Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Michael
Monday started on the run. Opening the Thornwick Tennis & Racquet Club Grand Slam Tennis Tournament grass venue was second only to Wimbledon, though most Lauchtens debated that point.
When Anika Dreyer, the world’s number one female player, took the first set six–love, six–love, she surprised the stadium by inviting Scottie onto the court for a little volley.
She gripped Michael’s arm. “I don’t play. Not well anyway.”
“Then give it the college try,” he said. “Isn’t that what you say in America?”
As she made her way to the court, he wanted to run after her, protect her from any jeering or boos. Maybe it was his imagination, but ever since her father’s text, she seemed quiet and not as present.
Yet to the crowd’s delight, Scottie volleyed with Anika, diving for a cross-court lob that almost made it over the net. The stadium erupted with cheers, and Scottie wore the grass stains and dust on her white slacks like a badge of honor.
On Tuesday the queen was not feeling well, so Scottie took tea with the County Northton Bankers Association alone. And again, on Wednesday, to the tech startup AiBound.
Early Thursday morning he trained down to Port Fressa with the queen and Scottie. They had an appointment at Perrigwynn Palace with designer Kimbra Townsen, who’d been selected to design Scottie’s Rose Ball gown.
Once Scottie was safe in the palace, Michael headed down to the Perrigwynn Operations Room to check in with Gunner Ferguson. Afterward, he was off to meet Mum for tea. She caught him in a weak moment Sunday evening on his drive home from Dad’s.
Then tomorrow Scottie was getting her desired visit to the Midlands for the opening of the Midlands Faire.
The king or queen traditionally opened the event, as it had been for two hundred and sixty years, but the king consort was out of country, and the doctors had quietly advised the queen to rest.
And so, the American Scottie O’Shay, Lady Royal, was representing the House of Blue at the famed faire. And in RECO territory.
HMSD officers would be deployed to act as tourists, shoppers, and locals, always within reach of Lady Royal should there be a repeat of the quay incident.
MP Hamish Fickle was already active on his social media and the talkies, promoting the Midlands Faire, which was part of his Midlands Garden district. To hear him, one would think he was king of his own little Midlands universe.
In the Operations Room, Michael chatted with the lads, catching up on their news, then halted when the small light from the lamp on his old desk still burned. He snapped around to Gunner, who gave a single chin lift.
“We’re keeping the lamp on for her.” Purnell.
It was late when he concluded the security plans with Gunner. Mum would be waiting at Saldings on the Waterfront. Hurrying out of the palace, he flagged down a taxi on Clemency Avenue.
He arrived to see Mum had secured her favorite table in the back left corner where the view of the city and view of the port were equally spectacular. He made his way toward her between the late afternoon diners and early evening drinkers.
“Sorry for my tardiness. Business.” He sat, going over the table, already set with a serving of tea and cake.
“No worries.” Mum set aside her phone to fill his teacup. “Everything all right?”
“Just preparations for tomorrow.” He creamed his tea and reached for a slice of cake. “What’s new in your world?”
“Torben Hedgerow announced his retirement this week.”
“And he is?”
“Only one of Pratt Printing’s most tenured employees. He started with mop and broom and rose through the ranks to become our Chief Strategic Officer. I want you to take his place. It’s your right, Mick, and you’d be brilliant in the position. We need you.”
“No, you just want to win, beat Dad and the Cross family. You want me doing what you envision for me, and in your mind, it doesn’t include the Cross family’s service to the Crown.”
“Not true. You know I’m a loyal monarchist, well, ninety percent loyal, but Her Majesty’s armed services and security detail have had enough of you.
Twenty years. I understood in the beginning, honestly.
Now I don’t. Why this unfounded resistance to the Pratt way?
The money, darling, think of what you could do with the money. I know for a fact if Purnell were—”
“Mum.” His stern rebuke reflected on her face, and the banger he’d been harboring in his soul for thirty plus years nearly exploded. “Purnell was on my side, not your mole. And what all did you say to Lady Royal Saturday night?”
“How alike you are in your Cross and Pratt and O’Shay and Blue stories. She’s a lovely woman. I liked her.”
“Well, there’s an endorsement.” Michael leaned her way.
“Mum, I’m not playing hard to get with you.
I’ve put in my required two years during university to be a part of the Pratt profits.
I know what it’s like to work there, and I can’t see myself in suit and tie, locked up in an office all day.
I’d rather coach kids on the pitch, earning a pittance, than be a Chief Strategic Officer.
There are Pratt cousins to step up. But the Crosses, we’re a dying breed.
Our numbers in public service are dwindling. I feel this is my calling.”
There. He’d said it.
“I see.” Mum fluffed the napkin in her lap, glancing away. “Is that the sum of it? You genuinely feel it’s your calling?”
She was hinting at the even deeper issue. The one they’d both avoided over the years. How Jeanette Pratt walked out on her children and seemed to forget all about them.
“Nothing more than what I just said.” Because this was not the time or place to ask What sort of mum abandons her sons? “What else is new in your life? Are you seeing anyone?”
“That’s a rather random question.” Mum hesitated before she answered. “Lord Cavendish and I have dinner now and then. We went to Cannes for a long weekend in the winter. Is your father dating?”
“If you want to know, ring him.”
“You think I dislike him, but I don’t. I loved him very much when we married and still do in my way, but the Cross devotion to service and the Pratt innovation in business were never going to coexist. I know you’re angry with me for leaving. I’m sorry, Michael, but it’s the way things had to be.”
Mum’s words, her tone, threatened to light the fuse of the old lingering firecracker—a firecracker decades in the making. His resentment was neatly packed and fused with hurt.
Why did running Pratt mean leaving him and Evan behind?
“Were Granddad and Granny happy with the party?” he said, cutting a bite of cake. “Smashing food and music for the evening.”
“We’re all still talking about it on WhatsApp. Don’t you ever read the messages? Mum posts dozens of pictures every day. There’s a rather lovely one of you with Lady Royal.”
“Take the lilt out of your voice, Mum.” Michael washed down his bite of cake with a hot swallow of tea. “You know protection officers do not fraternize with their charges.”
“Are you reminding me or yourself? Darling, if you ever want to fall in love again, you must get out of the protection business and join the printing business. I’m sixty-three and while I’ve no intention of retiring soon, I need to bring you up to speed. The business is yours to inherit.”
Mum. She never listened. “Take your eyes off me, Mum. Evan is your man.”
“Okay, then give me a better plan for your life than Her Majesty’s Security Detail.
Do you fancy following the royal Blues around the rest of your life, dodging bullets and charlatans, working their schedule, living on palace grounds in some tiny apartment?
What about your own family, Mick? You’re forty years old. Purnell would not want this for you.”
He gulped down the last of his tea. “Thanks for the tea, Mum.” He rose from the table then bent to kiss her cheek. “We’ll do it again soon.”
“Mick, after this tour of duty with Lady Royal… Wouldn’t that be a good time to end your career with the HMSD? A perfect closure.”
He regarded her for a moment and the way she almost seemed to plead with him. “Be safe on your way back to the office, Mum.” He gave her a nod and smile.
The Clemency district was crowded with commuters on their way home. Michael looked toward Mum’s high-rise apartment that was worth several million pounds.
She assumed he wanted to live her style of life. But he was content with his palace grounds apartment. It had character. As for money, he had a trust from his Pratt ancestors. It was enough for him.
While the Cross family was once one of the wealthiest in the country, a spiritual revival among members of the clan in the eighteenth century had them donating their time and money to the poor.
The only inheritance left to present-day descendants was a half dozen lovely estates filled with rare art, furniture, and just enough in the bank for upkeep and taxes.
The houses were open to the public throughout the year.
Dad dwelled in the only remaining inhabited manor.
At the corner of Clemency and Queen’s Way, Michael paused. He opened WhatsApp and scrolled through the Pratt anniversary photos. Granny feeding Granddad cake. The two of them dancing to their song. Surrounded by great-grandchildren.
The last photo was from Cousin Darcy and sent privately. He tapped it.
It was of him and Scottie. Walking from the party lights toward his motor. Scottie’s shoes dangling from her fingertips. His jacket over his shoulder. A warm, almost enchanting glow wrapped around them.
Michael zoomed in, his chest filling with the memories of that night. As he walked to the car with Scottie, he was holding her hand, and she was holding his.