Chapter 14Amelia
Chapter 14
Amelia
We’ve been working at Francine’s for four whole days now and I’ve loved every single moment. Both Pierre and Maverick have been so helpful in showing me the correct way to do things, from operating the espresso machine—still a work in progress—to the cash register to wrapping silverware in paper napkins and everything in between.
Francine has continued to be the best boss I could hope for, always so patient and kind. Not that I know what bosses are generally like, but I’ve seen enough TV shows and movies to make me think she’s exceptionally kind.
Like when I dropped a tray of muffins on my way out of the kitchen yesterday. She should have been annoyed in the very least, but she didn’t even tell me off. She just shrugged and said mistakes can happen and that I knew where the wall was for the next time.
Then there was the time when I was pouring beans into the grinder, pressed the button but forgot to check to see that the collection chamber was in place. Let me tell you, coffee grounds can get everywhere.
Or the time when Pierre gave me another lesson on Shayna and I didn’t quite lock the portafilter into place correctly, resulting in it flying off when the pressure built and sending coffee grounds and hot water over both me and Pierre.
All Francine says is she has confidence in me and she’s sure I’ll get it right sometime soon.
Now that I think about it, with all my daily disasters, it’s rather a small miracle I still have this job. If I made this many mistakes at the palace, I’d be sent back to finishing school before you could say pearls on, shoulders back, pinkies out.
“Amy? Be a darling and help me restock the food cabinet, will you? It’s almost lunchtime and I want to beat the rush,” Francine says to me in Malveauxian.
“It would be my pleasure.” I follow her out to the kitchen, where she has a variety of food—from slices of lasagna to club sandwiches to bowls of healthy salads—waiting on the counter. I collect a plate of lasagna and then place another one balancing on my wrist, and another that nestles into the crook of my elbow.
As I'm about to head out into the café, Francine asks, “Whatever on earth are you doing?” She has a look of alarm on her face.
“I’ve been watching YouTube clips on how to be a waitress. They all have plates stacked right up their arms. They're awfully clever, and I thought, how hard would it be for me to do it?’
“Why don't you take the plates out one at a time, dear?” she asks, eyeing the line of plates along my arm.
“I can do this, Francine. Promise,” I reply, and as I shrug, one of the plates begins to wobble on my arm. As I go to right it, the other two plates seem to develop a mind of their own and fly off, landing with a clank of plates and a wet smack of lasagna against the kitchen floor. I look in horror from the mess back up to Francine. “I'm so, so sorry. I'll pay for the meals, of course. And clean them up.”
“Don't worry, sweetie. The floor needed another mop anyway, and I’m certain I made too many lasagnas this morning.”
Francine is a total saint! Saint Francine . I might just suggest it to the Pope next time he visits Father.
“Thank you. I’ll be sure to take one at a time from now on.” I studiously lift another plate of lasagna, and carefully walk out to the café, placing it in the cabinet.
Francine grins at me as I return to the kitchen to collect my next plate. “Well done,” she says as though I’ve just done something extremely skilled. “We don’t need fancy plate carrying here. Do we? One at a time works just as well.”
I return her smile. “Absolutely. I’ll stick with being a non-fancy plate carrier from now on.”
She claps her hands together. “Marvellous. Just marvelous.”
I continue to work, stocking the cabinet as Maverick makes expert coffees for the patrons, and Francine looks on proudly as though what I'm doing is a lot more complicated than simply placing meals neatly behind a glass cabinet.
As I’m stacking a row of sandwiches, I look up to see an elderly woman with short curly hair and a walking stick approach the counter. Before I’ve even fully registered that she’s struggling with some shopping bags, Maverick has darted around the counter and is at her side.
“Can I help you with your bags, ma’am?” he asks, and I wonder if the woman speaks English.
But she replies, her face flushing, “Oh, that would be lovely. Thank you, young man.”
“It’s Maverick, and you’re welcome. Would you like a seat in the window? It’s such a nice day. It would be a shame not to be able to see it.”
“A seat in the window would suit me just fine, thank you, Maverick.”
“Come this way.” He offers her his arm as he carries her bags, and they make slow progress across the café.
Maverick places her shopping bags on one seat, and pulls the chair out for her to sit, which she does, releasing a heavy sigh.
“What can I get you, ma’am?”
“I’d love a cup of tea. Has Francine made her delicious ham and cheese croissants for lunch today?” she asks.
“She has. Would you like one?”
“That would be lovely. Thank you, young man.”
“It’s my pleasure,” he replies, turning to leave when she calls him back.
“My Brian used to make such lovely cups of tea, you know. He was quite particular about it.”
Maverick turns back to her. “Tell me about him.”
The look on the woman's face tells me just how much she appreciates the attention he’s giving her, and I can’t help but wonder whether she has anyone to talk to.
“He would always do one spoonful of tea leaves per person, and one for the pot. Never more, never less. He was funny like that. Then he would let it steep for two minutes exactly. He'd always put a timer on, you see. We had this funny egg timer shaped like a frog, and when the alarm went off to say that the time was up, it would ribbit , just like a frog. We always had a good chuckle over it.”
“A frog timer you say? I've not seen one like that before. We had an egg timer shaped as a chicken when I was a kid, but it just rang a bell. Do you still have your frog?”
“Oh, that old thing croaked a long time ago,” she says with a laugh.
“Croaked. You’re funny,” Maverick says.
“My granddaughter showed me how to use the timer on my phone, but it's not the same.”
“I'm not sure anything could replace a frog going ribbit when your tea was ready.”
She laughs. “It did make teatime all that more special.”
“Earth to Amy. Come in, Amy,” a voice says beside me, and reluctantly, I pull my attention from the scene to see Pierre regarding me inquisitively.
“Sorry, Pierre. Did you say something?”
“I was telling you about the Festival of Lake Lights we have here in Montelac every year, but you were too busy staring off into space,” he says in Malveauxian.
“Sorry,” I reply absentmindedly.
“It’s so romantic.”
I blink at him. “What is?”
“The Festival of Lake Lights. Were you listening to me at all?”
“Right. Of course. It sounds lovely. When is it?”
“In only a few weeks. The whole town attends.”
“Well, in that case, I’m sure I’ll attend, too.” I return my attention to Maverick and the woman, still chatting and smiling at one another like they’re old friends.
Pierre follows my line of sight. “You are looking at Mabel?”
“Is Mabel the elderly lady Maverick is chatting with?”
“Yes. She comes in here every week,” he says, rolling his eyes. “She'll talk your ear off if you're not careful. Looks like your pal got stuck.”
As I watch Maverick, warmth spreads across my chest. I've never met a man quite like Maverick. He's not stuck, as Pierre puts it. Far from it. He's kind and sweet, taking the time out of his day to chat with a lonely old woman.
As I'm removing my apron to take my lunch break, Maverick returns to the counter.
“You’re one of the good guys. Did you know that?” I ask him.
“Why do you say that?” he asks as he collects a croissant stuffed with ham and cheese with a pair of tongs and places it on a plate.
“Mabel. She loved talking to you.”
His smile lights up his face. “She reminds me of my grandma back in Maple Falls. She was telling me about how she can’t work out how to change channels on her TV, so I offered to go help her after my shift is done.”
“You're so sweet.”
His gaze captures mine. “That's what every guy wants to be called: sweet,” he teases.
“Well, you are. You're sweet and kind and I think you're just marvelous. Look at the way you rescued me from Greg. You offered me a place to stay and helped me find a job, not to mention helping me down from that deceptively tall tree. Admit it, Mav: you're one sweet guy.”
He laughs as he holds his hands up in the surrender sign. “You got me.”
I stuff my apron under the counter. “I’m on a fifteen-minute break. See you soon, Mr. Sweetie Pie.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “See you later, honeybun.”
As I make my way to the kitchen, the gorgeous woman who didn’t want to shake my hand when we met the other day saunters up to the counter, her eyes trained on Maverick.
And then it hits me where I’ve seen her before. It was at a movie premiere in Villadorata a couple of years or so ago. She was one of the minor actresses and she shimmied her way down the red carpet as though she owned the place, despite the fact her role in the movie was small to say the least.
What is an actress doing in Montelac? Other than flirting with Maverick, that is.
Without wanting to analyze my motivation, I slip through the door and stand close enough to hear what she has to say without being seen by either of them.
“Hello again,” she says in English with a distinctly Ledonian accent. “Fancy seeing you here.”
The way she says it suggests that finding Maverick at his place of work is about as surprising as finding a fish on a basketball court.
“Giovanna. What can I get you today?” Maverick asks, all business like. “A latte, right?”
Giovanna laughs as though he's just delivered the punchline to a delightful joke. "A café latte would be lovely, darling, but that's not why I'm here.”
Darling?
“I've been thinking about you ever since our little chat the other day.”
I look around the corner to see her tapping her long, manicured nails on the counter.
“I made it clear when I was here before. I would love to take you to dinner. I know this divine little restaurant overlooking the lake. Very private.”
"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Maverick replies, his posture stiff, and a flash of relief envelops me.
Wait. Relief? Why should I care who Maverick does or doesn't date? He's merely my housemate, my co-worker, and my friend. We’re not romantically involved in the least.
“Oh, I think it's a wonderful idea,” Giovanna counters, now toying with the edge of a menu. “I notice quality when I see it, even if it is disguised .”
She emphasizes the word “disguised” as though it would mean something to Maverick.
And then it hits me, right in the chest. I’m the one disguised. I’m the one pretending to be someone else, Amy, a Dutch tourist.
My heart rate kicks up. Could she be referring to me?
I watch Maverick closely, pushing a pinprick of guilt at eavesdropping away. It’s for the greater good, and if Giovanna is onto me, I need to know.
“I guess dinner would be fine,” he replies, and I let out an involuntary squeak that sounds a lot like an oversized mouse. Immediately, I pull away, pressing my back against the kitchen wall in case either of them looks my way, my breathing shallow.
He’s going on a date with that woman?
I mean, I get it. He’s a guy, and she’s like some sort of sex goddess with an hourglass figure she clearly isn’t afraid to show off.
But why does it bother me?
And, most importantly, will she blow my cover when they meet?
Francine breezes past me and then turns to look at me in surprise. “What are doing?”
“Stretching,” I say, lifting my arms above my head and doing just that.
“I see. You’d better take your break. The lunch rush is about to begin.”
“Of course.”
As I make my way down to the lake, my phone rings. Max is calling.
“Why are you calling?”
“That’s a nice way to greet your favorite brother.”
“Oh, I thought this was Max, not Alex,” I quip.
“Hilarious,” he deadpans. How's India going? Do the Himalayas looking particularly Malveauxian today?” I can hear his smirk through the phone.
I snort laugh.
Wait. Did he say Malveauxian? I mean, of course he knows I’m not in India, but how would he know I’m still in Malveaux?
“How do you know where I am?”
“Palace security.”
“What?” I snap, glancing up and down the street.
“Keep your hair on. I’m only joking. I saw you in an Instagram post.”
My breath catches. “You what? No. No, no, no, no, no! This can’t be happening. Max, I’ve been so careful!”
My mind races to every conclusion imaginable: there will be a knock at the door any moment and I will be dragged home by the National Guard and made to face Father, who may very well decide to re-introduce the use of the ancient palace dungeons, where he will keep me until I promise to never do anything like this ever again and instead commit my life to toeing the royal line. Either that or I will be disowned, cut off from my family forever, sent to some kind of maximum-security facility deep in the mountains to “think about what I have done.”
“Relax, Ami. You were in the background of someone else’s photo, and it was hard to make you out, thanks to the fact you’re all in black except for a pink apron.”
My shoulders drop with relief. “So, the National Guard isn't coming to get me?”
He laughs. Laughs ! So my brother.
“The National Guard isn't coming to get you.”
“Well, that's a relief.” I find a bench overlooking the lake and slump down in it.
“It's the Secret Service.”
“What?!” I screech, sitting bolt upright and attracting the attention of a family of ducks, who take one look at me and flap away in a panic.
“Where's your sense of humor, sis? Did you leave it behind when you escaped the palace?”
“You’d lose your sense of humor too, if you thought you were going to be dragged home against your will.”
“No one’s going to drag you home.”
“Whose photo did you see me in?”
“Someone I’ve met a few times in Villadorata.”
“A woman?”
“Naturally.”
I roll my eyes. That certainly sounds like my brother. He's following in Alex’s footsteps as the most eligible bachelor in Europe—and hardly devoid of female attention.
“Who is this woman whose photo I’m in?”
“Giovanna Fiorelli.”
My heart goes clunk . “As in the actress we met at a film premier a couple of years ago?”
“That’s the one. She’s in your small town.”
A quick scroll through Instagram confirms my fears. Giovanna Fiorelli is both beautiful and sexy, and completely Max’s type—as well as the woman Maverick is currently talking to in the café. And not only that, the woman he has just agreed to go on a date with.
This is all feeling rather too close for comfort.
I scroll through her images until I find one of her in the town square, right here in Montelac. My face is half obscured by Giovanna’s somewhat buxom assets, which she’s showing off to full effect with a low-cut top that leaves little to the imagination. “I know her.”
“You probably met her at the same event.”
“No, I mean yes. What I mean is I’ve met her here at the café.”
“What café?”
“The one I’m working at.”
“You’re working at a café?”
“That’s not the point, Max. The point is she’s here and she might remember who I am. She could blow my cover.”
“No one will be looking at you in this photo, sis. Trust me.”
“But you did. What's stopping Father or one of his people spotting me, as well?”
“I'm not sure Father would spend his time studying one of Giovanna Fiorelli’s photos quite as closely as me.”
He has a point.
“Have you become a goth or something?” he asks.
“It’s a costume. I’m using to hide.”
“You’re like the opposite of a goth.”
“You should ask her to take it down. The photo, I mean. That way no one else will accidentally spot me when they zoom in on her?—”
“I didn't zoom,” he protests, cutting me off. We both know he's lying. He zoomed for all he’s worth. “But more importantly, why are you wearing a pink apron?”
I smile to myself as I think of the very first job I've had, and how much I've learned in the short time I've been here. “Because it’s the uniform for the café I work at,” I say proudly.
“Again, why do you work at a café? You’re a princess, remember? It’s not exactly in the job description.”
“You wouldn't understand.”
“Try me.”
I chew on my lip. Of my siblings, I'm the closest to my brothers. Sofia has always been too superior and too much of a rule follower for me—at least she was until she snuck out of the palace with Marco to solve some ancient riddle. She’s a much better version of herself these days. Alex and I have always been close, but he’s moved to Malveaux to be with his wife, Maddie. As the two youngest and unmarried siblings, it was only natural that Max and I would become as tight knit as we are. He’s my ride-or-die, as the saying goes, and I tell him everything.
Well, almost everything.
“Personally, I would have chosen a yacht on the Mediterranean, but whatever floats your boat. Do you get it, Ami? Floats your boat?”
“It wasn’t exactly a sophisticated joke,” I quip. “And I didn't want that kind of escape. I didn’t know what kind of escape I wanted at all until I wound up here. Then I knew I wanted to see what life was like for real people, people who actually do something with their lives instead of being stuck in a palace, performing like the puppets we are.”
I can hear Max shifting, probably settling into one of those leather chairs in his study. “Seriously, Ami. What's this really about? When will the novelty of making coffee as a goth in a pink apron wear off?”
The real question hangs between us. When is Princess Amelia going to come to her senses?
“For me it's about the woman who comes in every morning and tells me about her arthritic hip or her granddaughter's science project. It’s about the teenage girl who sits at one of the corner tables for hours, and how I can tell whether she's had a good day by whether she orders a chocolate muffin or not.
“It's about how yesterday I completely destroyed a batch of scones and Francine just handed me more dough and said ‘try again, sweetie.’ Do you know how that is for me? To be allowed to fail without huge repercussions?"
“You've always been allowed to fail. In fact, you?—”
“Do it all the time,” I finish for him, and he laughs. “Max, you’re so predictable. Remember when I mispronounced that stuffy old Archduke's name in a speech in winter and Fabiana Fontaine called me ‘Princess Aimless’ for a week? Father’s PR machine had to issue a clarification that I wasn't, in fact, diplomatically impaired.”
“You called him Duke Duckface,” Max says with a chortle.
I snort as I watch the actual ducks, now recovered from my shrieks, quack their way across the lake.
“In your defense, he did look a bit like a duck. And besides, I wouldn’t worry about what Fabiana Fontaine thinks of you. We all know her opinions are a waste of paper.”
“The thing is, Max, here I'm just me, and when I mess up someone’s coffee order, nobody writes a piece about the declining standards of the monarchy. I just make another one, usually with Mav’s help.”
He pounces on the name. “Mav? Who’s that?”
“Maverick Mitchell. My housemate.”
“You’re living with a man? And his name is Maverick ?” He whistles. “Ami, you know Father is going to have kittens.”
“Not if he doesn’t know. And we’re not romantically involved, or anything like that, if that’s what you’re hinting at. We’re friends.”
“Friends. Right.” Max doesn’t sound convinced. “Does he know who you are?”
Guilt twists in my belly. “He knows who I am at my core.”
“Which means you haven’t told him.”
“How can I? He’ll judge me as ‘Princess Amelia,’ like everyone else does. The pointless princess whose job it is to make a ‘good’ marriage and then quietly disappear.”
I think of the way Maverick patiently explained the difference between pastry options to an elderly man this morning, of how he listened to Mable’s stories of her husband making tea. Of the way he rescued me from Greg, offering me a place to stay.
“He’s a good egg, Max. He’s decent and thoughtful and smart.”
“And you’ve got a crush on him.”
“I told you, we’re friends. That’s all,” I insist because it’s true. Being friends is the full extent of our relationship. “He treats me like I'm a perfectly capable human being who happens to be on a somewhat steep learning curve when it comes to anything related to coffee or food.”
“You sound happy, Ami. Actually happy, not the royal ‘smiling for the cameras’ happy.”
I blow out a breath, surprised by the sudden thickness in my throat. “I am happy. For the first time in my life, I'm not an extension of our family legacy, Max. I'm just a person discovering that she's actually quite fond of early mornings and the smell of fresh pastry. I don’t miss having to be a princess all day long. Guess what else I did.”
“I get the feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“I climbed a tree.”
He sucks in a breath. “The forbidden tree-climbing. Mummy would have heart palpitations.”
“I know!” I reply with glee. “And I’ve broken other rules, too.”
“You’re not doing anything stupid, are you?”
“What do you mean? Of course I am! That’s the whole point!”
“That’s it. I’m coming to check on you.”
Great. Because what this situation really needs is my overprotective brother turning up, bringing with him the inevitable paparazzi.
“No! You can’t come, Max. Then everyone will know where I am and my cover will be blown and I’ll have to go back to the palace without having experienced my grand adventure, and without even having had a torrid affair, thanks to Greg turning out to be a con artist.”
“Greg? Con artist? Ami, there’s no way on this sweet earth I’m not coming to check up on you now.”
“Please don’t.” I can hear the pleading in my voice. “Don’t you have some military exercise to take part in or something now that you’re in the Royal Airforce?”
But Max’s mind is made up. “I’ll be there as soon as I can get away. I’ll wear a disguise and no one will be the wiser.”
“Max!”
But I know it’s too late. His mind is made up.
He says goodbye and ends the call, and I’m left staring at my phone, wondering what will happen when Max turns up to ruin everything —and how I’ll ever be able to explain any of this to Maverick.