The Royals Next Door Read online

  He shakes my hand, firm and warm, and I must be having an out-of-body experience right now, because I don’t think I feel the floor beneath my feet.

  “You must be Piper,” Eddie says.

  “We’ve heard so much about you,” Monica adds.

  I give her a nervous smile. The only way she knows anything about me is because of that big oaf standing behind me. I don’t dare turn around and meet Harrison’s eyes. I can only imagine what he’s said.

  Still, I say, “All good things, I hope.”

  Which in turn makes a moment of uncomfortable silence fall between us, Eddie’s eyes darting over my shoulder to Harrison.

  “Of course!” Monica exclaims, flashing me her pearly whites. “Here, why don’t you sit down and get comfortable.” She gestures to the seat while she looks over at Agatha. “Can you bring us some refreshments?” Monica looks back to me. “Would you like something to drink? Sparkling water, tea, a glass of wine?”

  I’m never very good in these situations. I should say I’m fine, I don’t want anything. Maybe a glass of water.

  But because I’m nervous, and frankly I’m curious to see what kind of wine they drink, I say, “A glass of wine would be lovely.”

  “Red or white?”

  “Either is fine. Whatever you have open.”

  “Are you sure?” Monica asks. “It’s no bother. We have everything.”

  So much pressure. Everyone is staring at me to make a choice.

  “I’ll have a glass of white,” I say. “Since it’s finally summer and all.”

  “Hmmm, I think we only have sauvignon blanc chilled,” she muses, looking to Agatha.

  “There’s a pinot grigio in the wine cooler in the cellar,” Agatha says.

  Monica then looks back to me for my opinion. This feels like it’s already turning into a to-do. I shouldn’t have said anything.

  “Whatever is easiest,” I tell her. “I’m not fussy.”

  Monica nods and gives me a small smile, probably picking up on how uncomfortable I’m feeling. “Agatha, can you get a glass of sauvignon blanc, please?”

  As Agatha walks off, I look at Monica in surprise. “You’re not having any?”

  Perhaps it was the wrong question, because she looks uncomfortable for a moment. “No, uh, it doesn’t agree with me.”

  “Agatha,” Eddie quickly says after her, “make that two glasses.” He gives me a wide grin. “I’ve been drinking too much beer lately; it’s probably time to switch.” He grabs his nonexistent belly in demonstration.

  “Please, have a seat,” Monica says again, gesturing to the chair as Agatha goes off toward the kitchen.

  I quickly sit, feeling like I’m being a pain in the ass. I’m also still in disbelief that this is happening, like perhaps my mother put those magic mushrooms that grow in our yard in today’s tea and now I’m on a hell of a trip.

  Monica sits down on the love seat across from me, while Eddie sits casually on the arm of the plush couch. Harrison moves back toward the windows, though his gaze is tight on me, intense and suspicious. I do my best to ignore him.

  Monica, though, must have noticed the look I gave Harrison, because she leans forward, her expression becoming warmer. “We really appreciate you coming over. I know that this all must be such a big change for you, and we want to work with you to make sure that this whole transition goes as smoothly as possible. We want to start off on the right foot, be good neighbors.”

  “So far, so good,” I tell her. “Though, to be honest, I think we’re all a little surprised that you picked this island when you could live anywhere you want.”

  Monica exchanges an amused look with Eddie before she smiles at me. “We get that a lot. To be honest, we’re surprised that people are surprised. I mean, look at this place. It’s absolutely gorgeous.” She gestures to the view. “Where else in the world could you get this out your back door?”

  I can think of a million places. “It’s pretty now, but wait until winter comes. We don’t get a lot of snow in the Pacific Northwest, but we do get months and months of rain and gloom. I’m from Victoria originally, and it took a few winters to get used to how dark it is here. When you’re away from the city lights and the hustle and bustle, you really realize how alone it can feel. No wonder half the town either disappears to Mexico or Hawaii.”

  Oh god. I’m rambling.

  “I actually like the gloom,” Eddie says. “Monica here is the sun bunny.”

  “That’s because you turn into a lobster in the sun,” she points out. “So, Piper, how long have you lived here?”

  “Five years. My mom and I moved so I could take a teaching position at one of the elementary schools.”

  “Aww.” She breaks into a wide grin. Holy girl crush activated, Batman. “Which grade?”

  “Second. Still sweet and innocent.”

  “That is so sweet. I would have loved to go into teaching if, well, you know, music didn’t happen. So your mother, does she still live with you?”

  People always tend to act funny when I tell them I live with my mother (though it’s more the other way around, but I digress), but Monica merely seems curious.

  “She does. She’s got some neurological issues, so she lives with me and I pretty much support her. My father skipped out when I was a teen, so I’m really all she has.”

  To her credit, Monica doesn’t look like she pities me. “That’s admirable,” she says. “I hope I can meet her soon.”

  I give her a polite smile, secretly hoping that never happens. My mother can be unpredictable, to say the least, and a situation like that might just set her back. She’s been doing good lately but still refuses to see a therapist, and her medication seems to work half the time (probably because she forgets to take it if I don’t remind her). Her whole life has been one step forward and two steps back.

  Agatha appears with a tray holding two glasses of white wine, which she hands to me and Eddie, and a plate of tiny slivers of cucumber sandwiches, which she places on the table.

  “If you’re hungry.” Monica gestures to it.

  I’m not at all, but I take a sandwich, just to be polite, even though it has cream cheese, which tends to turn my stomach upside down.

  “Well, it’s good to know that about the winters,” Monica says as I absently nibble on the sandwich sliver. “To be honest, I’m not sure how long we’ll actually be here for. That’s why we’re renting. We’re just kind of . . . figuring things out as we go along. We thought this island would be a good place to do that. Compared to back at home, the media so far has left us alone.”

  “You say that,” I tell her, “but I’ve been in town, and people are losing their minds about this.”

  “In a good way or a bad way?” she asks, frowning. I probably should keep things positive, so I’m not sure why I’m telling them this.

  I shrug. “The locals here can be . . . fussy. It’s a big island, but it’s a pretty odd, tight-knit community that tends to keep to themselves. I’ve been told it’s because no one lasts very long here for one reason or another, so locals don’t want to get attached. It can be . . . challenging making friends with people who gel with you. But I’m sure you’ll have no problem. You know, if that’s what you want.”

  “To be honest . . . ,” she says, looking like she’s trying to find the right words. She and Eddie exchange a glance. “We’re okay with that. Not only because we’re not sure if we’re here for long, but because we really just need a break. We just want it to be the two of us. We’ve been shared with the public for so long, especially Eddie . . .”

  “I totally understand,” I tell them. “And I’ll do whatever I can to help keep it that way. I’ll protect your privacy. If you need someone to run errands or help out in some way, I can do it. I have summer off anyway.”

  “Oh, we could never expect that of you,” Moni
ca says, leaning forward and placing her hand on my knee for a second. “We have plenty of help here.”

  “Though it wouldn’t hurt to get to know some of the island,” Eddie says. “Through the eyes of someone who lives here. I know that what we crave is a step back from the limelight and some privacy, but I also know my wife, and she’s going to get cabin fever pretty soon. Being locked up in here with me isn’t as fun as it sounds.”

  Monica laughs, and from the way they’re gazing at each other, it’s apparent how in love and in sync these two are. I wish I could write something up about them or do another podcast, just to prove to all those tabloids and nobodies on Twitter who keep insisting that it’s all a sham, that she’s using him, that he’s whipped or whatever misogynistic bullshit they keep spouting, that they are so far off the mark, it’s not even funny.

  Of course, being a good neighbor means keeping my mouth shut, as hard as that’s going to be.

  “The offer stands, anytime,” I insist. “Anything you need, I would be happy to help.”

  “Well, thank you,” Monica says. “You’re too kind.”

  Harrison suddenly clears his throat, bringing our attention over to him. “There’s still the matter of the NDA.”

  “Of course,” Monica says quietly. She gives me a sheepish look. “Honestly, I hate that we have to even bring this up. I know things are going to be strange for you, especially once the media figures out where we are . . . hopefully not before the fence goes up. And really, there’s no pressure for you to sign it. It would just make us feel a lot better.”

  “I get it,” I tell her. With her asking me directly, it makes it an easy decision. Better than Harrison, anyway.

  Harrison disappears into another part of the house, and then as I finish my glass of wine, Eddie asks me a few questions about outdoor activities, the best restaurants, that sort of thing. And even though I haven’t for a moment forgotten who I’m talking to (a bloody prince of England!), the two of them have such an easy, zen way about them that it feels a little like talking to old friends.

  Soon the sun is low in the sky, turning the water into gleaming gold, and Harrison produces the documents, placing them on the coffee table.

  There’s a lot of paper, and I do my best to read through each one. I don’t think I need a lawyer to review anything, it seems pretty standard (I mean, I’m guessing, because I’ve never had to sign one of these before), although I do notice there’s a little part about the fence and the gate, and I have to sign that I have no objections to either on my own property line.

  When I’ve reached the end, I’m surprised to see another set of papers at the bottom.

  “It’s for your mother,” Monica says. “I’m sure we’ll be running into her eventually. Again, no pressure at all.”

  I just take the papers and smile politely, sensing that my time here is wrapping up. I’m not sure how much of this visit was to get to know me and how much was to make sure I’m not a loon. I think I may have seemed normal, but in the end, I still signed the papers. “Well, thank you so much for having me over. It’s a beautiful place. Oh, and for the wine and food.”

  I get to my feet, and Monica does the same, her hands clasped together at her middle, as if she’s not sure what to do with them. “Thank you so much for coming over. We promise we’ll do our best to keep things normal around here.”

  “I’ll show Ms. Evans out,” Harrison says, walking toward the landing, as if he expects me to follow. And after I nod my thanks again to Eddie and Monica, my mother’s papers firmly in hand, I walk right behind him, somehow used to him being my escort.

  He opens the front door for me like a gentleman at least, slipping his sunglasses back. As we walk down the driveway, he’s not talking, and I don’t even do my nervous blabbering.

  I’m about to say, “They seem really nice,” when suddenly the sound of a drill blasts through the air. We round the corner of the driveway, and down at the bottom, where all the flatbeds are parked, there are at least a dozen construction workers, all carrying two-by-fours and digging a fence line.

  “What the hell?” I say. “That was fast! How did they know?”

  “I texted them the moment you signed the papers,” Harrison says, nodding a greeting to one of the workers before we turn into my driveway. “The duke and duchess are used to efficiency.”

  “I think you’re used to efficiency,” I tell him, walking in step beside him. “They actually seem pretty chill and normal.” I mumble under my breath, “Can’t say the same about you.”

  When he doesn’t say anything to that, I stop, which in turn makes him stop.

  “So is this the end of this?” I ask him. He frowns in response, so I go on. “Your around-the-clock surveillance of me?”

  “We’ve been here less than twenty-four hours,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. His very wide, very manly chest. “I hardly call that around-the-clock.”

  “I guess I’m concerned this will be a constant thing.”

  “You signed the papers,” he says. “And once your mother signs hers, I’ll lay off.”

  “Oh, so now you’re admitting that you’re being a bit much.”

  “I’m not being a bit much. I’m doing my job.”

  “You’re walking me home. You’re not doing that because you’re a gentleman.”

  His frown deepens, and he raises his chin. I think that remark may have gotten to him. “As I said, it’s my job to protect them.”

  “Seems like you do a lot more than just protect them. I saw your pal out there on the boat earlier. I know there are men up in the trees.”

  I glance up to make a point, then gasp loudly when I notice a hand waving to me from high up in a Douglas fir. I can’t remember if that’s Isaac or Giles.

  But it doesn’t matter which tree man it is. I continue. “Who knows how many other security officers are about. The point is, I think you’re more like their manager than anything else.”

  He stares at me for a moment, giving me plenty of time to focus on my reflection in his sunglasses. My hair is a bit ratty, and I wish I could have been wearing something a little nicer to meet the royals for the first time.

  Finally, he says, “I’m whatever the duke and duchess need me to be. Maybe in your world you’ve just got your teaching, with some Tic Tac–eating tendencies thrown in there, and that’s it, but in mine, it’s possible to wear multiple hats at once.”

  Did he just try to insinuate that I have nothing going on in my life other than my job? “Hey, I wear many hats too,” I tell him, unable to keep the bite out of my voice. “Maybe to you I’m just some island hick schoolteacher, but I take care of my mother when no one else will. I provide for her, I keep this house going, I’ve sacrificed a hell of a lot in order to stay with her and make sure she’s okay. I’m a teacher, and I’m a caregiver. And I’m a daughter. And I have interests and hobbies and a rich inner world that you don’t know anything about. So don’t try to paint me into a box, because I don’t fit in one.”

  My heart is pounding from all that, making me feel both alive and a little sick. I can’t believe I just let that all out there like that.

  Harrison continues to stare at me, then swallows. “I won’t paint you into a box if you don’t paint me into a box,” he says, his voice low and gruff, the kind of voice that would send shivers up my spine under any other circumstances.

  And he’s got a point. I can dish it out, but I can’t take it. Apparently that was a sore spot for me.

  “Okay,” I tell him, my pulse still wild in my neck. “Do you trust me enough to let me go, or do you have to walk me to the door?”

  He tilts his head for a moment and then nods. “I trust you. Good night, Ms. Evans.”

  He then turns on his heel and marches away, disappearing around the bend.

  Six

  “Can you pass me the sage?” my mother a
sks, wrist-deep in sticky dough.

  I grab the sachet of herbs she’d been drying on the deck all week and sprinkle some of it out on the counter for her.

  She takes a pinch and throws it into the mixing bowl, continuing to knead, her brow furrowed in concentration.

  Baking is a new hobby for my mother, but it’s something I wholeheartedly support. She’s not the best at it yet (and neither am I, so I’m not judging), but it’s edible, and it seems to really calm her down and give her something to focus on. She tends to start to follow a recipe before then throwing it out the window, choosing to get creative with flavors, herbs, and spices.

  Today she’s decided to do focaccia for the first time, and while I think she probably should nail down a simple bread recipe first, I’m interested in seeing where this goes.

  “Can you get the buttermilk out of the fridge?” she asks me, really beating down the dough.

  I pause. I’m not sure buttermilk belongs in this recipe.

  “And the raisins,” she adds.

  More pausing.

  But I get her the tiny container of buttermilk and a packet of raisins and let her have at it. Can’t be worse than the savory carrot cake she made the day before.

  It’s been four days since the royals moved in next door, and my mother hasn’t left the house once. Normally I’d be encouraging her to take a walk and get some fresh air, but this is for the best. The fence and gate are already up (I got a note on our door on royal stationery, giving us the passcode; I suppose that Harrison got the hint and is trying to put some distance between us), and a couple of media vans have already parked outside on the cul-de-sac. I’ve only gone out once for groceries, and that was enough to make me never want to leave again. Some reporter leaped out of the van and was practically chasing me. The Garbage Pail couldn’t move fast enough.

  The last thing I want is for my mother to go through that, though I know I can’t avoid it forever. Just as I can’t avoid giving her the papers to sign. There just doesn’t seem to be a good time to tell her that the carefully crafted world she’s buried herself in is becoming unearthed in a major way.