Page 174 of The Vacation Mix-Up
“How? I tossed her into the ocean, remember?”
“Riles—” He smooths my hair behind my ears. “—you scattered her remains at sea, as she wanted you to. You still have her memory, so talk to that. That’s how I talk to Dad.”
“Did you cremate your father as well?”
“No. But I talk to his memory more than I talk to his headstone.”
Huh.Nodding, I contemplate giving it a try. I still want to talkto her and tell her everything I experience. And she would love to know about this visit.
Stepping inside the nave of St. George’s Chapel, I hold my breath at the white marble architecture and stained-glass windows. St. Mary’s Basilica was grand and beautiful, but it pales in comparison to this. “Holy moly,” I whisper.
“Peanut butter,” he whispers back.
Laughter bursts from my throat, and I have to stifle it by muffling my mouth with my hand. “Don’t make me laugh in here.”
“I couldn’t exactly say mother”—he mouths“fucker”—“could I?”
“No.” I giggle. “You most certainly could not.”
Dragging me toward the quire, he steps onto the checkered floor tiles and rubs his beard, his head circulating like a windmill. “The carvings in here are out of this world. So detailed and intricate.”
I let go of his hand, fairly sure he doesn’t even notice, and leave him to it before strolling along until I’m standing over the plaque that marks the vault in which Henry VIII and Jane Seymour are interred. A surreal sense of intrusion settles over me as I stand above them, so much so that I can’t help but keep moving, until I realize the entire building resides over vaults and comprises surrounding chantries of royal remains: King Edward IV, Queen Elizabeth Woodville—Mom liked her—HRH Prince Philip, and more recently Queen Elizabeth II.
I take a moment to pay my respects and then head outside for some fresh air, the weight of the moment overwhelming.
Waiting beside the door, the morning sunlight bounces off my face as I watch the Changing of the Guard ceremony.
“You okay?” Riley asks, stopping beside me.
“Yeah. I just needed some air. It was viscerally spiritual in there.”
He doesn’t probe any further, instead nodding toward themen in their red uniforms and black fluffy hats as they march by. “What’s going on?”
“The guards are changing.”
“Changing what… their clothes?”
“No, silly. Changing shifts, so to speak. You might see it when we go past Buckingham Palace too.”
He crosses his arms over his chest and rubs his beard. I want to rub it too, but I take his hand in mine instead and walk up the hill toward the Upper Ward.
“Where are you heading now?” he asks.
“Inside the castle.”
“You can go inside, even though the royal family lives here?”
“Of course you can. But they only allow entry to certain parts.”
“Sweet!”
His interest is endearing, so I squeeze his hand tighter as we step inside St. George’s Hall, overjoyed that I’m not experiencing this on my own.
“Nice,” he murmurs, looking up at the gothic-inspired high-pitched ceiling, beautifully constructed and covered with crests, red carpet blanketing the vast floor below.
“Did you know this place was destroyed by fire in the nineties?” I say.
“No.” Riley reaches out to touch a statue but is politely berated by a security guard, so he snatches his hand back like a naughty child. “That would’ve sucked. There are a lot of fancy paintings in here.”
