At Your Service (20 page)

The guy looks kind of baffled, but he halfway nods his head.

“Well, in my capacity as junior concierge I often have the opportunity to escort young guests of the hotel on excursions
to the Statue of Liberty. In fact, I've been giving some thought to putting together a ‘best of' tour we could offer as part of our package deals to bring new guests to the hotel. Now, I would be quite happy to include your cruise line in that package, but in order to do so, I need to know you would be able to accommodate my guests under any and all reasonable circumstances. You understand that, right?”

Another very confused half nod.

“This could be a lucrative deal for both of us. Our guests have discerning tastes, and I see a real opportunity to align our two brands. Of course, in doing so, I'd make sure that you were given substantial credit for helping to bring about this partnership. What is your name?”

He looks a bit dazzled by all my concierge-speak, which is exactly the goal. “Uh, Richard.”

“Richard. Very good. So, Richard. What do you say we start off our long and fruitful relationship with a little . . .” I search my brain for the term Alex used earlier with Pay. Got it! “. . . quid pro quo?”

Richard looks impressed I'm speaking Latin. I have to remember to thank Alex. A fancy way to say “you give me something, and I'll give you something” is going to come in handy A LOT during life as a concierge.

Now Richard has an amused smile. “I see. What did you have in mind?” he asks.

“Well, I was thinking you could sell my friend and me two tickets to the ferry, and I could invite you and a guest to be
my
guest for a meal at the hotel. Our dinners for two are usually valued at one hundred fifty dollars, so I think you'll be making out much better in this exchange, wouldn't you agree?”

Richard smiles. “Look, kid, I don't know if you're feeding me a line right now or not. I can't really imagine anyone under thirteen working as a concierge, but you know what? You got
chutzpah
and I like that. I'm gonna sell you those tickets just for ending my day with a chuckle. That'll be nineteen dollars and sixty cents with tax.”

My eyes go all wide. I did it. I did it! I remembered who I really am—Capable Chloe, Concierge Extraordinaire—and I at least solved this one problem. Finally, a mini-success.

I grin and stick my hand behind me. Paisley presses twenty one-dollar bills into my palm. Richard looks a little less jolly at having to count out the money, but he lifts the
CLOSED
sign out of the way to slide two tickets under the glass.

“Have fun, kid.”

I know he doesn't think I'm telling the truth, but just wait until he gets his voucher for a comped meal at our Michelin-rated restaurant
^I
. He won't be chuckling then. He'll be too busy chewing.

We step away from the ticket window, and I accept Paisley's high fives and Sophie's shy thank you. I insist that Paisley take the rest of our money to buy a soft pretzel and a soda while she waits, and then Sophie and I turn and make our way to the security checkpoint.

The atmosphere changes as soon as Pay is gone, but I can't tell if it's hostile or just awkward, and Sophie isn't giving me any clues. We don't speak the entire time we're in line. She does help me navigate the metal detector and hop up the small step onto the ferry. We stake out a spot along the back railing, so we can wave good-bye to Pay as we pull away from the dock.

After a few quiet minutes of watching Battery Park get smaller and smaller, I can't take it anymore. Whatever this silence is, I'm determined to make peace. After all, I have my concierge mojo back, she's my guest, and I owe it to the
St. Michèle to make sure she has a pleasant visit, other events of today aside. And, um, if I'm being totally honest about it, Sophie might not have been
entirely
wrong with the stuff she said about me. Which kills me to admit.

“So, that birdcall thing was really cool,” I say.

Sophie hangs over the railing a little to study the wake. Or to avoid looking at me, more likely. “Thanks.”

She's quiet again, and for a few seconds I figure that's all I'm going to get out of her. Until she says, “To be honest, though, I was rather jealous of your and Paisley's thing.”

Okay, now she's just being polite. Polite is better than yelling, but c'mon now. Jealous?

“But we were terrible.” I know, I know. I wasn't admitting it before, but I can face facts. It's pretty doubtful either Pay or I will end up with our names on a Broadway marquee.

Sophie laughs. “Totally. But you had so much fun doing it together. Well, maybe not today, but I bet you did when you were in the talent show.”

We had. We'd laughed nonstop the entire time. Hey, maybe that's why we got fourth place.

Sophie sighs. “I don't have any best friends like that. We travel so much with Mother and Father that I have to be homeschooled by a governess, and most of the time it's just
me and Alex and Ingrid together. In the summers I usually stay with my cousins, the countesses, and they're sort of close to my age, but . . . mostly I'm around grown-ups all day.”

I definitely feel that. I spend a lot of time in the hotel surrounded by adults. Except I also get to see my friends at school, and a lot of the time I'm doing fun stuff with the guests I'm “concierging,” who are sometimes even my age. And, of course, I have Pay.

This is crazy. Am I actually feeling sorry for a real-life princess?

I steal a sideways look at her. “Well, you can hang with Pay and me anytime.”

She smiles as she rolls and unrolls her ferry ticket. The wind tugs at her hair, and she doesn't even make any effort to fix it.

“That would be cool. Maybe we could keep in touch or something.”

She wants to keep in touch with me? A few hours ago she couldn't stand the sight of me.

“Um, I'm sorry I was kind of a pain earlier.” I figure I owe her that. Granted, I had only been trying to be respectful, but I should have picked up on the fact they just wanted to be treated like regular kids.

“It's fine. Paisley explained to me about your job responsibilities, and I hadn't really thought about it like that. You didn't know any better.”

But I should have. If I want to be a great concierge, I need to learn to read people. I misjudged Sophie, I didn't pay enough attention to Ingrid to know how serious she was about the pennies, and I thought Alex was cocky just because he flips his hair a lot. Basically, without my slam books telling me everything I need to know about a guest, I'm not so hot at figuring out what people want. I guess I need to work on that.

But really, the way I feel now has nothing to do with my wanting to be a great concierge. I want to be nice to Sophie just because I like her and I think she'll be a fun friend. Plus, you never know when you'll need help summoning a carrier pigeon.

“Friends?” I ask, holding out my free hand.

She grins. “Friends.” But instead of shaking my hand, she throws her arms around me in a giant, very unprincess-like hug.

I
. I bet Richard has never tried duck confit. Or sweetbreads. Dad almost got me to try those once because the name made them sound so delicious. Then Chef spilled the beans that sweetbreads are actually an animal's pancreas. PANCREAS. No. Just no. But maybe Richard will be a fan.

F
ifteen minutes later we're jockeying for exit position as the ferry ties up on Liberty Island.

You hear stories about how immigrants felt when their boats came into view of the Statue of Liberty and how they got down and kissed the ground when they landed because they knew their dreams could all come true here in America.

I am totally fine with kissing the ground if we find Ingrid here. That's the only American dream I have at the moment. I can tell Sophie is feeling the same way, because she's resumed shredding her ferry ticket and she can't stop bouncing. Seeing as how I'm holding on to her for balance, it's not the most comfortable thing.

“Well, this is it,” I say, and she grimaces in reply. She rises up on tiptoes to try to catch a glimpse onto the island, but the boat is low in the water and there's a covered dock that is blocking most everything on land from sight.

We step off the ferry and, I swear, if Sophie were strong enough to carry me, I know she would have tried. I feel like I have a Doberman on a leash, and I'm trying to keep her from racing off without me. What happened to the composed, regal princess from this morning?

“Do you want to run ahead?” I ask.

She looks genuinely ashamed. “No, sorry. I'm just really edgy. I'll slow down.”

She offers me her arm again, and I use it to help me hop along. We reach the end and step onto a paved pathway. The statue is all majestic-looking off to our right, but we're both focused on the path to the visitors' center ahead. A guy on the ferry told us the penny machine is in a big, tented gift shop behind the visitors' center, and we make a beeline for it.

I scan left to right the whole way, searching for signs of Alex or Ingrid, but it's just random tourists.
That's okay. They're at the penny machine. Just get to the penny machine.
I have to believe this. After everything we've gone through to get here, it will be too cruel if she isn't there.

The white tent comes into view, and Sophie makes a little sound in her throat. I try to hop faster. We enter the gift shop and look around. Right away I spot the machine in the back corner of the shop and point it out to Sophie. I try not to notice there are no kids, royal or otherwise, crowded around it. But I can't keep a giant lump from forming in my throat. We reach the machine and stop.

Neither of us makes eye contact with the other, because then we'd have to acknowledge the truth.

No Alex. No Ingrid.

I stare at the floor.

“Looking for someone?”

I turn so fast that I forget my ankle, and a surge of pain shoots up my leg.

“Dad?”

C
hloe. Got anything you'd like to share about your day?”

Okay, so you know how thirteen-year-olds are way too mature to run crying into their dads' arms? Well . . . not this one. Granted, I don't run, because my ankle is throbbing like the injury is brand-new again, so I more like crumple, but I'm only a little embarrassed to say I use his jacket as an oversize tissue. Sophie stands off to the side, watching quietly.

Dad peels me off his chest and says, “Let me put you girls out of your misery. Princess Ingrid is fine. She and the king are getting a closer peek at the statue right now.”

Sophie stiffens beside me. “My . . . my father?”

Dad nods. “We took a helicopter out here about twenty minutes ago. We were just landing when Prince Alex found Princess Ingrid.”

Alex found Ingrid. I'm happy about that, at least. Now his dad knows what a responsible leader he can be, when he needs to be. I hope that's how his father is viewing things.

“Er, is he quite angry?” Sophie asks.

Instead of answering, Dad looks behind him at someone. Alex steps out from behind a giant cardboard Statue of Liberty. I'm torn between running (fine, hobbling) to him or hiding my face in Dad's chest again. Just what you want the guy you like to see: you being a crybaby in your parent's arms. Ugh.

Alex's smile is sweet, though. He doesn't make a big deal about my puffy eyes and splotchy cheeks at all. He just holds my eyes for a second and gives me a tiny nod to let me know everything is okay. Then he turns to Sophie.

“He's not exactly pleased. All right, he was quite angry, and I think Hans and Frans will be getting it far worse than us. But he had tabs on Ingrid all day, so she was never in any real danger. And he
does
feel dreadful that we've had such an ordeal, but he felt it was necessary for us to learn an important lesson that will serve us well in our future roles.”

Alex runs a hand through his hair and continues. “After I explained to him why we handled things the way we did, he said we showed good leadership skills. He's proud of our quick thinking and ‘the fact that we took the reputation of Somerstein into consideration as befits our royal standing.' ”

He crooks his pointer fingers to let us know he was quoting his dad. “But . . . he's cutting our trip short since he feels everyone's seen quite enough of New York at this point. We'll leave tomorrow morning instead of Tuesday.”

Alex spares a glance at me when he says this and grimaces, so I know he's bummed we can't really spend much more time together. That sucks.

Except, something he said is still buzzing around in my head.
They had tabs on Ingrid all day. Say what?

Sophie doesn't seem to register that part. She just looks relieved the king isn't mad. I get that. I can't tell if my dad is or isn't, and I'm not sure I'm so eager to find out which it is. I'm still in his arms, so I feel when his cell phone vibrates in his coat pocket. Dad pulls it out and glances down.

“Your Royal Highnesses, Alex, would you mind giving me and Chloe a few minutes? I think if you return to the ferry dock, you'll find Paisley and Frans just arriving.”

Paisley is with Frans now? And they got on a ferry? I thought
we were on the last ferry.
I open and close my mouth, but don't say anything.

“Certainly, Mr. Turner.” Sophie looks confused too, but she squeezes my hand and heads for the door. Alex gives me one last lopsided smile and follows her.

Once we're alone(ish)—if you don't count all the strangers shopping for Lady Liberty playing cards and refrigerator magnets—I turn my face up to Dad and give him a sad smile.

He answers with another hug. Whew. That has to be a good thing, right?