Page 60 of The Christmas Mittens
“Can I, Dad?!” Gilda asked with eyes as wide as dinner plates. I glanced at Anders and got a curt shake of his head as Harold pulled his helmet back over his head.
“I don’t think so, honey. There’s no extra helmet for you,” I quickly said.
“Your father makes a good point. Next time I’ll be sure to bring an extra.” Harold cranked the snowmobile over, gave us a jaunty wave, and sped off. Security roared off after him.
Gilda pouted at my side. Anders tapped her shoulder. “I’ve seen him race. That Formula 1 race he took part in? Crashed out in the second lap. He’s heavy on the gas and light on the brakes. I cannot recall one vehicle he’s owned that he didn’t wreck.”
“Oh, that’s not good. Guess we’ll walk then,” Gilda huffed, taking her bag of treasures from the North Sea and hoisting it over her shoulder. She set off, leaving us to catch up. Della leaped from her tote to catch up with her new best buddy.
“Thanks for that.” I motioned at my daughter and the dancing dog.
“It was the truth. He’s reckless.” Anders stared at the sky and then brought his attention to me. “When Father comes, would you join us?” I started to protest. “I know it seems a large request, and it is, but I would like him to see that we are a united couple in all things.”
“I’d like that too.” I stole a kiss, just a peck really, as there were dogs and teens watching.
“Thank you. I do love you,” he whispered, and the cold blowing off the sea didn’t feel quite as cold. Hearing that warmed me inside as if I had swallowed a sunbeam.
“I love you too,” I confessed, and the glow in my breast grew warmer still. It had been a very long time since those words had crossed my lips.
“Come on, slow pokes!” Gilda shouted as she broke into a run. Della raced after and then ahead of her. Anders and I exchanged looks. He sped off, leaving me gawping like a dodo. I ran after them but knew I would lose this contest to a min pin.
ChapterTwenty-two
Tuesday, December 29
Even with a night spent in the small village closest to the summer manse, I slept like crap.
Knowing that another possible showdown with King Magnus was likely to take place over toast and coffee had me tossing and turning. I’d decided last night that Gilda was not going to attend, and when I explained why as we strolled through a display of hand-carved wooden likenesses of eagles, fish, and stags, she didn’t argue or beg to attend. I took that to mean she was scared of another family fight. I was too, if I were being honest. Katie and I never really squabbled. Not big. Sure, we had spats about me draping my shirts on doorknobs or her leaving the trash can lid cocked, thereby allowing the raccoons to get into it and scatter garbage around the yard. But those were generally done out of hearing range of Gilda. She’d never seen such behavior from her parents or anyone in Grouse Falls. She was a lucky child. Many of her friends would have thought explosions over soup were commonplace.
Rolph arrived at my door at seven. I showered, shaved, and allowed him to pick out something suitable to wear to a royal shout fest. Did one wear a tie to such an event? It seemed the answer was no, but one did wear slacks, a suit jacket, and a shirt freshly pressed by one’s valet slash personal assistant.
“You look quite fitting to have breakfast with the king,” Rolph said as he fussed with a pocket square of soft yellow to match the safflower shirt he had chosen for me. “The food will be brought into Prince Justav’s trophy room. The king favors that room for informal meetings and family gatherings. There are a few small matters of etiquette I have been asked to pass along by Prince Harold. You will be shown into the trophy room in order of precedence, so Prince Harold then Prince Anders and then you. This is a less formal meal at a small table for four so seating shall be one prince on either side of the king while you are seated across from him. When the king is done eating, it is customary for others to cease eating as well, but he may indicate that you may continue eating after he is done.”
“That’s a thoughtful consideration,” I mumbled as he patted at that darn pocket square. I highly doubted I would be eating much, especially if things detonated. Good thing I stuffed myself at the fete last night. I had still been burping grilled sausages mixed with butter and dill potatoes at midnight.
“King Magnus is a considerate man,” Rolph replied and stepped back to give me a final inspection. “You look quite good. I shall lead you to the trophy room.”
“Thank you.” I smiled at the man who inclined his head and waved at my bedroom door. The bed was still a tangled mess from my rolling around and Anders flipping for several hours. When Rolph arrived, he’d left to clean up and would meet us in the trophy room.
Rolph was a fine tour guide, pointing out this room or that tapestry. I tried to pay attention, but every step closer to theking cranked up my nerves and the lingering indigestion. Poor Anders. Having to lie there listening to me belch and flop around half the night. No one ever said loving another person was all roses and glitter. Sometimes there were burps—or worse—in the night. We made our way to the first floor, and instantly I noticed the increase in security.
“The trophy room is down here,” Rolph indicated as I padded along in his wake, catching the soft sound of cooks in the large kitchen as we walked past a pool room. We’d not ventured into that room yet, maybe tonight if we weren’t booted to the border by the king. Well, the border would be the ocean, and even if he was irate, I rather doubted he would toss us into the North Sea. “Ah, here are the princes.”
Anders and Harold were standing outside a dark cherry door, dressed much as I was, which was a far cry from our casual clothing yesterday. Rani was seated in a sturdy chair beside a table with a holiday centerpiece of pine boughs, ribbons, and pinecones.
I was patted down by a large man in a dark blue suit. Once I was cleared, Rani rose to offer me his seat, which I declined.
“If you are ready?” Rani asked, and we nodded. He turned to the guards at the door. They knocked once, opened the door, and motioned us to enter. Magnus sat at a round table in the middle of a large room filled with trophies of hunts from around the world. Stuffed heads of lions, water buffalo, mighty stags, and dozens of pheasants stared down at us. Cases of glass and cherry wood held guns, photos, and old leather-bound journals.
“Your Majesty, the princes and Mr. Baxter are here,” the guard who had frisked me announced.
“Thank you, Lyle, you may leave us.” Magnus was dressed casually. Sweater, slacks, and soft suede loafers. “Come in and sit, please. The food has just arrived.”
We took our seats. Anders and I sat as stiff as new pencils while Harold splayed his lanky form over his seat, plucking a tart from a platter piled high with baked goods. Magnus arched a brow but said nothing. Anders opened his napkin and placed it on his lap. I did the same, sitting there with my hands on my napkin, fiddling with a torn cuticle on my thumb.
“Can you pass the butter, Papa?” Harold asked. The look Magnus whipped at his third son could have peeled the paint off a building, but again, he said nothing, only handed the prince the butter dish. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” Magnus answered, bringing his attention to me. “I was hoping your daughter might join us.”
