What’s a girl gotta do to get her husband from Luxembourg to Middle Valley via Greece, Cannes, Nice, New York, and Syracuse?
Apparently, ship the yacht.
That’s right, friends. How do you get your royal husband to the shores of our mighty Chickotee and in sight of his incapacitated mother-in-law (who just lost her house, but I digress)?
Throw money at the problem – $35,000 to be exact.
“He’s on his way, Mother.”
“Swell, dear, just swell. Now, can you get me another cosmo before I turn into a relic?”
The sun had just come up, and though Bitsy was her first name, itsy bitsy, I came to learn, was no longer an apt description of my mother as I’d been helping her in and out of the shower in her … ahem, time of need.
What she needed was her own reality show.
Most here knew her as “Madam,” which I always found beyond amusing, like she ran a brothel or something. I’m deathly curious as to how all that came about, because my mother was never that interesting. Six months into her time at the Golden Pillar … you’d think she’d have found housing by now. But who can argue with a concierge and an in-suite hot tub?
She drew a card from the pile in front of her on the sidetable. Our gin rummy games extended on for days with stops here and there, to deal a new hand, to freshen a drink, sometimes to call room service and eat. I hadn’t worked much in recent days, and vaguely remember leaving my desk a bloody mess, though my professional self had grown more and more curious about the situation with Mick and the various body parts washing up on the shore.
That sheriff certainly didn’t have things in control.
“Mother,” I said, handing her the cocktail. “Don’t you think it’s a little early?”
She sipped hungrily, then shook her head. “Frankly, my dear, I don’t ….”
I held up my hand. “MOTHER. STOP.”
She grinned. “When does Prince Lindholm Ludwig Vincent Fryer, second cousin to the Royal Family of Liechtenstein, arrive?”
She liked saying his full name. It made me want to swat her like a fly.
“His name is Lindy, Mother.”
“Fine.” She returned her gaze to her cocktail, fiddling with the maraschino cherry I decided was appropriate. “Lindy. My Lord … My real question, though, is what does a prince from a land-locked country want with a 78-foot yacht? I mean, he must have a staff of 12, and all the expense …”
“He wants to travel, Mother, take me places … he doesn’t want to be stuck, and my greatest fear, dear, sweet mother of mine, is that we’re going to be land-locked here for entirely too long.”
Mother smirked again into her drink, sipping slowly this time. The alcohol had already gotten to her head, it seemed. “No one’s forcing you,” she said, almost singing the words. “In fact, some would say you weren’t invited in the first place.”
And then with the passive-aggressive. She had begged me to come home! Losing the house, she said, was a scar that would never heal, a stabbing pain that stayed with her day in and day out, a loss so great it was like an intestine had dropped to the floor.
“Mother, I’m not playing today … you said you were lost, you said you needed company. Clearly no one here” – I gestured toward River Road – “was stepping up.”
Mother’s eyes looked toward the window overlooking the river bank and inhaled deeply. She shook her head.
“You’re right,” Mother said. “I’m sorry, tell me again when … um, Lindy … gets here? I’d like to surprise him with dinner.”
I discarded an Ace and laid out my cards. “Gin,” I said. “He’ll be here at 9 tonight. My deal.”
Gunnar Olafsson