Chapter 12Amelia
Chapter 12
Amelia
I don my goth costume and apply my makeup. Although we’re in a small place off the tourist map, you never know who will recognize you, and let’s face it, after the day I had yesterday, I don’t want this whole adventure to come crashing down around my ears because someone sells an image of me to the media.
Checking I look appropriately dark and gloomy in the mirror, I wait for Maverick by the front door. He appears in his goth outfit, too.
“What’s with the costume?” he asks.
“I could ask you the same question.”
He seems to consider that for a moment. “I need to fly under the radar for a bit. PR can be … challenging.”
“Do you really think someone in a small town in Malveaux will recognize you?” I ask, dubious. How high profile can Maverick’s job really be?
“I guess I don’t want to take that chance. How about you?”
“I simply enjoy being a goth,” I say with a shrug. I pull my eye liner from my purse. “Let me ring your eyes again.”
“Sure thing,” he replies, and I’m relieved he doesn’t question me further.
He finds a seat and I apply the eyeliner, remembering how I did this only yesterday. It’s hard to believe how much has happened in such a short period of time. Twenty-four hours and I’ve become a goth, dodged a conman, and am now heading out to find a job.
Made up and ready to go, we leave the lake house and meander through the quaint town of Montelac on the Lac des Rêves, feeling the gentle breeze from the lake. The houses are painted in different pastels, with shutters in blues and reds, reflected in the lake. Flowerpots overflow with beautiful flowers, and I can just make out the faint toll of a church bell, echoing through the town.
I breathe in the air, enjoying the faint aroma of lavender and freshly baked bread.
I’ll admit, I was embarrassed to have to get him to help me down from that tree. But he did so with such dexterity, helping me climb down without too much fuss at all. And then I threw myself at him in gratitude, forgetting that he was shirtless.
Talk about awkward.
But he seems to have moved on, and any awkwardness between us seems to have been banished from sight.
“This place is so perfect, it’s like a movie set, like The Sound of Music or something,” he says.
“Are you half expecting Julie Andrews to appear, singing about the hills being alive?”
“Pretty much. The houses are picture perfect, the lake stunning, and just look at that streetlight.”
I look up at the slender black metal post with its two curved arms that support vintage lanterns. It's the sort of streetlight that’s common in Ledonia, only being Malveauxian, they’re a little less ornate. We do so love our decorative details in my country.
“What about it?” I ask, not sure why he’s mentioning it.
“It's so pretty.”
“That's good?”
“Of course it is. This place is just beautiful,” he enthuses, and I'll admit that it is a very pretty town, positioned as it is on the edge of a beautiful lake.
“I'm sure the good people of Montelac will be glad you like their streetlights.”
He grins at me, shaking his head. “You probably think I'm being a stupid American tourist again, right?”
“I think you're being your authentic self, and that's what matters,” I reply, the fact I'm not being my authentic self rather putting a dent in my own enthusiasm.
Pretending to be someone I’m not is turning out to be rather exhausting. But I can't simply come out and say the truth about who I really am. Who knows what he'll do with that information? He could talk to the media, blow my cover.
Or worse yet, talk to my parents.
No. Let sleeping dogs lie, as the saying goes. It’s certainly for the best.
We walk down one of the cobblestone streets lined with pastel painted buildings. I see a café whose stone walls are painted pink, with the sign reading Francine’s in looping text on the pink and white striped awning. There are people sitting at tables outside in the sun, sipping their coffee and eating pastries, and not one of them even bats an eyelid at me.
Come to think of it, no one has even taken a second look at me as we’ve walked through the town.
Hmm.
Perhaps this town is so off the tourist map the locals either don’t recognize me as a princess of the neighboring country, or they don’t care.
Either way, it's an odd feeling when it finally happens. Anonymity. It's like I've stepped into a parallel universe in which I'm not a Princess from the neighboring country, whose brother is married to their new queen. I'm just me. Amy.
I spot a sign in a window of the café that reads “Help wanted” in English. Which is odd, since we’re in Malveaux. But I’m not going to second guess it. Perhaps they get a lot of English-speaking workers here.
“Mav, look!” I say as I rush over to the window. “What do you think?”
He frowns, as he so often does, and says, “My friend told me I should check Francine’s out to see if they were hiring.”
“He must have seen the sign himself!”
“I’m not sure how. He’s in the States,” he replies.
We both peer through the window to see a busy café, filled with patrons, with an older woman wearing a pink, frilly apron behind the counter, busy serving customers beside a handsome young man with the sort of stubble-lined jaw my brothers love to sport.
“What do you think? Working in a café could be a lot of fun,” I say, the idea solidifying in my mind. I could learn how to make coffee, get to know the locals, and work in a place that looks like a giant pink marshmallow.
“I'm not sure a café is the right place for you,” Maverick says.
“Why? Because I couldn't slice the bread last night?” I wave his concerns away with my hand. “I can learn. It’ll be fun.”
“How about we look for something else. Maybe something that doesn't involve food.”
“But I like the idea of working at the café.”
“Have you ever worked at a café?”
“Well, no. But I'm a fast learner. I'm sure I'll soon master the art of making coffee and slicing bread and all those things before you know it. I mean really, how hard can it be?”
He presses his lips together, not looking the least convinced.
I turn it around on him. “Have you ever worked in a café?”
“Plenty.”
Well, that backfired on me. “Oh.”
He chews on his lip. “I guess it can't hurt to go in and ask.”
I beam at him. “That's the spirit. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. That's what Father likes to say.”
“You call your dad ‘Father?’”
“Of course,” I reply as I breeze through the front door and into the most charming café I've ever stepped inside of. The fact it's the only café I've ever stepped inside of is beside the point entirely.
This place is utterly, utterly charming, and it’s all pastel pink, from the walls to the velvet seats to the flowers hanging from the ceiling.
“It looks like a big, fluffy marshmallow you just want to bite into and lap up its sugary deliciousness,” I say.
In our black, Maverick and I stick out like the charred exterior of this toasted pink marshmallow.
“The place sure is pink. I didn't know Legally Blonde had branched out into franchising.”
I regard him in surprise. “You know that movie?”
He shrugs. “I don’t live under a rock, Amy. I have a sister who loves romcoms.”
“Then you must agree with me that this place is gorgeous.”
“Yeah, if you like the idea that a Barbie Playhouse threw up all over it.”
I’m not going to let his negativity affect me, even if that was funny. “But it’s lovely! And popular. Look at all the patrons. And what’s more, they need help. It said so on the sign.”
The place is packed to the gills with everyone from mothers with their babies to a group of elderly women, talking enthusiastically over their espressos, to men in Lycra, their bikes leaning against the outside wall.
“Maybe it’s the only coffeehouse in town?”
“Or the best,” I reply as the older woman from behind the counter catches my eye and offers me a bright, welcoming smile.
“Good morning,” she says in heavily accented English. How sweet. She must assume I’m American, too. Perhaps it’s the goth costume? “How can I help you on this beautiful day?”
“We saw your sign in the window, and we’re here to offer our help,” I reply. “This is my friend Maverick, and I'm—” I stop myself before accidentally giving her my real name. “I'm Amy. Your place is absolutely gorgeous. Isn't it, Mav?”
“Gorgeous? Sure,” he says, his words convincing no one.
She beams at us. “I am so glad you think so.” Placing her hand against her heart, she adds, “I'm Francine, the owner of this café.”
I clap my hands together in glee. “You're the owner! How wonderful. So it's you that we need to apply to for the job.”
Her mouth forms an “o” shape. “You need a job?”
I imagine she’s thrown by our goth appearance. “Yes, we do,” I confirm.
“I am Pierre LeDuc,” says the handsome man with the stubble-lined jaw, as though he’s announcing himself at the palace ballroom. He takes my hand, lifting it to his lips. “I am enchanted to meet you, Amy. I am the best barista at the café,”
Seriously, this man should be on aftershave ads he’s so good looking.
“Pierre,” Francine warns.
“I’m simply welcoming these two strangers in the black clothing,” he replies, and I wonder how many other patrons’ hands have been kissed by him this morning.
“Shall we sit? We can discuss your application,” Francine says, and leads us to the only vacant table in the café.
We sit, and I clasp my hands together under the table. I’ve never had a job interview before, and I have no idea what to say.
“Are you both looking for work?” she asks, steepling her hands that I notice are calloused, probably from decades of working here at the café she’s clearly proud of.
“We are,” I say firmly. “Maverick has been a barista before and makes absolutely delicious coffee.”
“Oh?” Francine looks expectantly at Maverick.
“I've worked in a few coffee houses. I guess I do know my way around a coffee machine,” he says.
“We can always use a barista,” Francine says, looking him over.
“Wonderful!” I exclaim with a clap of my hands.
“Tell me where you’ve worked before, Maverick?”
“I worked at a diner in my hometown in Washington state before I moved to California, where I worked as a barista at a bunch of different cafés.” He gestures at the espresso machine with his thumb. “I could make you a coffee with your machine, if you like?”
“That won’t be necessary,” she replies.
“One problem. I only have a tourist visa here, I think.”
Francine waves his concern away. “It is no problem. We will fix that for you with the government people.”
“That’s so kind of you,” I say. “Do I need one of those, too?”
“A work visa? You are Malveauxian?” she asks.
“Ledonian.”
“Then no. We are friends.”
Friends. I like that idea.
“What skills can you bring?”
I run through all the skills I’ve had drummed into me since birth. I imagine my understanding of how to give a royal wave, how to greet diplomats from various countries, and which tiara to wear at a state banquet aren’t particularly useful skills in a café. So instead, I tell her, “I will do whatever you need me to do. I'm a quick and enthusiastic learner. I've even learned how to slice bread and wash strawberries over the last day.”
Francine’s brows climb her forehead. “Those are very good skills to know,” she replies, and there’s a flicker of something on her face that reminds me of Max and his mischievous ways.
“I do hope you're not afraid of hard work. We are a popular café in this town, so we’re always busy. My last employee left because she told me the pace here didn’t fit with her Zen journey.” Francine gives a delicate snort of amusement.
“Oh, she did not ,” I exclaim, my eyes wide that someone would say such a thing to her boss.
“Sadly, she did. I told her that coffee and Zen are perfectly compatible, provided that she doesn't mind moving faster than a meditating snail when serving customers.”
I laugh as Maverick stifles a laugh beside me.
“I love that you have a sense of humor,” I tell her. “And I assure you I’m not a meditating snail, and nor is Maverick. I’m not in the least afraid of hard work. I’m eager and willing to learn.”
“She’s definitely eager,” Maverick echoes.
Francine pats my hand, smiling like an indulgent grandmother. “Of course you are, dear, although Shayna can be somewhat of a challenge to begin with.”
"Shayna?" I ask.
She gestures toward the espresso machine, an enormous chrome contraption that indeed looks like it might be challenging. "She's been with me for nineteen years, outlasting all my marriages.”
All her marriages? I wonder how many husbands she’s had.
Francine looks between the two of us before her face creases into a smile. “When can you start?”
My eyes widen to the size of a couple of gold-rimmed Ledonian state dinner plates. “Are you serious? You're going to employ both of us?”
“Yes,” she replies simply.
“Thank you! Thank you! We won't let you down. Will we, Maverick?”
“No. We won’t,” he replies.
Francine gives us the details about when she wants us to start—at lunchtime today!—about the rules, how we have to wear aprons, right down to how much she will pay us. Most of it goes right over my head because I'm too busy buzzing over the fact I have my very first job. But I'm sure whatever I missed I will pick up on in due course.
A short while later, we say goodbye to Francine, promising to be back for the lunch rush, and step out of Francine’s into the bright sunshine, both of us newly employed café workers.
The thought makes me giddy all over again.
“I can hardly believe we are both going to be working at that gorgeous place.” I do a little twirl, feeling so light I want to dance through the streets. I pause in my dance long enough to see the look on Maverick’s face. “Why aren't you happy?”
“I am happy,” he replies, although I’m not sure whether to believe him.
“Is it always this easy to get a job in the real world?"
He gives me an odd look. “The 'real world'?”
Oops.
I backpedal quickly. “I mean, outside my family's foundation.”
Quick save.
“Everything in the foundation is so structured. You need three references and a committee approval just to change the brand of paper clips."
He chuckles, then surprises me by asking, "What would you be doing right now? If you were home, I mean."
“Honestly? I'd probably be sitting through some interminable luncheon with visitors, smiling until my face hurts while listening to people discuss subsidies like they're interesting.”
“Sounds thrilling,” he says with a smirk.
“Oh, it's a non-stop adventure.” I roll my eyes. “What about you? What would you be doing if you weren't here?”
A shadow crosses his face. It’s brief, but it’s there. “Meeting all the fake people I work with and pretending that they’re my kind of people, all the while wishing I was here.”
“That sounds positively ghastly.”
"Welcome to my world. Less subsidies, more ‘look at me.’”
“But you don’t strike me as a ‘look at me’ kind of person.”
“Which is why I can’t stand it.”
“And why you escaped.”
“Exactly.”
I meet his eyes and something passes between us. It’s a moment of recognition that we're both refugees from lives that never feel like they quite fit.
“You know, you haven’t told me what it is you do.”
“Me? Oh, I’m in PR. Public relations.”
I think of the palace publicists. “I imagine there are loads of ‘look at me’ people in PR.”
“There sure are.”
I hook my arm through his as we meander back toward the lake. “I just know you're going to look darling in your frilly pink apron and your goth makeup.”
“I'm secure enough in my manhood to wear a frilly pink apron.”
“You might need to be,” I tease.
Really, this job is the perfect cover. People will never guess who I really am if I'm working in a café, of all places. What member of a royal family would do such a thing? They’ll all assume I’ve run away to do something lavish or exotic—not choose to work in a pretty pink café in a small town on a lake in Malveaux.
“Do you think Francine will have an apron big enough for you?” I ask.
“A small pink apron. Even better. I'm gonna love that.” His tone is sarcastic, but he says it with a smile, so I know he doesn't really mind.
Our wanderings take us down to the lakefront, where we find a caravan with a window, through which people are selling food—delicious crêpes, by the aroma. I've never been able to resist a crêpe, particularly one filled with chocolate and banana.
“Let's get a crêpe from that caravan and sit by the lake to eat it,” I suggest. “We’ll need our strength for our new jobs.”
“Caravan? Oh, you mean the food truck?”
I wave his correction away with a flick of my wrist. “Potato potah-to.”
We buy our crêpes, find a bench, and sit, gazing out at the lake. It's a breathtaking view of the blue water surrounded by green-blue hills in the distance, and boats bobbing.
“This place absolutely lives up to its name,” I say before I take a bite. The flavors burst on my taste buds: banana and chocolate and butter. “Oh, this is amazing.”
“Id iv amaving,” Maverick says, and I turn to see his mouth full of crêpe, with chocolate smears around his lips.
I let out a laugh.
“What?”
“You've got a little chocolate here.” I point to the edges of his mouth.
“I don't care. This is the best thing I've ever eaten in my entire life.”
“It's beyond delicious. Is all food from caravans this good?”
“Are you going to tell me you've never eaten from a food truck before? Actually, don't answer that. I know what you're gonna say. This is the first time you've ever eaten anything from a food truck, right?”
“But it won't be my last. I'm going to have a crêpe every single day from now on.”
We sit in companionable silence as we eat, enjoying the view and the sun on our faces. Even the temperature in this town is just right. Not too hot and not too cold. Really, despite its shaky beginnings, my adventure could not have worked out any better.
“Since you've never worked at a coffee house or practically even been in a kitchen, how about you let me help you out today.”
“Really, Mav. How hard can it be? People make coffee every day. I'm certain I can handle a coffee machine called Shayna without requiring a user manual and an engineering degree.”
“You'd be surprised.”
“You're very kind to offer, and if it is tricky, then yes, I would appreciate your help.”
“You got it.”
I stretch my legs out in front of me, savoring the last bite of my crêpe. “I just know this is going to be wonderful. Learning to make coffee, serving people, wearing a pretty pink apron. All of it.”
“You really have no idea what you're in for, do you?” Maverick asks, but his tone is warm, almost affectionate.
“Of course I do. You take the coffee, put it in the machine, press some buttons, and voilà , coffee appears in a cup.” I mime pressing buttons in the air. “Simple.”
He lets out a low chuckle. “Yeah, that’s not quite how it works.”
“Well then, my dear Maverick, it’s a good thing I’ve got you to teach me.” I bounce to my feet, too excited and full of sugar to sit still any longer. “Come on! We should head back to get ready for our first shift. I want to make sure we're not late.”
“We've got two hours.”
“Exactly! Barely enough time!”
He shakes his head but he’s smiling and as I practically skip along the lakefront path, I can hear him beside me, his long legs easily keeping pace. I'm not sure what I'm more thrilled about: having my very first real job, or the fact that I'm actually doing something completely and utterly normal for once in my life.
All I know is this is all working out perfectly, and I cannot wait for the next part of my grand adventure to begin.