At any rate, it was reported everywhere that Monica and Eddie were leaving the UK for a yearlong break for undisclosed reasons. A sabbatical of sorts. Some people thought they’d go to Seattle, to be near her parents. Others thought the ski resort town of Whistler, where the royal family spent winter vacations when Eddie and Daniel were young. Others yet thought India, where the couple often did charity work.
Never in a million years did I think they would pick this island in British Columbia, Canada, a small yet eccentric haven between Vancouver Island and the mainland.
Honestly, I still can’t believe it. None of this seems right.
“Are you sure?” I ask Cynthia. “Maybe it’s just an actor or something.” Our island is known for being the perfect hermit’s hideaway (and I can attest to that—if I didn’t have to work, I think I’d rarely leave the house). There are lots of known authors who toil away in their writing studios, and ex-musicians who sometimes play the local pub, and everyone from Barbra Streisand to Raffi has had a summer home here at some point.
“No, it’s Eddie and Monica,” Cynthia says adamantly. “Don’t believe me? Just walk to town and you’ll be swallowed up by the frenzy.”
She sounds breathless when she says “frenzy,” and there’s a feverish sheen to her eyes. Something tells me that Cynthia is absolutely loving this. Our quiet little town turned into a paparazzi-driven chaos? That sounds awful to me. I can’t even handle the crowds when summer holidays hit, and that’s two weeks from now.
“Okay. I guess I’ll just go home and hope I don’t run into any cops.”
“Nah, they’re all out trying to contain the madness.” She says this gleefully, tapping her fingertips together like Mr. Burns from The Simpsons.
We say goodbye, and I pick up the puke purse and take it down to the nurse’s office, where Judy is still tidying up (school nurse by day, restaurant server who never gets my order right at the Sitka Spruce Restaurant by night). She doesn’t even bat an eyeball at it and says she’ll dispose of it for me, like she’s getting rid of a dead body. At this point, that’s what it kind of feels like, and I get out of there before she changes her mind.
The school after three p.m. is probably my favorite place to be. There are usually a few students straggling about, killing time and waiting to be picked up, but today is warm, sunny, and dry (opposed to the usual cold, gloomy, and wet), so any kids who are left are outside. It’s just me in the halls, enjoying being out of the house and away from any stress and responsibilities, and getting to be alone at the same time.
I take a moment to slowly walk down the hall, smiling at all the art the kids have showcased on the walls, and then I’m out the door and heading to my car in the parking lot. It’s a 2000 Honda Civic hatchback that I’ve always called the Garbage Pail (since it’s silver and dented), and I added fuzzy green seat covers for that Oscar the Grouch feel. Almost everyone on the island has an electric car, and it’s definitely on my list of things to get (along with the goal of saving money), but since I essentially take care of both myself and my mother under one income, a new car seems like just another one of my dreams, along with traveling the world and falling in love with someone who deserves it.
Still, I have great affection for the Garbage Pail. I could get the dents fixed, but on this island, no one bats an eye, and it does really well on gas. Hanging from the mirror is a pair of fuzzy dice that my father won for me at an arcade when I was a teen, before he ditched out on us, and my glove compartment is stuffed with Tic Tacs, which I have a borderline addiction to, ferry receipts, and who knows what else.
I get in, and even though I’m not driving through town to get home, I already know what Cynthia means. On the sides of the main road leading into the center, cars are lined up and parked in haphazard lines. This isn’t normal for a Thursday afternoon in June. It looks more like the crowds we get during our Saturday market during the peak of summer, but on steroids, and I guess instead of people perusing the organic vegetables or hemp-based clothing or homemade vegan vagina purses (yes, those are a thing and they’re exactly what they sound like), these visitors have their cameras and phones all ready, hoping to catch a glimpse of the renegade royals.
I shake my head and turn off the road, glad that I don’t have to deal with any of that today. I still think that maybe Cynthia’s mistaken about all of this. I mean, I like living here because it’s gorgeous and affordable and I can be a recluse and no one thinks anything of it, but I’m not sure why Prince Eddie and MRed would be attracted to this place. I mean, yeah, it’s beautiful and secluded. But you’re also kind of stuck here too.
My house is located at the end of a peninsula called Scott Point, one of the most affluent and tightly knit communities on the island.
Naturally, I’m like a sliver you can’t get rid of along the narrow finger of the peninsula. Yes, we own the house, an adorable cedar-shingle three-bedroom that used to be the servants’ quarters to the mansion next to it, but I still drive the Garbage Pail among all the shiny Range Rovers and Teslas (full disclosure: the GP used to be my mother’s car until she wrecked my Kia Soul, but anyway . . . long story), and my mother and I aren’t exactly overly friendly with our neighbors. We don’t belong here, but we make it work.
It sure is stunning, though. The only way through is via a narrow road that cuts through the middle of the peninsula like an artery lined with evergreen arbutus trees, their peeling red bark as thin and delicate as Japanese rice paper. On either side are houses hidden by tall cedar fences, each with a witty name like Henry’s Haven and Oceanside Retreat carved up on custom-made signs. Between the houses you can catch glimpses of the ocean, the sun glinting off it in such a way that shivers run down your spine. That glint at this time of day tells me that summer is in full swing, and summer is my dreaming period.
I’m already dreaming about getting a mug of tea and heading down to the dock to enjoy the sun when I suddenly have to slam on my brakes.
Instead of the usual deer or quail family crossing the road, there’s a very tall, broad-shouldered tree of a man standing in the middle of the road at the top of the small hill, holding his hand out to me like he’s trying out for the Supremes.
Shit. Pins and needles start to form in my lungs, my heart pounding. My anxiety has no problems jumping to the worst-case scenario, and it’s always that something has happened to my mother while I was at work. There’s not a moment when that exact fear isn’t lurking at the back of my mind, so the fact that there’s a very grim-faced stranger in a dark suit striding downhill toward me makes me think my worst nightmare is going to come true.
My window is already rolled down, so I hear him say, “Excuse me, miss?” in a very strong, raspy British accent. He’s more curt than sympathetic, which makes me calm just a little.
“Yes? What’s wrong?” I ask him, trying not to panic.