Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
ANDI
The moment we walked into the dim log cabin off Wild Pine Road, I recognized Reece. I don’t know what he’s doing in Oregon, or why he doesn’t have a British accent anymore, but I’d know him anywhere. The set of his shoulders, his grumpy scowl, his confident voice—it all brings that night back in an instant. My heart speeds up, and my palms get damp. As I film the dim living room, I keep the bright light of my cell phone camera between me and the handsome, brooding mountain of a man, hiding behind the glare.
Why?
Excellent question. My inner romantic is thrilled to see him here. Even my wild imagination couldn’t have conjured up this random meeting. Of all the people who could have rescued me in London, how is it possible he happens to live in the tiny Oregon town I call my second home? It’s a coincidence almost beyond belief. Yet here he is.
And here I am. In my secondhand clothing, with my overbearing, brow-beating boss, carrying her sweater, and—did she leave that paper coffee cup on that side table? I scoop up the cup and swipe Kellie’s sweater sleeve across the marred surface to soak up any condensation. Not that another water ring will be noticeable on the badly damaged varnish, but it’s a nice piece. Good bones. I switch my focus to the coffee, which is still warm. Based on the fuchsia lipstick on the rim, this cup is Kellie’s. Unless Reece has some very odd leisure habits.
Or a girlfriend. My heart sinks. We didn’t talk about anything personal in London. Maybe he’s married with three adorable children. I dump the dregs of her black coffee down the stained bathroom sink. Angling my camera so I don’t catch my reflection on screen, I scan the scratched vanity top, the functional, avocado-green tub and shower—which is sparkling clean and holds bottles of very masculine-smelling shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. Not that I picked them up to smell them.
Just kidding. Of course I smelled them. They smelled like him. Woodsy with a hint of lime. Like a margarita while camping.
Focus, Andi. You have a job to do. I point the camera and start the next video. A beige bathmat covers part of the ancient linoleum floor which has bubbled in places. The toilet matches the vile green tub. A complete makeover is exactly what the house needs.
I stop in the doorway to the bedroom, but Reece has left no hints to his personality here. A simple brown blanket covers the bed, with white sheets and pillows. The chair in the corner sports threadbare upholstery and another bathmat does duty as a bedside carpet. I resist the urge to open the closet. I could probably get away with it—I’m supposed to be documenting the whole house—but it feels so invasive when it belongs to someone I know.
Down the hall, I enter a second bedroom, which contains nothing that would indicate a family. Just a naked bed frame with a hideous pink upholstered headboard and no mattress. The third bedroom has been converted to a basic office, with a laptop open on the plain wooden desk. Both the computer and the large second screen are black. The doorless closet holds metal shelving, with a printer and stack of paper on the middle shelf. A pair of black suitcases stand in a corner.
As I film, I let my imagination run. I’ve seen zero indication of a woman’s touch, so I assume Reece lives alone. He probably moved in here when he got back from London—or maybe shortly before. He certainly hasn’t bothered making the place homey. Maybe he lives somewhere else and just uses this place as an office. As I finish my video and return to the hall, I trail a finger along the edge of the desk. It comes away clean.
“Andi!” My angry boss’s voice carries up the steps easily, piercing the quiet of the room. I make one last check to ensure I’ve collected all her things, then move to the top of the steps.
She stands beside the front door, foot tapping. Reece lunges across the room to open it for her, and she sweeps out.
“Thank you.” He puts out a foot to keep the door from swinging closed. “I look forward to seeing your presentation.”
Ducking my head, I hurry down the steps. While I’d love to see Reece again, I don’t want our second meeting to take place in front of Kellie. If she thinks we have any kind of relationship, even casual acquaintances, she’s going to want all the details. And I don’t feel like sharing those with her. I didn’t even tell Celeste about my brief London turn as a damsel in distress. I hunch my shoulders and scurry past him to the freedom of the unfairly maligned front porch.
“Andi? From London?”
I swing around and smile. “Nice to see you again, Reece.” Without giving him time to respond, I run to Kellie’s Lexus and jump into the front seat.
The moment my rear end hits the leather upholstery, Kellie pelts me with items for her to-do list. Anything that requires talking to clients or business owners, or actual design work, she’ll reserve for herself. I get to do the less fun stuff, like measuring rooms and peeling up that buckling linoleum to see what’s underneath. She’ll contract out the structural work, but we have to do our research. I scramble for the tablet and start typing.
But as she adds to our already long list, I let my fingers do the work while my mind drifts back to the little log cabin. Why is Reece here? How long is he staying? And will he want to see me again?
* * *
I park my ancient Honda Civic in the alley behind the gas station and lock the door. Rotheberg is pretty safe, and no one is going to bother stealing my barely functioning rust-bucket, no matter how accessible I make it. The broken right-side mirror and faded leopard-print seat-covers will scare off the most single-minded thief, but the true protection is in the bright orange exterior paint. This car isn’t going anywhere.
Which is a shame, because my insurance would give me a nice downpayment for a better car. I can thank my big brother for the Rusty Pumpkin, as Hans dubbed it. Teo bought it when he turned sixteen, then handed it on to me when he graduated college and started making a decent living as the Feltz Ornament chief of marketing and operations.
The title is way more impressive than the job, although he’s busy expanding our export business to other countries. Mostly because he wants to spend more time with his girlfriend who is teaching English in Korea.
I could have gone into the family business, but my skill set includes more artistic pursuits. I plan to start selling my hand-embellished clothing online and got the job with Kellie to make ends meet as I build my business. I have a trust fund from my grandparents, but the Grand Duchess managed to lock it up tight even though she’s not supposed to be able to do that. I’m living in this crappy, probably illegal apartment above the gas station on a week-to-week deal. Thanks to the under-the-table arrangement, I’m paying less than the going rate for a one-bedroom in Rotheberg by a substantial amount, but it’s still hard to make ends meet.
I could live with my brother—or my parents. Teo’s one bedroom apartment would be tight, and Mutti and Vatti’s place is out at Copper Butte Ranch which would add a short commute that I’m not sure the Rusty Pumpkin would appreciate.
Okay, that’s just an excuse. The fact is, I’m trying to make it on my own. I walked away from the whole royalty gig in part to prove I can stand on my own two feet, not to sponge off my family.
I shoo away the big calico cat loitering by the back door and let myself into the building. A door to the right leads to the convenience store. I turn left past the smelly bathrooms and climb over the sign chained across the steps that says “authorized personnel only.” After a full day of Kellie, I’m ready for some alone time.
I have to figure out how I’m going to handle the Reece situation. Do I wait to see if he tries to contact me? Do I track him down? I know where he lives—or at least where he’s staying. Based on the map I pulled up at lunchtime, most of the property is ranch land with wide open spaces and scrubby juniper trees. But the house nestles in a tiny valley in the foothills of the Cascades, protected by a big stand of ponderosa pine.
I let myself into my apartment, hang my bag on the hook by the door, and grab a Coke Zero from the fridge. The old couch left by the previous occupant fills most of the small room. A cheap, white cube-style shelf holds my big computer monitor, with the little black CPU hidden behind a pretty bowl I found at a garage sale. I’ve managed to stretch my funds by purchasing most of my furnishings second-hand, because even a crappy studio is nicer if you decorate a bit.
After changing into jeans and a cute top, I drop onto the sofa, scrolling through my social media feeds and wishing I had something new to post. I haven’t finished a hand-painted jacket since I arrived in Rotheberg. Who knew having to work for a living would cut into my artistic endeavors so much? As I debate posting an “in progress” report with pictures of the work spread across my kitchen table, someone knocks on the door.
I toss my phone on the couch and cross the room to peer through the fish-eye peephole in the door. Hans and Teo stand on the other side, leaning in close so all I can see is one bug-eye from each of them. With an evil grin, I pull the door open as fast as I can. Their support gone, the boys stumble into the room.
I snicker. “What are you two doing here?”
“It’s Friday night.” Hans skirts around me and heads to the window overlooking the gas station. “ HerbstFest at the Stadtplatz !”
“The Stadtplatz is that way.” Teo points out the door and through the little window at the top of the steps.
Hans turns away from the window. “Just checking the traffic.”
We all stare out at the empty street.
Hans grins and shrugs. “We could probably hear the music if we open the window.”
“I’m not sure it opens,” I say.
“Are you stalking your former bandmates? Worried they’ll play well without you?” Teo shoos us toward the door.
Hans rolls his eyes. He plays accordion in his father’s oompah band—or did until he decided to focus on finishing his engineering degree. “Pop is playing, so I have no doubt they’ll sound better.”
“Will there be anyone our age there?” I push past Teo to drop my empty soda can on the counter. “Isn’t everyone back at school?”
Rotheberg is a cute place, but there aren’t a lot of jobs for twenty-somethings. And the closest college is twenty miles away. A few of the kids I knew from my short stints at Rotheberg high school still live here, but most of them are married and having children.
“I’m part of everyone, and I’m here.” Hans pouts, then points at Teo. “But he’s old, so his other friends are all working in the big city. Besides his best friend, of course.” He bows.
Teo shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’m not old. I just managed to graduate on time.” He gazes stoically as Hans enacts a dramatic heart-clutching death scene. “But yes, most everyone I know is somewhere else.”
“We won’t talk about Eva. No. No.” Hans sings to the tune from the catchy song about “Bruno” as he climbs to his feet. “We’re putting on our cheerful faces and going to the fest. And to answer your question, Oregon State doesn’t start until the end of the month. Who else do you need anyway? Teo and I aren’t good enough for you?”
I grab my phone and slip past them into the stairway. “You’re definitely good enough. But you’re both in relationships, and I’m still single.”
Teo pats the top of my head as I clatter down the steps ahead of him. “You’re only twenty-two. Give it some time. Or you could have the Grand Duchess set you up. She enjoys that.”
I push my brother’s hand away from my head. “That’s not happening.” Even if I wanted an arranged marriage, there’s no way the Grand Duchess would take me back. I burned that bridge—and don’t regret it for a second. Although the failure of my royal allowance to appear in my bank account for the last few months, and the lock she seems to have put on my trust fund, has put a distinct crimp in my style.
The boys catch up with me as we emerge from the building. Music blares, a wailing guitar rattling the windows of the convenience store as we cross the street. It’s definitely not a polka. I frown in surprise. “What’s going on?”
Hans grins. “Pop likes to play heavy metal once in a while.” He stops to play air guitar as someone at the fest runs through an impressive riff.
Teo and I applaud, then continue down the sidewalk. Two blocks later, we reach a corner and the Stadtplatz comes into view. A stage stands at the edge of the square, with heavy curtains blocking our view of the band’s back. Drums pound, the guitar screeches again, then the sound cuts off, leaving an echoing silence.
Someone whoops, and applause shatters the quiet. Hans blows out a breath, as if he was worried his father’s music wouldn’t be well received. He claps for a moment, then hurries across the empty street. We scoot between the cars parked at an angle all the way down the block and walk around the corner to an opening in the temporary fence surrounding the square.
The big cobblestone Stadtplatz teems with people. Wisteria-covered pergolas stand at opposite corners, the last withered purple blooms filtering down on those sitting at picnic tables beneath. Small, decorative trees grow at regular intervals along the sides, their trunks doing duty as fence posts for the orange construction netting that funnels pedestrians to the main entrance.
As we weave through the clumps of chatting townspeople, many of them wave or greet us. I’ll never admit it to his face, but Hans really is a bit of a celebrity in town—everyone knows the accordion prodigy, since he’s been performing with his father’s band since he was ten. And a surprising number of them acknowledge Teo, too. I get a few double takes and an occasional comment whispered behind a hand. Our royal status has been largely unknown in Rotheberg—or ignored—but I suspect even a tiny country like Freiberg disowning one of their princesses is bound to make the news.
I touch my headscarf, making sure my green hair is still tucked safely inside. I don’t really have the funds to maintain that expensive style, so I dyed my bangs back to my natural brown to make the roots less obvious as it grows out. But my green hair has been plastered all over the tabloids, so covering it when I’m out in public feels like a wise choice.
Teo, ever generous, disappears for a few minutes, then reappears with a trio of empty plastic beer steins. He hands each of us a mug and a bright red ticket, then jerks his head at another stretch of construction fencing. “ Biergarten is over here.”
We follow him through an opening in the fence to the little Tyrolian shack opposite the stage. A line snakes around the fest tables and benches, so we step in at the end. The elderly couple ahead of us nod and smile. They look familiar but only in a distant acquaintance way.
The woman leans closer to Hans and tips her head at the stage. “Will you play today, dear?”
Hans turns his cheerful smile on the woman with a sad headshake. “Not this time. Gotta let the old man shine once in a while.” He winks.
The woman laughs, but her companion looks affronted. “Werner is five times the accordionist you’ll ever be, you punk! Show some respect for your elders.”
“Ernie, he was kidding.” The woman pats the old man’s arm.
“He still needs to show some respect.” Ernie pointedly turns his back on us, then winces when the band launches into another guitar-heavy riff. “I wish he’d play the good music, though.”
The woman makes an apologetic face, then leans in even closer to whisper. “I like your playing better.” She turns away to join Ernie.
Hans clamps his lips shut and opens his eyes wide at us. Teo and I snicker and step back to let a group of people go ahead of us in the queue. “Way to enrage the locals, Hans,” Teo says in our native language.
“I’m a local, too.” Hans lifts his chin, responding in his atrocious German. “And I never claimed to be better than Pop. Ernie needs to take a chill pill.”
I shush him, peering between the newcomers to make sure Ernie and his wife aren’t listening. Although it’s unlikely they speak the language, and even if they do, I barely understand Hans’s weird accent. “I think we’re safe.”
“Safe from what? The wrath of Ernie?” Hans shakes his fist at Teo. “Don’t disrespect your elders, boy.”
I grab his hand. “That would be Teo, so watch who you’re shaking that fist at.”
Teo heaves a mournful sigh. “I think I’m with Ernie on this one. You’re a cheeky little punk. I fear for future generations.”
Hans pushes on Teo’s shoulder to nudge him forward as the line moves. “You need to lighten up.”
We get our beer steins filled, then find what looks like the last four seats in the biergarten. Unlike in Europe, everyone must stay inside the fenced-off area as long as they have beer in their mugs, so the place is crowded. Teo and Hans sit on one side of the table, and I sit across, leaving a little space at the end of the bench. No one is going to sit by me—who comes to a fest alone?
The boys and I chat and laugh as we drink our beer. I tell them about my ridiculously small apartment in London and escaping my handler for the evening. I don’t mention Reece—now that I know he’s here, I don’t want to spoil the memory with reality. Or the teasing Hans will undoubtedly initiate.
Hans laughs at my story, while Teo tries to hide a disapproving frown. Then he looks up as I feel a large presence behind me.
“Is this seat taken?” British or Texan, that deep voice is one I’ll never forget.