“Come,” he said, signaling the waiter over.
Before I knew it, we were sharing a booth with Prince Philip and a real-life princess. I’d never felt more unsophisticated and out of place in my life.
Meghan, which I learned was the blonde’s name, was as enchanting as she was lovely. I didn’t usually refer to other women as lovely, but the whole English influence had me transformed into somebody new. Meghan spoke in the same proper accent as Philip, and I imagined their history bound them in the faraway castles of London or Scotland. The image caused a laugh to escape, and Philip’s eyes questioned me while Daniel’s palm rested against my shoulder.
“You didn’t tell me it was your mum’s birthday,” Philip said.
Meghan was warm and jovial, with glittery blue eyes that appraised me in a way that didn’t feel intrusive. She ensnared my mother in a conversation about her broach, a family heirloom, and when Daniel asked how Philip and I knew each other, Meghan blurted out, “They met on United.”
Daniel took his arm back. “Is that a dating site?”
I felt sorry for Daniel, but not nearly as sorry for what I was about to do. The relationship wasn’t working. It would never work. Not with men like Philip around, emphasizing what I needed most. But why didn’t Meghan seem to notice? And had my mother had too much to drink?
Philip seemed genuinely concerned about Daniel. “It was the airlines, my dear boy. United Airlines. We met on the tarmac, in Miami.” Daniel’s arm came around me again, though I felt my body shifting away.
Meghan raised a glass of wine to her lips and slowly sipped.
“I heard my brother almost got kicked off the flight.”
This got my attention. “Philip’s your brother?”
She tossed her hair. “Who else would he be?”
Philip laughed. “Americans like their competition, Meghan. Something about wanting what they can’t have.”
“What’s that?” my mother asked.
“It’s nothing,” I said, dropping my hand on hers.
His reminder of our conversation pricked my skin and bathed it in heat. There was no mistaking the pull between us. You read about it in books—the intangible rush of emotion that makes eye contact feel like fingertips, a subtle word a palm against your skin. Philip touched me even though there was a table between us.
Flustered, I rose from my seat and moved toward the bathroom. The restaurant was dark, and I stumbled.
“Charlotte?” my mother’s voice called from behind me.
I must’ve appeared shaky, because several patrons in the crowded restaurant turned to me with concern. When the door closed, I backed up against it and waited. I waited for my heart to start beating at a steady pace. I waited for my body to stop trembling.
Minutes later, Philip pushed through the door, and I didn’t stop him; his woodsy aroma filled the air.
We stared at each other as though our meeting here were the most natural thing in the world.
“You can’t be in here, Mr. Stafford.”
“Men’s room, women’s room. What’s the difference?” Then he turned serious. “I don’t understand why I’ve been thinking about you all day, Charlotte Miles.”
“Myers,” I corrected him. “It’s Myers.”
He didn’t seem to notice, or care, that he’d gotten my name wrong.
“You,” he said while pointing a finger in my direction, “you were one of the far more interesting conversations I’ve had with a woman in years.”
The compliment gave me pause.
“No response? You were ever so chatty on the plane . . . put Margaret right to sleep.”
I laughed. “You put her to sleep with all those drinks.”
“You know something? I knew I was going to see you again. You ever get that feeling from someone? Of course, I’d have found a way had destiny not intervened. You’re an interesting woman, Charlotte. I haven’t met many like you.”
His face was close enough to mine that I could feel his breath.
Then he kissed me. A gentle touch against my forehead that reminded me of years ago and being loved.
“Tell me, Charlotte, have you thought about me?” He was holding my cheeks in his velvety hands.
I shook my head and averted my eyes.
“Ah, I misstep.” He inched backward. “Shall I go?”
I was ashamed to say no. I wanted to stay there, with him, in that dimly lit bathroom that smelled of persimmon and copal soap. I wanted Daniel to suddenly remember he’d left a power tool running at Home Depot, and excuse himself to leave. I wanted to rewrite Stephanie Lippman’s thesis because maybe it was wrong. The heart knew what it wanted. It wasn’t complicated. It was pure and simple. This was simple.
I moved in closer.
He pressed the lock, and his eyes traced the black fabric along my shoulder. “Was this for him? Or were you thinking of me?”
I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, and he came around, catching my eyes. “You’re lovely, Charlotte.” He was lovely, too, but I couldn’t say that. He was something else. He wasn’t real. He was make-believe spinning wildly out of control. He was a presence that left me wordless—mute—something that rarely occurred. I felt dizzy. Unstable.
An urgent knocking broke the silence. “Charlotte!” It was Daniel. “Are you okay in there?”
Philip caressed my ear with his lips. “Tell him you’re all right, Charlotte.”
His blue eyes held mine. I couldn’t turn away. My voice quavered. I didn’t recognize the pitch. “Just a minute, Daniel. I’m fine.”
Then Philip kissed me again. He kissed me long and hard as if he might never see me again. He kissed me as though we hadn’t flown thousands of miles to reach this moment. He kissed me so deeply it began to hurt, but I didn’t stop him. Before long, he would slip away.
“We’re not done,” he said with a playful smile. “This. This is only the beginning.”
CHAPTER 5
July 2018, Present Day
Islamorada, Florida
It was late morning when I entered the lemon-colored clapboard beach house, shaking off the gravity of the last few hours. The frightened faces of the man and his son haunted me. They were in the bay windows that framed the deep-blue ocean; in the acid-washed concrete floors. The juxtaposition of old world against new—nature among the garish tones of the house—hurt my eyes. Philip prided himself on creating an eclectic home.
Sunny turned around, which he did when he wanted to be sure I was following. He obediently waited for his treat by the breezy white cabinet, his tail wagging against the matching island. I didn’t have to instruct him to sit, he was already on his hind legs with hopeful eyes.
The plastic bag crinkled in my hands, and Sunny’s mouth came down on my outstretched palm. I plopped down beside him, scooting against the cabinetry, and watched him gnaw the bone in his paws. Every so often he glanced in my direction. The chomping sounds of his jaws lured me to stay; worried eyes wondered if I was okay. He sensed these things. Most dogs did. He’d already watched me grieve for someone I loved, knowing to lick away my tears and bathe me in his love. What he didn’t know, and neither did Philip, was that the hole had been there long before we’d met. I bit back the memories and dropped my head against the cabinet.