Page 26 of The Thing About My Prince
“Ye parents are in the garden room.” Flora trots up the steps ahead of us. “I’ll send in some extra tea and those chocolate finger biscuits ya like.”
I lean in to Lexi. “I think I said I liked them once when I was about twelve, and she’s never forgotten.”
“They seem nice,” she says, as we approach the front door.
“Hang on to that thought while we enter the Chamber of Doom.”
“Whoa.” Lexi’s head tips back in wonder as soon as we step inside, and she takes in the soaring arched ceiling.
“Careful.” I grab her arm and yank her toward me. It knocks her off balance and she tips into my side. Instinctively I put my arm around her and catch her around the waist.
“What are you doing?” She looks pissed off at being manhandled.
“Preventing you from walking into that.” I nod at the blue plastic bucket in the middle of the floor that she was heading straight for.
“Jesus.” She straightens and pulls away from me. “Why is that there?”
I point up at the ceiling that she was in awe of. “It might be beautiful, but it’s not exactly watertight.” Right on cue alarge drop falls into the quarter-full bucket with an echoeyplop.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell anyone you were bringing me with you,” she hisses.
“Would have caused too much drama.”
“And showing up with a strange woman no one’s expecting won’t?”
“Well, yes, it will. But the drama starts the moment I tell them. So better to leave it to the last minute and minimize the suffering.”
“Such boy logic,” she says. “You might have considered things would have been easier for me if you’d sucked that up so they weren’t as shocked as they’re about to be.”
“Ha. Bless your optimistic soul for thinking there’s a way to make anything easier for anyone around here.”
I lead the way through the long wood-paneled hall off the back corner of the entry.
“Are all these people dead royals?” Lexi indicates the paintings and Victorian photos lining the walls.
“Yup. Can’t even tell you who most of them are.”
At the end of the hallway, what’s officially called the garden room—although we’ve always called it the living room—starts to come into view. Two walls consist mainly of mullioned windows that overlook the lawn and flower beds. The other two are lined with dark wooden shelves bearing books, family photos, and mementos.
“Oliver!” my mother shrieks as soon as we walk through the open door.
She drops her embroidery and jumps to her feet, lifting her glasses to the top of her head as she bustles toward us, her blue skirt swishing around her knees.
My father lowers his newspaper a couple of inches and peers over the top. “Oliver.”
Even though there’s a couple of feet between me and Lexi, I sense her tense.
If she’s worried about an impending awkward hug, she has nothing to worry about. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mother hug anyone.
“Well, who do we have here?” She looks Lexi over from head to toe like she’s a taxidermied exhibit in the Museum of Natural History.
Dad hauls himself out of his armchair, tugs his brown buttoned-up V-neck cardigan straight, and joins her.
At least he offers me a handshake. “How was your journey?”
It’s the same opening small talk question I’ve heard my dad ask everyone at every event I’ve attended with him since I was about five.
“Fine, Dad. Yeah. A friend lent me a plane.”
