Once Upon a Prince (8 page)

She laughed. “Grand time? Is this the Brighton form of politeness? You scrubbed toilets, Nate.”

“There’s nothing that cheers a man’s heart like gleaming white porcelain.”

“You’re crazy.” When she tapped his arm, he caught her hand in his.

“I could do with a dose of the crazies,” he said, staring at her too long, holding on too long. “Shall we tour the garden? It’s big, as you can see, but with plenty of beds and space to create.”

“It’s a blank canvas.” His touch robbed her of breath. Why was he holding her hand? Why did she feel his heart against
her palm? She took a giant step toward the ocean-side wall as if there were something important to inspect, dislodging her hand from his, easing his fuel from her pulse. “It’s lovely, Nate. So very lovely.”

“I see weeds. What do you see?”

Susanna cut across the lawn, smoothing her hands over her suit slacks. “Angles, textures, and ambiance. I see roses and foxglove, heather and perennials, perhaps a cobbled path and box hedges along the wall.”

Like the Christ Church grounds, Nate’s garden had a mystical aura, as if the flora and fauna understood gardens were for peace. For communing.

She could hide here. Find God here. Even among the barren beds. She stooped to run her hand over the cut blades of grass. “I could lie down and make a grass angel.”

“Like a snow angel?”

“Exactly.” She flopped on her back, pressed down into the grass and flapped her arms and legs, not caring about possible grass stains on her suit.

Nate bent over her. Did he know his smile was a potent elixir? “You look ridiculous.”

“You should see this from my angle.”

“Guess I’ll have to fix that straightaway.” He flopped down next to her, swinging his arms and legs over the grass. “Okay, on three, let’s jump up and see our creations.”

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three.” She fired off the ground, twisting her ankle and tripping into Nate. He caught her, wrapping his arm about her waist, holding her to him.

“Well, what do you think?” He jutted his chin at their grassy, angelic impressions.

“I think, um, that my …” If he didn’t let her go, her heart
would rocket out of her chest on its way to the moon. “My angel has a rather large behind. Look at that.” She bent down, moving out of his grasp, cupping her hands around the grassy impression of her derriere.

“Seems fine to me.” He winked, and she almost swooned. “It’s just where you pushed down to get up.” He hovered his hand over the grass, a grin on his lips. “See?”

See? Oh, she was seeing …

Susanna pressed her palm against her forehead. “The garden … We should get back to the garden.”

“The job is yours,” he said, low, sincere.

“You don’t know my price. You haven’t seen any drawings.”

“I don’t have to know, Susanna. I trust you.”

A pair of red birds flitted about in a black cherry tree while a couple of cherry-toting squirrels plunged their faces into the grass, storing up for the coming winter.

“You can’t keep doing this, Nate.” She sighed and headed for the veranda. Based on what she knew of the Ocean Boulevard homes, she’d worked up a rough estimate after work last night.

“Doing what?”

“Rescuing me.”

“I protest.” He followed her, arms wide. “I’m doing no such thing.”

“You feel sorry for me.” The truth escaped, smacking her heart.

“Sorry for you?” He dropped to a wicker chair. “No, Suz. Not for you.” The sparkle faded from his eyes as he stared over the garden. “I don’t feel sorry for you.” He shifted his gaze to her. “I envy you.”

“Envy me? You want to run the kitchen tonight while I toothbrush bathroom tile?” How could he envy her?

“Tonight?” His countenance sparked.

“Oh, yeah.” Susanna perched on the edge of her chair. “Mama called this morning. Said she’d put you on the schedule. I told her
you were some kind of government official from Brighton and she had no right to schedule you just because you volunteered once.”

“Volunteered? I was told I’d get a paycheck.” He tapped the table. “I deserve it. I worked hard last night.”

“Mama said government officials, of all people, need to see how hard a man works to get a decent wage.”

“She’s right. I’ll be there.”

“Okay, but be warned—she’ll have you cleaning out the trash bins or Cloroxing mold from seedy, hidden places.”

Nate leaned forward with arms on his thighs. “I’ll scrub mold if you’ll design my garden.”

“Sorry, bubba, but working at the Shack isn’t part of my negotiating. Besides, you don’t even know if I’m a good architect, Nate.” Truth nailed down some of her early morning excitement. “You barely know me.”

“Then why do I feel as if I do?”

“Hero complex?”
Ha
. But he didn’t laugh. He studied her as an easy breeze dropped by, scenting the porch with morning fragrances, and listened in on their words.

“I watched you work last night, Suz. You’re the boss’s daughter but you gave your all. You made everyone feel like a part of the team. Even me. You didn’t ask them to do anything you weren’t willing to do yourself. They respect you because you’re a woman of integrity. That’s how I know you’ll design a lovely garden.”

“You saw all of that on a five-hour shift?”

“It’s amazing what we can see when we take the time to look.”

She surveyed the garden again, then Nate. “I’ll do it.”

He smiled. “Good. I knew you’d see reason.”

“Whatever, wise guy.” She took her sketch pad and pencils from her satchel. “But we’re dickering over the price and signing a contract—the whole shooting match.” She passed over the rough estimate she’d prepared.

Nate flipped back through the pages. “Are you sure you’re charging enough?”

“Nate, I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to dicker down, not up.” Susanna positioned herself on the top porch step and made her first mark on the pristine page, noting the pockets of shade in contrast to the pockets of sun, imagining all the personalities of a southern Georgia, ocean-side garden.

Prayer.

Picnics.

Parties.

Politics.

She imagined the path of a pearly moon through the magnolias. A wisteria vine under which lovers might sit, holding hands, entwining their hearts.

She breathed in the scent of pine, palmetto, baked grass, sea salt. And the fresh scent of Nate’s skin.

She glanced around to find him practically falling out of his seat to see her design.

“I’m just sketching …” She turned away.

“I’m just looking.”

“Nathaniel, you’ve a call,” Jonathan said from the kitchen door.

“Who is it?”

“Your father.”

“Excuse me, Suz.” Nate brushed his fingers over her hair as he left the porch.

“O–okay.” His touch had produced chills on her hot skin. He had to stop touching her. Awakening something deep in her soul.

She tried to focus on the dry weeds and barren beds. But her heart yanked her thoughts back to his touch.

Rebound. This is just rebound. A man gives you a bit of attention, and you’re ready to hand over your heart …

Back to the garden. What it needed was freedom. Space. A
subtle beauty. When she finished the sketch, she scripted a garden name across the top.

A King’s Garden
.

It helped her visualize the end design. Susanna wasn’t sure Nate would find any connection to such a lofty-sounding name, but she did. Already “A King’s Garden” took up a brilliant residence in her mind.

Y
ou fancy her,” Jonathan said as he cleared the cups and cakes from Wednesday afternoon tea.

“That’s out of the blue but if you’re talking about Susanna, yes, I like her,” Nathaniel said. “As a friend.” Far be it from him to confess he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since she left this morning with her sketch pad, excitement in her eyes.

Her design struck him. She’d sketched a near perfect replica of Dad’s old garden, the one Nathaniel loved so much. It was as if she read life and color in the garden’s fading shadows.

Simple. Spacious. But edged with blooming life.

“Friend? Nathaniel, I’ve not seen that look in your eye since Adel Gardner kissed you during the university autumn bash.”

“Adel? Really? Jon, you’ve got to move on. University is over. Ten years over.”

“Me move on? Who here has not fallen in love since our fourth year?” Jonathan’s glare accented his sarcastic tone.

“At least I’m not like you. Falling in love every spring and out every fall. You’re none the better for it, I’d say.”

“At least I try.”

“You don’t have a big fat crown on your head either.” Every
once in a while, Nathaniel felt justified to pull the crown prince card.

Jon laughed over the clatter of the dishes as he headed to the kitchen door. “True, I’ll grant you, and I gather it’s why you’ve not told your new friend that Nate Kenneth is really Prince Nathaniel Henry Kenneth Mark Stratton, future king of Brighton.”

“She doesn’t need to know.”

“Perhaps
you
need to be reminded then. You fancy her. I see it in your eyes.”

“I know who I am and the boundaries I have.” How could he forget? Jonathan, Mum, Dad, the entire Brighton Parliament wouldn’t let him forget. “Let Liam know I’ll need the motorcar tonight, please.”

“Where are you going? And wherever it is, Liam is tagging along.”

“I can’t have my security officer in tow when I pull a shift at the Rib Shack.”

“Again?” Jon came around the kitchen island. “Whatever for?”

“Her mum put me on the schedule. They’ve been needing extra hands since her father has been in the hospital.”

“Nathaniel, you’re the crown prince. You don’t need to wait tables at an American barbecue bistro.”

“I’m not waiting tables.” Nathaniel started for the stairs. “I’m scrubbing floors and cleaning toilets.”

Jon swore blue. “The King’s Office will have my job if they get wind of this.”

“It’s not your choice.” Nathaniel stripped off his shirt as he made his way down the hall. Susanna and the rest of the crew wore shorts and Rib Shack T-shirts. He’d worn jeans last night and had sweat them through. Tonight he’d dress in the uniform—a pair of shorts he didn’t mind soiling and a T-shirt.

“Then tell her who you are, Nate,” Jon called after him.

“What for? To prove my superiority?” He paused on the first
landing, glancing over the rail at his aide. “Or to embarrass her and make her feel bad she asked a royal prince to scrub a dirty floor on his hands and knees?” Nathaniel jogged up the stairs. “I won’t do it.”

“What if she finds out on her own?” Jonathan followed Nathaniel up to his private quarters.

“And how would that happen? Will you tell her? Or Liam?”

“Three hundred people saw you give a speech Monday night, Nathaniel. I bet at least one or two of them enjoys a good barbecue meal now and again. What if a Brightonian or Hessen on holiday happens by the restaurant?”

“Then it’s a good thing I’ll be cleaning trash bins or some such out of sight. And you saw Mrs. Butler’s social set. I daresay they won’t be calling for reservations at the Rib Shack anytime soon.”

Jon glared at him. “I said it once, I’ll say it again. You
do
fancy her.”

“Right now, I fancy you disappearing so I can change.” Nathaniel pushed his aide out the door.

Yes, he fancied Susanna. A lot. And he’d flirted with her this morning, crossing over his own personal boundaries. Holding her hand, holding her waist, all the while concerned she’d mistake his heartbeat for distant thunder.

But it wasn’t right nor fair for him to awaken a love that he could not return.

Scooping change into his pocket from the dresser, he sketched her face with his thoughts and stored it in a private room with signage—For Nathaniel Only.

Downstairs, Liam passed him the keys. “I’d feel better if you’d let me come along, sir.”

“I’d feel better if you’d not go at all,” Jon said. “You’re a prince.”

“I’m on holiday and this is my idea of fun. Don’t wait up.”

“Before you go, here’s the latest from the
Liberty Press
.” Jon offered Nathaniel his iPad.

Nathaniel opened the front door. Warm, glorious light flooded the foyer. “Unless it’s a bomb scare or a catastrophe, I don’t want to know.”

“Define
catastrophe
,” Jon said.

“A sudden widespread disaster. War. Terrorist attack.”

“Does a headline suggesting you’re engaged to Lady Genevieve Hawthorne qualify?”

“Engaged?” Nathaniel slammed the door shut, reaching for the tablet. He trusted Brighton’s leading newspaper to confirm any royal engagement with the King’s Office.

Prince Nathaniel’s Marriage to Lady Genevieve Hawthorne Solves It All.

Bookmakers Give 3-to-1 Odds for End-of-Year Proposal.

“This is from the
Informant
?” Nathaniel scanned the article. Rubbish. Every word. The
Informant
was the gossip rag, purposefully inciting and salacious. But even this was below their standards.

“This is
Liberty Press. Informant
’s not jumped on this one.”

The
LibP?
Nathaniel handed back Jon’s tablet. “Something’s not right.”

“Every once in a while the
LibP
prints something outlandish. Remember when Prince Stephen failed to make the rugby team his first year at university?”

“Miserable. Humiliated my poor brother all the more when Dad asked the press corps to leave him alone.”

Poor Stephen. He’d had photographers and reporters trailing him for weeks, recording his relentless effort to improve his game. They’d made all kinds of outlandish statements.

“Morris Alderman has Hessenberg ties. Not to mention his buddies in Brighton politics who want to cut Hessenberg free so we can save our own financial necks,” Jon said, leaning against
the back of the couch. “You’ve got pressure coming from all sides, chap. Alderman doesn’t seem shy about forcing you into some kind of nineteenth-century arranged marriage for the sake of a nation.”

“Bully for him. He can run his paper his way,” Nathaniel said, taking his leave. “We all want Hessenberg’s independence and a break in our financial quagmire.”

King Nathaniel I and Prince Francis were not wise when it came to projecting the exchequer accounts of each country. “As for me, I’m going to work before I get docked for being late.”

The emotional wrestling over the blasted entail darkened his heart. Couldn’t he just forget it for a few days and soak in the sunshine of Susanna?

At five after eleven, Susanna peered into Mama’s office as she tugged off her apron. “I don’t know how Daddy does this night after night. We must have run twelve-hundred plates through the window tonight.”

“More. Running the totals now.” Mama motioned toward the back door. “Check on the Englishman. I sent him out with the trash.”

“He’s not English. He’s Brightonian.”

“Well, he sounds English.” Mama’s fingers flew over the keys as she added receipts. “I’m sure going to miss that boy when he goes home. Though I never saw a man cut up vegetables so slow. Mercy a-mighty.”

Mama had about gone crazy on Nate when he’d only produced one container of sliced tomatoes after an hour at the prep table.

“But he’s a master at the dishwasher, Mama. That counts for something.”

“Yes, indeed it does. And after he spiffed up the bathroom, I plum-near put a place setting in there.” The machine crunched Mama’s final total, spitting out a long white tape.

Susanna reached for a towel and dried her hands. “I’ll go check on him.” She retrieved two Rib Shack tumblers, filled them with ice and soda, then pushed through the screen door.

The back deck faced the southern side of the inlet under the watchful eye of the St. Simons lighthouse.

Several customers lingered at their tables, listening to Mickey, the seasoned Irish singer who graced the Shack’s back deck five nights a week.

Gracie was here with her man, Ethan-the-sailor, her head bent against his, enraptured, speaking low and intimately.

Susanna scanned the deck and beach, looking for Nate. Had it just been five days since she walked along the shore with Adam? Since she learned the life she’d been waiting for would never be?

At times, it felt like she’d been stuck in a really bad story, unaware that other books or stories existed.

Then someone—God—gave her a new book. One with creamy blank pages waiting for a new story to be told.

The image lingered in her heart as Nate emerged from the darkness, dusting his palms.

“I was getting worried.” She offered him one of the tumblers of cold cola. “Wouldn’t be the first time the Dumpster ate someone.”

“Not to worry, I’m trained in defeating man-eating Dumpsters.” He took a long sip of the cola. “I speared the beast into submission.”

“Hurrah.” Susanna pumped her fist in victory. “But where, O brave knight, is your sword?”

“In the belly of the beast, naturally.” Nate cut a swath in the air, then held his palm over her eyes. “Don’t look, fair maiden. It’s a gruesome sight.”

She snatched his hand away with a laugh. “Do you have a knight complex?”

“No, but I do have a prince complex.”

“Then it’s lucky you’re not a prince.”

“Isn’t it, though?” He took a gulp from his tumbler, turning his attention to Mickey as he ended his song, the last note ringing out from his guitar.

“I love Mickey’s music,” Susanna said.

“Yes, he’s quite good.” Nate peered down at her, started to say something else but headed for the deck instead, taking a seat on the nearest picnic table.

Susanna followed and sat next to him, waiting for Mickey to start another song. Being with Nate was the nicest sensation she’d experienced in a really long time.

“I like it here,” he said, glancing around the deck, then at her. “It’s lovely. Most lovely.”

Lovely
. The confession sank through her, warm and silky, though at times she felt like he spoke in metaphors, challenging her to read between the lines.

“Come on, Nate, it’s crazy around here, and you know it.” She sipped her drink and scooted an inch away from him.
Remember you’re in rebound mode, girl
.

“Why not work here, Suz?” Nate angled around to face her. “Take over the business?”

She shook her head. “When I was a kid …” Her tone was meant for him alone. “Mama and Daddy fought. Not little squabbles over disciplining me or balancing the checkbook but with fists flying and paint-peeling cursing. Daddy would yell at me to go to my room. I’d hide in my closet and pretend it was my secret garden. No one could get me because the closet had a magic door.”

“So your love of gardens began.”

“Pretty much. My safe place. By the time they healed their marriage when I was twelve, I’d read a hundred books about gardens.
Fiction, nonfiction. The garden section of the newspaper. I wanted to study horticulture and work in one of the world’s great gardens—the Biltmore or the Brooklyn Botanical or the Claude Monet in Normandy. But Adam convinced me those jobs were few and far between, hard to get. He said architecture was the way to go.”

“He may have been right.” Nate stared right into her soul. “But he didn’t hear your dream, did he?”

“I think he meant well.” Forgotten remnants of her arguments with Adam elbowed forward. Her dreams versus his. A tug-of-war over when his season ended and hers, rather
theirs
, began. Dark moments she’d shoved aside for the sake of the relationship. The almighty plan. “I chose to believe Adam would do anything for me.” The confession broke another thin shackle of her former life. “But it was my expectation, not his demonstration.”

“A girl in love has a right to believe her man would lay down his life for her.”

She gawked at him with bold skepticism. “Earth to Nate.”

“What about your father? And his love for your mum?”

His soft suggestion inspired tears. How did he see so much so soon? “He’s very devoted to Mama, but she demands it.”

“And he freely gives it. He could walk away if he wanted. As he’d done in the past.”

“I never saw it that way before,” she said as Mickey rolled from one ballad to the next. This one had a minor-key melody that stirred Susanna’s soul. “But yeah, Daddy would do just about anything for Mama.”

“And she him.”

Susanna peered at Nate. Maybe it was his accent or his Brighton birth or her crazy imagination or too many hours in the Rib Shack kitchen, but she felt as if she’d seen him before.

He caught her gaze and raised his hand as if he might stroke her face, but then pulled it away. “Can I ask you something?” he said.

“I’m twenty-nine,” she answered without waiting for the question. He was getting to her. Too much. Too soon. So she moved another inch away from his intimate intonations by blocking his probing with a snide response. “And I won’t tell you how much I weigh.” She sipped from her soda, eyeing him over the rim of her tumbler.

He released his melodic, easy laugh. “Okay, I wasn’t going to ask either of those, but good to know.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-two. And nearly thirteen stone.”

“Stones or pounds, I’m still not telling you how much I weigh.”

“What made you stay with Adam for so long?”

Ah, a fair question. She shrugged. “The idea that I knew what tomorrow would bring. Adam. Eventually marriage. I didn’t have to worry, you know? I liked things being secure and nailed down. By-product of the parental units fighting in my formative years. Can I ask you something?”

“I have a younger brother. I like dogs and cats, and I once had a pet mouse named Clint Eastwood.” He turned toward Susanna, grinning, his arms spread wide.