The Royals Next Door by Karina Halle
Three
“So, new neighbor, huh?” my mother asks from the kitchen while I take off my boots in the hallway.
I slide on my sheepskin slippers (step one of decompressing from work) and pad on into the kitchen, where she’s sorting out packets of herbs that she dried herself and sprinkling them into a diffuser that fits over her giant teapot.
The kitchen is a total mess—mint and lavender scattered everywhere, unwashed dishes, leftover coffee grinds, oat milk spills—but it barely registers. Once upon a time, I would have lost my temper, which in turn would have made my mother lose her temper, so now I just let it get worse and worse and then after she goes to bed tonight, I’ll clean everything so that she can destroy it again tomorrow.
I know that sounds really callous of me, but ever since my father left us, back when I was fourteen, my mother has become my dependent. Dependent personality disorder is exactly that; when you combine it with borderline personality disorder, it means that I’m really the only person she has to keep her in line. She’s not a fan of doctors, she hates that she has to take medication (I’m here to make sure she does), I’m an only child, and my father has a new family out in Toronto (we’re friendly and talk a couple of times a month, but he doesn’t offer any help), so it all falls on me.
I’m used to it. Doesn’t mean I like it, doesn’t mean that while I provide care for my mother when she needs it, I’m not emotionally disconnected at the same time. I have to be, for my own sanity. It’s taken me years of therapy to finally come to terms with my own issues and the coping skills I developed during my childhood and distance myself from them. Avoiding conflict, always being a mediator, being attracted to emotionally unavailable men, becoming a doormat and doing whatever people want in order to keep the peace. Through my therapists (plural, because finding the right one for you takes a lot of trial and error . . . it’s like dating, but way more expensive), I learned that my coping strategies ensured my survival as a child and teenager, but as an adult, I’ve been learning to let them go.
Which I guess I’m doing an okay job of, because when I think back to my interactions with the pissy protection officer, people pleasing was the last thing on my mind, and I think I created more conflict than what was warranted.
(I should probably stop thinking about him; he’s making my blood boil all over again.)
“Want some tea?” my mother asks, grabbing two mugs from the cupboard. She always makes me a cup regardless of what I say.
“Sure,” I tell her, taking a seat at the kitchen island. “Where’s Liza?”
“Napping in the sun.”
Liza is my adopted pit bull, a short, gray, fat little hippo with the cutest face and laziest personality in the world. Her favorite place is the corner of the deck where one bare patch of trees lets the light in.
My mother named her after her obsession with Liza Minnelli, and she makes a really good companion/emotional support animal for her. Liza was rescued when she was a year old after being abused, and yet she’s come full circle and really helped all of us heal just as she was healing.
“Back to the neighbor,” she says to me, fixing her eyes on me. Despite the messy hair and the fact that she’s in her pajamas, she seems to be doing okay today. “When did he move in? I haven’t seen any moving trucks.”
“When was the last time you left the house?”
She shrugs. “Yesterday I took Liza to the ferry terminal and back. Didn’t see anything unusual.”
“Well, technically he’s looking to rent the place. Nothing has been finalized.”
“Does he have a wife?”
“No,” I tell her, even though now I’m thinking back to whether Harrison had a ring on. I mean, he could have a wife, but for this version of the story, he won’t.
“You sure?” She squints at me. “I know that’s your favorite type.”
I give her a stiff smile. Even though she’s just being blunt and isn’t trying to be mean, it always feels like a punch to the gut when she brings up my past mistakes, and I’ve made some pretty major ones.
“He’s not married,” I repeat.
“But you were grabbing on to him like he and you were together. So that’s something.” She tilts her head, studying me. “I don’t mean to be a nag, Piper, but you were so proud of those revelations you had during therapy with Dr. Edgar.”
“I’m still proud of them. And I’m not interested in this guy.”
“Harrison Cole,” she says.
“Yes. I was just being nice.”
Come to think of it, there really had been no reason for me to hang on to him like I had. I don’t know what I was thinking or what I was doing.
“So he doesn’t have a wife—does he have kids?”
“Uh, no.”
She turns her back to me as she mulls that over, checking on the teapot. “No wife, no kids. How is he going to afford that place? Doesn’t it belong to the Hearsts? What does he do for a job?”
“I’m not sure,” I tell her, and that turns out to be the wrong answer, because I see her shoulders stiffen and she slowly turns around to look at me with wide eyes.
“You don’t know what he does? Piper . . . he could be a drug dealer. A mobster. A criminal. How else would he afford that place?”
Uh-oh.
“He’s probably a lawyer,” I point out. “A successful one. Maybe a film producer. Perhaps he’s related to royalty . . .”
She shakes her head, and I know she’s not going to let go of whatever paranoid theory her brain conspires. “You can’t trust lawyers either.”
“How about next time I see him, I’ll ask him?” I say, hoping to soothe her. “Who knows, he may not even move in.”
That thought gives her pause. “I hope not. I don’t like strangers.”
“I know you don’t. It’ll be fine, I promise.”
And there I go, trying to be the mediator, trying to promise things that I have no control over. It’s hard to rise out of your old roles in life when you’re still so tied to your parents.
After she makes me some tea, I head out to the dock and sit there, taking in the peace and quiet and the soft summer air and the waning sunshine. A seal pops his head up in the water, his big dark eyes taking me in before he ducks under. A bald eagle soars overhead, heading for the group of nests by the marina farther down the narrow isthmus of Long Harbour.
This is the best part of living here, being one with nature, having time to de-stress and breathe in the fresh salty air and the breezes that rattle through the arbutus leaves and the smell of sunbaked moss.
If the royals end up moving next door, there’s a chance that all of this could change. I’m not a huge fan of change; I like my routine, as do a lot of people on the island. Bert wasn’t too far off when he said this might not be the best place for any kind of celebrity, especially a royal couple who have created headlines for two years straight and are now the hot topic of all media.
They could throw all the peace and serenity of the place into a tizzy. If they move next door, the paparazzi from the US and the UK will quickly find out, and they’ll be camped out here day and night. I won’t be able to sit on this dock without photographers on boats and Jet Skis flying past, disrupting the tranquility.
Most of all, someone like my mother, who can’t handle any change at all, will likely have a breakdown at the intrusion, thrusting her into the public eye.
It could all get very messy, very fast.
And I’m not even allowed to talk to anyone about it. Not that I have any close friends, but even so, this is a hard thing to keep to myself.
Unless . . .
After I’m done with my tea, I head back into the house, where I whip up a quick casserole for dinner, and then I’m in my bedroom, ready for my weekly podcast.
I usually record an episode during the week and then I publish it on Fridays. Tonight is a recording day, but suddenly, reviewing historical romance is the last thing I want to do.
I’m inspired. I want to talk about the royals.
My romance podcast—Romancing the Podcast—is quite popular, but I run it anonymously. Any social media I have is linked to the podcast, and it has its own email address for questions or review requests from authors. Most of the time, though, I just read the books I want to read. Less pressure that way.
It’s not that I’m ashamed of reading romance either; I’m pretty proud and vocal about it in my real life. But being a schoolteacher, I think we’re held to different standards, and I don’t want to feel censored on what I can and can’t talk about. If I want to read out a graphic sex scene, I want to be able to do that without fear that the public will find out and chastise me. In the worst-case scenario, I could lose my job over it. There are a lot of uptight fuddy-duddies on this island.
But tonight, I don’t want to talk about books. I want to talk about real-life romance. I want to talk about Monica and Eddie and what direction their love story could go now that they’ve chosen that love over the duties of being royals.
I sit down at my desk, open my laptop, and pull out my microphone.
Press record.
“Hello, my fellow romance enthusiasts, lovers of love, readers of smut, and proud bibliophiles. Welcome to another episode of Romancing the Podcast.” I take in a deep breath and smile. “Normally I would jump right in to this week’s review, but lately I’ve been thinking about the Duke and Duchess of Fairfax. We’re all familiar with the epic love story of Monica Red and Prince Eddie. We’ve watched as this very unlikely pair fell in love after Prince Eddie requested to meet Monica backstage at her London show. Their coupling was quick, and yet the public knew nothing about their affair until months later, when it was apparent the Grammy Award winner would be leaving show business behind to concentrate on her life with our tall, blond hero.
“Soon, wedding bells were in the air, and all of us—or almost all of us—fell for these two in the case of opposites attracting. Quiet, stoic Edward and the opinionated, fun-loving Monica became the couple of the century, flipping years of tradition and the royal family on its head.
“But even happily-ever-afters have bumps in the road, and as the media senselessly attacked the couple, with some reports of animosity coming directly from inside the royal palace, they bravely took a stand and said they were going to do things their own way. They were going to move on and make a new life for themselves as the Duke and Duchess of Fairfax. Now one can only wonder, what exactly does the future hold for these two? I, being a hopeless romantic, even though my love life has been anything but charming, can’t help but root for their new chance at a happily-ever-after. But will their quest for privacy and anonymity ever become a reality? Is there such a thing as an HEA if the happy part isn’t guaranteed? Come on, romance lovers, let’s discuss.”
