issue.”Shug dumped two cups of flour into a bowl, sending a white cloud into the air.
Scottie regarded her grandmother, who was not smiling but completely serious.“Shug, the world needs more people like you.But their politics are nothing like ours.This MP Hamish Fickle is not interested in hearing from me.He seems determined to end the monarchy.”
“That’s small thinking, Scottie.You don’t know the answer until you ask.Back in the day, your grandpa had a sales rep who constantly stirred up trouble.Fritz wanted to fire him, but he was one of our best salesmen.Lots of experience.He gave us good notes on our designs.”
“What’d Fritz do?”Scottie cracked two eggs into the bowl.
“He decided to be that man’s friend.Took him to lunch without the rest of the fellas.Called him up when we faced an important decision.Then one day, he took his shot.‘What’s troubling you, Martin?’And the man told him.”
“What was it?”
“On the surface, it was something about our commission structure.However, deep down, Martin was hurting.Nothing to do with O’Shay.Fritz made changes to the way we paid commissions, and Martin started calling your grandpa just to talk.He became our champion.Landed accounts no one else dared touch.He clocked thirty years with O’Shay.Our Martin leather belts are named after him.”
“He’s that Martin?”
“Yes.And because of your grandpa’s kindness, Martin righted what was wrong inside.When he died, four hundred people crowded into the church to say goodbye.”
“So you think Hamish Fickle is my Martin?”It was a stretch.She barely knew the man.He didn’t work for her.They had no personal beefs, other than her Blue blood.She didn’t know Lauchtenland ways or culture well.
“I think you have a shot with this fella if you care to take it.Take a page from your grandfather’s book.”
“It’s not that simple, Shug.For one, my Martin is a member of parliament.Two, I can’t go around the Chamber Office, the House of Blue, and the Privy Council to have tea with the man.I’d be seen as involving myself in politics, which could blow up in my face and cause the Family all sorts of problems.”
“Who said anything about politics?And my darling granddaughter, what do you think every state dinner or royal ball is about?”Shug leaned close.“Politics.Now, let’s bake cookies.”
It was late when Shug left.They’d made four dozen cookies, eaten at least a dozen with large glasses of milk, ordered a roast chicken with all the sides from Valentino’s, and watched a rom-com.
It was good to be home, with all the feels.Yet Shug had opened doors in Scottie’s thinking.Could she, as an American Blue, actually have a role in helping the Family—or even Lauchtenland itself?
Still, as Scottie climbed into her bed, she was eager to return to Kate and Hadsby, to finish what she’d started.She reached for her phone, found Michael’s number, hesitated, whispered a short prayer, then composed a brief text.
Scottie:Hey Mick, I was wondering…would it be possible to get a private meeting with Hamish Fickle?
With a deep breath, she hit Send.
* * *
Michael
The pitch was green.The sky, blue.The slipping breeze cooled his warm skin.And he was running toward the goal in the father-son match between the Cross PF club and the Highgrove Sports League.As the ball arched toward him, a winger raced his way—a brutish teen with thighs like tree trunks and his eye on the ball.But this play was Michael’s.
“Mick, back post!”Piers, or maybe Evan, calling from the sideline.
“Go, Uncle Mick.Go!”Unmistakably Finn.
He avoided the teen as the ball dropped toward him, planted his right foot then launched, swinging his left leg round and snapping his foot, sending the ball over the goalie’s head and into the net.
