The Royals Next Door Page 7

  “I really think the savory quality of the sage will help bring out the sweetness in the raisins,” she says to me, giving me a quick smile. I know from the look in her eyes and the way she’s moving with a lot more gusto that she’s swinging to the upside of her mood. Dealing with someone with BPD means erratic personality changes, far beyond what most people think of as bipolar or manic-depressive. Today she’s been in a good mood, high energy, but I know her well enough to know that she’s going to burn out soon. All I can do is be ready for it and try to encourage her as well as I can to stay in the moment.

  “I’m sure it will taste great,” I tell her genuinely. Sometimes when I try to placate her, she’s quick to call me out on it (she picks up on emotions like you wouldn’t believe) and it will often make things worse, sending her into a spiral. But right now she seems to believe me.

  And then there’s a knock at the door.

  Shit.

  She pauses and stares at me with big eyes. “Who could that be?”

  “I’m not sure,” I tell her, walking around the kitchen island toward the door. My mom is already rattled, and I have a feeling I know who it is, since we now have a buzzer at the front gate that no one has rung yet.

  “Maybe it’s that handsome neighbor,” she says after me. “The one that looks like one of your mistakes.”

  I don’t say anything, because it probably is Harrison, wanting those papers signed, though I would argue that none of my exes ever looked the way Harrison does.

  I take in a deep breath and open the door.

  It’s Monica, dressed in a floral sundress and ballet shoes, holding a bouquet of pale cream roses. Behind her is Harrison, same as always.

  “Hi, Piper,” Monica says, giving me an apologetic smile. “Sorry for barging over like this. I realized we didn’t have your phone number.”

  I take a moment to revel in this moment. It doesn’t matter that I was just with her at her house the other night, the fact that an honest-to-god princess is at my door doesn’t fail to shock me.

  “Who is it?” my mother asks warily from behind me.

  And I’m not quick enough to close the door.

  I look over my shoulder to see my mother peering at Monica and Harrison suspiciously.

  This probably won’t go well.

  “It’s the new neighbors,” I tell her brightly. “This is Monica.”

  “How do you do?” Monica says, coming forward toward my mom, her hand extended. “I brought you flowers.”

  My mother stares at her, at the flowers, at her hand, then back to her face again.

  My mother squints her eyes and then wipes her dough-covered hand on her apron in a rough manner, before shaking Monica’s hand.

  Oh god!

  But Monica takes the doughy hand in stride and gives her a hearty shake.

  “Thank you . . . ,” my mother says to her, releasing her grip as Monica hands her the roses. Then my mother looks over at Harrison. “And you, you’re back.”

  Harrison just nods.

  “I didn’t want to intrude,” Monica explains. “I had met your daughter the other day and thought it would be nice to get to know you too.”

  Now my mother is giving me the full-on stink eye. She looks like she’s seconds from blowing up. She hates not knowing things, and she’s going to take this as a betrayal.

  “I thought I would just drop by,” Monica goes on, and it’s apparent from her expression that she’s worried this isn’t going over well. “Eddie is in a meeting, well, a virtual meeting, with his advisors back home and—”

  “Who is Eddie?” my mother asks, and oh wow, she really doesn’t recognize Monica at all.

  “Eddie is my husband,” Monica says, not rebuffed in the slightest. “We only moved in next door a few days ago.”

  “Then who the hell is this guy?” my mom asks, jerking her chin at Harrison.

  “He’s our PPO, personal protection officer. Don’t worry, his bark is worse than his bite.”

  And that’s when it all seems to come together for my mother. She looks at Monica, looks at Harrison, looks back to Monica, and then finally to me, her brows raised.

  “This isn’t . . . They aren’t . . . ,” she says, pointing at Monica.

  “Mom,” I tell her calmly, putting my hand over her accusatory finger and lowering it, “this is Monica, the Duchess of Fairfax. She and her husband, Prince Eddie, have moved in next door to us.”

  My mom goes silent. Mouth clamped shut. This could go so many ways. She feels things so deeply that if she feels blindsided or rattled at all, she might explode in an angry rage, the kind of anger I’ve seen consume her countless times before.

  I have no idea what’s going to happen next.

  Then she lets out a huff of air, like she was holding her breath too, then breaks into the biggest smile, clapping her hands together.

  “I can’t believe it!” she cries out. “I heard on the news you were in the area, but I never thought you would move next door to us!” She reaches out and smacks me playfully (and hard) across the arm. “Piper! Why didn’t you tell me? This is amazing.” She gestures to the house. “Please, please come in.”

  Oh no.

  “It’s quite all right, I don’t want to be a bother,” Monica says, shaking her head, but I know she’s doomed. My mother won’t stop.

  “I insist, I insist,” my mother says, and then she reaches down and grabs Monica by the elbow and pulls her up the stairs, leading her inside.

  Harrison immediately springs into action, but I manage to step in front of him, putting out my hands. “It’s okay. She’s a lot to handle, but she’s okay.”

  He doesn’t seem to listen, instead brushing past my hands and following Monica and my mother inside.

  I exhale, pushing my fingertips at my temples in a futile attempt to steady myself, then follow them all inside.

  My mother is at the sink, washing her hands, while Monica is crouched down in the hallway, getting sloppy kisses from a very happy, wriggly Liza.

  “Oh, she’s adorable,” Monica says, even as Liza attempts to jump up on her.

  “Liza, get down,” I tell her, coming over and grabbing Liza by the collar and trying to haul her away. “I’m so sorry, she doesn’t realize who you are.”

  Monica laughs, still petting her. “I rather like that. Now I know it’s genuine.”

  Liza continues to lick her, then turns her attention on me. Then notices Harrison lurking in the corner of the living room.

  The hair on Liza’s back raises, and I can tell she’s ready to bark.

  “Shhh,” I tell her, whispering in a soothing voice. “It’s okay, Liza. That’s just Harrison. He looks creepy and constipated, but as the duchess said, his bark is apparently worse than his bite.”

  “Constipated?” Harrison repeats, his brows raised.

  I quickly look at Monica, knowing that I just insulted her PPO, but she’s biting back a smile.

  “Okay, I’m ready now,” my mom announces, coming over to us. “How about a tour?”

  “Mom, this is the tour,” I say, letting go of Liza and straightening up. I gesture to the house. “This is it.”

  “Nonsense,” my mother says, and she walks over to the sliding doors to the deck, beckoning for Monica to follow. “Come see our deck.”

  Monica obliges, stepping out onto the shady deck covered in pine needles, the deck with no view. Liza runs after them.

  I stay put, leaning back against the kitchen island, trying to ignore the mess behind me. I didn’t really notice until now, but there is flour absolutely everywhere, like the bag exploded. Broken eggs, herbs, and spilled salt are scattered along the counter.

  You know how when people really tidy their house, people joke about the Queen coming to visit? Well, we have an actual duchess in our house, and it looks like a disaster zon
e.

  I sigh at the mess and turn back around to see Harrison still standing in the corner. “I’m surprised you’re not running out to the deck to make sure Monica doesn’t get a splinter or something.”

  He grunts. Like a caveman in a suit. Then comes walking over to me.

  I stiffen, wondering if I’ve taken things too far, though I can’t imagine what he’d do. Can he arrest me for being a pain in the ass? Can he arrest anyone? And why can’t he wear his sunglasses inside? His eyes are far too distracting.

  He stops a foot away, close enough for me to smell that woodsy, fresh cologne of his, the kind of cologne that makes my stomach do a curious flip, then looks over my shoulder at the kitchen. “What’s happening in here?”

  “My mother’s attempt at baking,” I tell him.

  “She any good?”

  I don’t want to throw my mom under the bus. “Sure is.” I pause. “For a beginner.”

  He nods, and to my surprise, he walks past me over to the counter where the baking science experiment is. “What is she making?” he asks as he peers into a bowl. “Scones?”

  “Focaccia bread.” I walk over to him, my arms crossed and already defensive.

  He cocks an eyebrow, his forehead wrinkling. “I see.” He looks over at the buttermilk. “I hope she didn’t put that in there.”

  “Why? Maybe it’s her secret ingredient.”

  “It’ll make the dough too wet. She should be using honey if she needs a bit of sweetness. Has she added the yeast yet?”

  I stare at him. “Since when do you know anything about baking?”

  He gives me a wry look. “Let’s not repeat our little argument from the other day about being able to wear many hats.”

  “So you’re a bodyguard, a royal consultant, and a baker?”

  He gives me a small smile. “It’s just something I used to have an interest in.”

  I look him up and down, my eyes coasting over his well-suited, mammoth frame. “You don’t look like you’d have baking as a hobby.”

  “I’m sure this is no surprise to you, but looks can be deceiving, can’t they?”

  “Oh dear!” my mother cries out from behind me. I turn to see her, Monica, and Liza stepping back into the house. My mother comes over, flapping her hands anxiously.

  “It’s such a mess, I’m so sorry,” she says.

  “It’s quite all right,” Harrison tells her. “I was just curious about your baking process here. Seems very creative.”

  Thankfully, to Harrison’s credit, his voice is warm and genuine.

  “Oh,” my mother says, blushing. “Well, I’m just trying new things. I like to keep busy, you know, new hobbies. Last month it was crochet, I made a sweater—want to see?”

  “Mom,” I warn her, but it’s too late and she’s scurrying off to her bedroom.

  “Sorry,” I apologize. “Once she gets her mind set on something . . .” I look at Monica. “And sorry about the tour.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about, Piper,” she says. “Your mother is delightful. Actually, the reason I came over was to invite you both to dinner tomorrow night. If you’re free. And want to, of course.”

  I blink at her. Even after all this she’s inviting us to dinner?

  I glance at Harrison, but he merely nods.

  “Well, yeah. Of course. We would love to,” I tell her, trying to keep my enthusiasm at an acceptable level.

  “Great,” Monica says, and then takes her cell phone out of her pocket. “Can we exchange numbers? Might be easier than me having to show up at your door. And vice versa of course.”

  Unless I felt like being attacked by one of her tree guards.

  Regardless, I can’t believe she wants to exchange numbers with me. I tell her my phone number, and she quickly sends a text. My phone beeps from the living room table.

  “And now you have mine,” she says with a bright smile.

  “I found it!” my mother cries out, carrying what looks to be a heap of dark green material. “I made a sweater.”

  My mother is slightly overweight and on the short side, and when she unravels the sweater and holds it up, the arms and shoulders are way too broad for her. “Here,” she says to Harrison, pushing the sweater into his hands. “You take it. It will fit you.”

  “Uh,” he says, totally caught off guard. “I can’t accept this.”

  He tries to give it back, but my mother pushes it away. “I insist! You’re a new neighbor too; this is my gift to you.” She looks over at Monica. “How about I bake you something for tomorrow? Don’t get any dessert, it’s on me.”

  “Mom,” I whine under my breath. “Please.”

  “Oh, it’s no bother, Piper,” she says. She blinks at Harrison. “You’re taking the sweater, right?”

  Harrison shoots Monica a quick glance. An impish smile plays on her lips, and she gives him a faint nod.

  “Of course,” Harrison says, folding the sweater under his arm. “I’m honored to accept this gift.”

  “Good, good,” my mother says, clapping her hands together. She’s positively manic right now. “Oh, can I make you tea? I make my own teas. All kinds, all from my garden.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Monica says. “We actually have to head back. I’m wanted on the back end of that meeting.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Mom . . .”

  “Sorry again to intrude like this,” Monica says, heading to the door along with Harrison. “But I’m so glad we were finally able to come over and meet you. I look forward to dinner tomorrow.”

  She gives me a wave goodbye, and I can only smile back, all of this feeling like I’m stuck in a whirlwind.

  “Oh, me too,” my mother says, walking after her, Liza on her heels. She pauses at the door and watches as they walk off. “Have a good day, Princess!”

  She closes the door, and I’m already shaking my head.

  “She’s a duchess, Mom, not a princess.” Even though I’ve been calling her a princess in my head.

  “Oh whatever, it’s all the same,” she says, turning to me with a huge grin, her eyes as wide as saucers. “Piper. Piper, can you believe it? I can’t believe it. Oh, I haven’t been this excited about anything in years.”

  I shouldn’t feel slighted by that, but I do. “Not even my wedding?”

  She waves her hands at me dismissively. “No, no. We all knew that was going to end in heartache. That Joey is a rat bastard.”

  The mention of Joey makes me stall, old pent-up feelings flooding me like a raging torrent that I’m unable to keep back. “Oh, you knew, did you?” I know I should keep my mouth shut and stop myself from spiraling like this in front of my mother, especially when I know it won’t go anywhere good. But I can’t help myself. “Did you know he was going to cheat on me the night of his bachelor party? Did you know I’d leave him at the altar? You knew all that?”

  She gives me a pleading look. “Please, Piper, let’s not rehash this now. What’s done is done. You didn’t marry him, and it was for the best. Focus on the positive. We have royals for neighbors. We’re going over to their house tomorrow for dinner. Oh my god, I have to figure out how to make a cake!”

  At that she whirls back into the kitchen and starts making a mess of things. Meanwhile, my own heart is feeling a bit of a mess, so I go out onto the deck and stare at the trees, glimpses of the ocean and the light breeze managing to come through.

  I really shouldn’t dwell on my past, not now of all times. But I guess I can’t help but feel it’s all tying together. The duke and duchess are my neighbors now, they have my phone number and I have theirs, I’ve been invited over for dinner, but the truth is, I’m nowhere near being worthy of any of this. All it took was one little reminder of my past to bring me down into an unworthy shame spiral, something I thought I’d gotten better at avoiding, bu
t I suppose not. I’m pretty much, as Harrison said, a Tic Tac–popping schoolteacher. One who had to leave her fiancé at the altar in front of the whole damn town. I’m in no way prepared to be hanging out with royal company.

  And yet you are, I tell myself. And they don’t need to know all the gritty bits about you. Even if Monica is just being nice for the sake of being nice, this is still happening to you.

  I know when that positive inner voice pops up, it’s all because of the work I’ve done with my therapists. I’ve also learned to embrace that voice instead of pushing it away, instead of thinking I’m not deserving of it.

  So I listen. I straighten up my shoulders, walk back into the house, and prepare to help my mom with this cake for tomorrow.

  Seven

  The next day I wake up earlier than usual, needing a walk to clear my head.

  I slip on my leggings and a hoodie, since it can sometimes be chilly in the mornings near the water, and head out of my bedroom.

  Liza sleeps with my mom most nights, and the door is open, my mom snoring like a rusty chainsaw. She crashed pretty early last night, after we played around with a few cake recipes (all of them looking like a Pinterest fail, but hey), and I hope that her energy carries through today. I wouldn’t be at all surprised, though, if she backed out of the dinner—and the cake—at the last minute.

  I pick up Liza’s leash, and that’s all she needs to come running out of the room, her tail going Mach 5. We head out of the house, enjoying the quiet of the morning, peppered with lapping waves and the calls of Gary birds (not their actual name, but it sounds like they’re constantly yelling for Gary).

  The serenity is ruined the moment I step through the new pedestrian gate.

  “Who is that?!”

  “It’s their dog walker!”

  “It’s the help!”

  The cul-de-sac is filled with cars and news vans, and to be honest, it looks a bit like a campsite. There are fold-out chairs, collapsible tables with checkered plastic tablecloths, propane stoves, and barbecues. Seconds earlier, the reporters and camerapeople had been hovered around a giant French press, pouring coffee into tin mugs and paper cups.