At Last Dineen

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 Also by Whitney Dineen

The Mimi Chronicles

The Reinvention of Mimi Finnegan
Mimi Plus Two
Kindred Spirits

Relatively Series
Relatively Normal
Relatively Sane
Relatively Happy

Creek Water Series

The Event
The Move
The Plan
The Dream

Seven Brides for Seven Mothers Series

Love is a Battlefield
Ain't She Sweet
It's My Party
You’re So Vain
Head Over Feet
Queen of Hearts
At Last

She Sins at Midnight

Going Up?
Love for Sale

The Accidentally in Love Series (with Melanie Summers)

Text Me on Tuesday
The Text God
Text Wars
Text in Show
Mistle Text
Text and Confused

A Gamble on Love Mom-Com Series (with Melanie Summers)

No Ordinary Hate
A Hate Like This
Hate, Rinse, Repeat
 Conspiracy Thriller
See No More

Non-Fiction Humor
Motherhood, Martyrdom & Costco Runs

Middle Reader
Wilhelmina and the Willamette Wig Factory
Who the Heck is Harvey Stingle?

Children’s Books
The Friendship Bench
At Last

Whitney Dineen
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locales, and situations are the work of the author’s
overactive imagination and the voices in her head. Any resemblance to people living or dead, events,
etc., is purely coincidental. And I don’t mean maybe.

Copyright © by Whitney Dineen in 2023; all rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced,
copied, scanned, photographed, or distributed in print or electronic form without express permission
of the author. But let’s face it, if you love it, she’ll probably let you share small portions. You still
have to contact her first.

Made in the United States. February, 2023

ISBN: 9798355359225
Ebook Edition ASIN: B0BG34DPLS

https://whitneydineen.com/newsletter/
33 Partners Publishing
 Contents

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Available Now: The Event
About the Author
 Chapter One

Queen Charlotte
Charlotte pauses while putting on her earrings to stare into her dressing table mirror at her husband’s
reflection. “Sophie has received seven of the most gorgeous floral arrangements I’ve ever seen, and
they’re all from the same man.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. She won’t tell me who he is,” Charlotte complains before dabbing her signature
grapefruit-scented perfume behind her ears.
Buttoning the jacket on his navy-blue suit, the king inspects his attire for flaws. “I thought his name
was Arlo Hammond.”
“I know his name. What I don’t know is how he and Sophie know each other. Every time I ask her,
she gives me an evasive response. Then she either rushes out of the room or changes the subject to
something she knows I can’t resist talking about.”
Alfred’s eyes twinkle with merriment as he runs his hands through his thick graying brown hair.
“Ah, yes, your love of conversing about our children’s upcoming nuptials.” Crossing the room, he
takes his wife into his arms. “Let Sophie have her secret. She’ll tell us who he is if and when she
considers it important.”
Charlotte rests her head against Alfred’s chest. “You can’t tell me you’re not dying to know.”
Shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly, he offers, “Maybe I already know.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t know everything, but I’ve had a preliminary investigation done on the man.”
“And?” Charlotte demands.
“On paper, Mr. Hammond appears to be on the up and up.” Before Charlotte can insist on more
information, he clarifies, “He owns a reputable business, he doesn’t hold a significant amount of debt,
and he’s unattached.”
“What’s his business?”
“A floral company called Floribunda.”
Furrowing her brow in contemplation, Charlotte says, “That’s the name of the shop that keeps
sending the flowers to Sophie.”
“It is, indeed.”
“And they’re located right here in town?”
Alfred nods his head but doesn’t offer any further comment.
“There’s something you’re not telling me.”
Kissing her on top of the head, he mumbles, “It’s just a feeling I have.”
“Alfred …”
“You’ll be the first person I come to if I find out there’s more to the story. Until then, let’s trust
Sophie to know what’s best for herself.”

Princess Sophie/Present Day

Arlo Hammond has sent me a flower arrangement every month for the last seven. I’ve gone years
without even thinking about the man, and then, boom! Out of nowhere he shows back up. Well, not in
person, but the emissary bouquets he dispatches certainly make it impossible not to think about him.
Instead of joining my parents in the dining room for breakfast, I call down to the kitchen and ask
them to send up an assorted bread basket along with a pot of Darjeeling. I’d normally make my own,
but being that I’m not even up to making my own toast, I figure I’ll play princess and have it all done
for me.
Curling up on my living room sofa, I snuggle under my favorite cashmere throw before picking up
the telephone. After punching in the number, I smile when I hear the voice of my dearest friend from
university days. “Sophie!” Avery sounds both surprised and delighted. “It’s been ages. How are
you?”
“I’m confused,” I tell her bluntly.
“The farthest fork out is for the fish course,” she teases.
“Ha ha ha.” I love how easily we fall into old banter. It’s always been like this between us. But of
course, I didn’t call to chit chat. “Do you remember Arlo Hammond?”
I hear her choke on what I’m guessing is her morning coffee. Having grown up in the States, Aves
never was one for tea. “Of course I remember. But I thought he was old news.”
“He's been sending me flowers once a month for the last seven months.”
“And you’re just telling me now?”
“I figured I’d wait to see if he said anything interesting.”
“And?”
I hear a sharp knock, which I’m hoping is someone from the kitchen with the decadent sweet
breads I’ve ordered. Even though my waistline doesn’t need the indulgence, I’m still going to enjoy
them. “Hold on, Aves,” I tell her before getting up to retrieve my breakfast.
Padding across my living room rug in bare feet, I pull the door open. My enthusiasm vanishes
when I see that my visitor is not from the kitchen. It’s my mother. “What are you doing here?” I greet
none too politely.
“Good morning to you, too.” She pushes her way through the door.
“I’m on an important call, Mum. I can’t chat right now.” If I tell her who I’m talking to, she’ll
simply demand to get on the phone and have her own conversation with Avery.
Stopping in her tracks next to the trestle table against the wall in my foyer, she says, “I see you
received the flowers that arrived yesterday.”
“I did.” When she doesn’t immediately respond, I add, “Is there any way we can talk later? I
really need to get back to my call. It’s rather important.” Let her assume I’m planning the next big
charity event, and child literacy itself is at stake. Participating in charitable events is nearly all I do
as a working royal, and while I know it’s an important contribution, it sometimes bores me to the
bone.
“I’ll be in the parlor between ten and eleven,” she tells me before backtracking toward the door.
Before she walks through it, she adds, “I’ll expect you at ten.”
“I’ll do what I can, Mum.” I’m about to shut the door when I spot the serving girl from the kitchen
walking down the hall with my breakfast. I indicate that I’m leaving the door open for her before
hurrying back to the couch.
As soon as I pick up the phone, I hear Avery yelling at someone, “Not there! I asked you to put
them in the linen closet.”
“Who are you lording it over?” I ask with a laugh.
“My husband, of course. We’re only now getting down to the business of unpacking all the
bedding.”
“But you’ve been married and in the house for over six months,” I tell her.
“You know me, Soph, I’m not that fussy. I’m okay with washing the old sheets and then returning
them to the bed. However, my mother-in-law feels that kind of bohemian nonsense isn’t good enough
for her Tony. She made me register for six sets of linens and now I have to store them all. I should
dump them off at her house.”
“I don’t even have that many extra sheets,” I tell her.
“I venture you don’t have any idea how many sheets there are in that castle you call home. But you
didn’t call me to talk about bedding. You called about Arlo.”
As the server pushes the trolley over the threshold, I motion for her to leave it there before
mouthing a quick thank you. When she shuts the door behind her, I ask my friend, “What is he doing
getting in touch after all these years?”
“You can’t guess?”
“Avery, what happened between us was over thirteen years ago. It barely even started before it
was over.”
“You talked about him constantly for two years,” she reminds me.
It’s true, I did. Arlo Hammond made a huge impact on my life in a very short amount of time, but
there was no way there could ever have been anything between us. “I did what I was supposed to do,
and I forgot him.”
“Why were you supposed to forget him again?”
“Avery Flemming, you know perfectly well.”
“What I know is that your parents are much more open-minded than you give them credit for.”
I don’t give her the satisfaction of agreeing with her. I simply say, “Maybe …”
 Chapter Two

Princess Sophie/Thirteen Years Ago

“I’m sick to death of this place,” I complain to my best friend and roommate for the three plus years
I’ve been at university. I’m currently pacing back and forth across our tiny parlor like I’m trying to get
enough friction going to start a bonfire.
All six feet of Avery are stretched out on our velvet tufted sofa. She’s so tall, her bare feet, full-on
with French pedicure, are hanging over the edge. She runs her fingers through her long, dark hair and
fashions a ponytail before twisting it and tying it in a knot on top of her head. “It doesn’t help that
people are always trying to catch you doing something newsworthy so they can sell it to the tabloids.”
“I scratched my nose in Biology last week and swear I saw at least three different flashes go off.
I’ve been a nervous wreck waiting to see who’s going to publish one of the photos with a headline,
‘Princess Sophie is a Nose Picker!’”
Avery laughingly says, “I walked around with a wedgie for an entire afternoon because I was
worried someone would take my picture and alert the world that Princess Sophie’s best friend is a
butt picker.”
“Ha ha.” I roll my eyes. “We’ve been friends for over three years. Surely you’ve seen how hard
this all is on me.”
“Soph.” She pushes herself up into a sitting position. “I don’t think anyone would believe that it’s
hard being you.”
I spin around so fast I become a little dizzy. Grabbing a hold of the back of the sofa to steady
myself, I ask, “Are you serious right now?”
“I know the press is a royal pain.” She stops to giggle at her pun. “But other than that, you’ve got
to admit your life is pretty sweet.”
“Which parts?” My hands are propped up on my overly curvaceous hips as I demand to know how
my life could look good to anyone.
“How about the fact that you’re an honest to God princess? To the average bear, that’s a pretty
cool thing.”
“I think you’re letting your American sensibilities lead you astray. I assure you, most of the people
in Malquar only care about me because of who my parents are. I’m of no interest in my own right. In
fact, no one would even know who I was if I weren’t in the location they expected to find me in.”
As she stands up, I feel a wave of pure envy wash through me. Avery is as thin and graceful as a
gazelle. She’s also so comfortable in her own skin; I sometimes want to punch her on principle.
“What do you say we put that hypothesis to the test?”
“What test?” I ask, more than a little nervously. Avery is the queen of outrageous ideas. Like the
time she suggested we go out for a night on the town totally commando. She’d gotten it into her head
that if the Kardashians could do it, so could we.
While I told her I had left my panties at home, the truth is, I wore my underthings with the most
coverage, which turns out to have been a good thing. The picture that showed up in the next morning’s
paper was one of me spinning on the dance floor with my skirt practically above my ears. I can only
imagine the horror had I been butt-naked from the waist down. Kim Kardashian might be audacious
enough to pull off something like that. I am not.
 “If no one would know who you were, I say we go somewhere and see if that’s true.”
“I’m listening …” I should not be letting this woman lead me astray, but I really want to hear the
plan before I pooh-pooh it.
“Let’s leave town for a week. We’ll tell our professors we’ve come down with some horribly
infectious plague and we’ve been ordered to quarantine ourselves.”
“Which plague would that be?” Look at me, still not shooting her down. The desire to experience
total anonymity is too much temptation to pass up.
She pulls out her phone and types away before answering, “I’m going to go with German measles.
It says here that it’s usually mild, but that it’s easily spreadable. They recommend one week’s
isolation from the onset of symptoms.”
“Aren’t German measles the same thing as rubella? I think we were vaccinated for that as
children.”
“No one’s ever going to put that together,” she tells me. “So, let’s find out if you’re right. The
worst-case scenario is that you’re outed. The best case? A whole week of being someone else.”
“I’m in,” I decide before fully weighing the odds of trying to perpetrate such a scheme. After all,
I’m twenty-one-years old, and arguably the most boring woman on the planet. If you don’t count my
sister Bree, who’s been in love with the same boy since childhood. Her adoration for Grady is so
complete, she does little more than pine for him. It’s tedious to the extreme.
Avery glides across the room like she’s on ice skates before swinging open the door to the front
closet where we keep our luggage. “We’ll use my suitcases. They’re plain and boring and no one
would think we’re anything more than two normal young women on a break.”
“They’re Tumi,” I point out. “They probably cost your dad a thousand dollars each.”
“They look like something Mary Poppins would carry.” She starts to pull them out. “Trust me, no
one will even know what Tumi bags are where we’re going.”
“Where exactly are we going?” She makes it sound like we’ll be out in the African bush or
something. I’m not sure if a trip to Africa would make me more or less nervous. But I know we’d
have to fly to get there, and there’s no way I could remain incognito doing that.
Aves picks up her phone again and taps away on the screen. “Have you ever heard of a village
called Nappes?” I shake my head. “Good, because that’s where we’re going.” As an afterthought, she
adds, “And we won’t be doing any napping while we’re there.”
“I’m pretty sure the name has nothing to do with sleeping. Nappes is French for tablecloths.”
“There’s got to be a story behind that,” she decides.
“Nappes.” I repeat the name like I’m saying “bilge water.”
“You don’t sound excited.” Avery sticks out her bottom lip in a fake pout.
Sharp pricks of warning stab at my nervous system, but they don’t stay around long enough for me
to come to my senses. “I suppose if Audrey Hepburn could pull it off in Roman Holiday, so can I.”
“Good girl.” Avery pushes one of her suitcases at me. “Now let’s get moving.”
Within the hour, our bags are packed, and we’ve declared a German measles outbreak on campus
before slipping out of town like a pair of cat burglars.
What could go wrong?
 Chapter Three

Arlo/Thirteen Years Ago

“Your mum don’t got to know where the money come from,” my stepfather George tells me. The man
reeks of cigarettes, scotch, and missed opportunities.
“But I’d know where it came from,” I tell him firmly. My mum has been married to George since I
was four. He’s the only father figure I’ve ever known, yet he’s never suggested I call him anything
remotely paternal. This has made the point loud and clear that he puts up with me for Mum’s sake and
not because of any special feelings he has for me.
“We’re gonna lose the farm if I don’t take it.” George is short, stocky, and missing most of his hair
and a few of his teeth. He looks more like a bouncer from a dive bar at the docks than a farmer.
Truthfully, he doesn’t even farm. He occasionally slops the pigs and gathers chicken eggs, but my
mum is the one who breaks her back year after year putting in a garden in hopes of growing enough
food to keep them fed over the winter. They used to rent out the rest of the land to real farmers, but
ever since George spent that year in the gaol for theft, upstanding folks tend to steer clear of him,
which means the loss of a much-needed rental income.
“You cannot take ill-gotten gains, George. It’s not right.”
“Oh, his fancy high and mightiness.” He bows like he’s performing a parody of a Shakespearean
play. “Don’t you go telling me what I can and cannot do. I’m the man of the house and if you don’t like
it …”
Instead of letting him continue his threat, I interrupt, “I’ve already moved out, George. I haven’t
lived here in six years.”
“That’s not what I was gonna say.” Spittle flies out of his mouth and lands on my bare arm.
Wanker. “I was gonna say that I’m the man of this house and if you don’t like it, you can shove it up
yer arse!”
“Charming. But I’m not letting you save our farm with money Bernie Bailey has stolen from old
lady Hancock.”
“It ain’t stealing if she gives it to him,” he maintains.
“The woman isn’t in her right mind, George. If Bernie takes a check from her, it’ll be nothing but
blatant robbery.”
“I only told ya cause I didn’t want ya to worry about yer ma,” George grumbles. “But I see now,
you don’t care if she’s a beggar on the street.”
“She could come live with me,” I tell him. “You both could,” I grudgingly add. I’d rather host a
family reunion for rats than cohabitate with George again, but Mum shows no sign of cutting him
loose, so …
“Yer place ain’t nothing but a tiny box with a door,” he grumbles. “There’s no room fer anyone but
yerself!”
“We could manage, George. And if you’d bother to get a job, you could afford to move out in no
time. In fact, if you get a job, you might be able to keep the farm.”
“What kind of work do you expect me to do?” He bends down and spokesmodels the location
where his knees are hiding behind his filthy trousers. “I can barely walk with these knobs of mine. My
joints ache like I been beaten with a cricket paddle.” Straightening up, he jabs an angry finger in my
direction. “I do the best I can, and I don’t need the likes of you making me feel bad about my
discrepancies.”
“Deficiencies,” I correct him.
“There you go again all high in the step like yer some kind of lord, when the truth is yer nothing but
a bastard.”
When I was a kid, I used to go after George when he made comments like that. I’d ball up my fists
and take a swing. I even connected once or twice. Unfortunately, I rarely got away before he knocked
the snot out of me. Beatings aside, I always felt the need to stand up for my sketchy paternity.
I had no idea if my father was worth such loyalty, but I decided at a young age to pretend he was
everything George wasn’t. I even fantasized he really was a lord and that out of some misguided
pride, my mum refused to take any financial help from him.
“George,” I warn him, “if you and Bernie take a penny of that money I’m going to the authorities
and I’m going to tell them what you’ve done.”
“We ain’t done nothing but take a bank note that was freely given.” His face turns so red I’m pretty
sure he’s about to burst a gasket. Taking a step in my direction, he warns, “You say one word to
anyone and I’m gonna throw yer remains to the pigs.”
The threat of killing me has lost its power over the years. Every time I stand up to George or dare
to disagree with him, he threatens to do me in. While I don’t always take his warnings lightly—there’s
been a time or two I’ve moved out of my place for a stretch so he couldn’t find me—I can’t let him
run roughshod over me, either.
“Make sure you let Claudette have the biggest part of me. She’s always been my favorite.”
The two of us stand facing off like we’re mere seconds away from boxing each other upside the
head. I usually hold my ground until George backs down, but today I don’t have the energy. “I’m off to
work,” I tell him while grabbing my jacket from the chair it’s slung over. “Tell Mum to come by and
see me at the pub when she gets home.” Mum works in town for the laundry and doesn’t usually come
home until after supper. I feed both her and George down at the pub several times a week.
“Like hell I will!” he shouts after me.
I feel the same sense of futility I do every time I talk to my stepfather. The man is not right in the
head so there’s no use fighting with him. He’ll do whatever he wants, which means I’ll have to clean
up the mess as best I can. I don’t know what my mum sees in the gobshite, but she’s been married to
him for nearly twenty-four years and shows no sign of kicking him out. What I do for him, I really do
for her.
Hopping into my twenty-year-old Fiat, Panda, I quickly glance at the clock on the dash. My shift
doesn’t start for another thirty minutes, but I can’t stand to hear one more word out of George’s sorry
mouth. I put the car in gear and pull out onto the only rural road that passes through Nappes.
Driving in the countryside normally soothes me, but that’s not the impact it’s having on me right
now. I currently feel caged, like I’m a prisoner in a medieval dungeon awaiting a tarring and
feathering.
Our village proper has only eight roads with a grand total of three stop signs and no traffic lights.
Luckily, there are fewer than a thousand souls who call it home, so there aren’t many motor accidents.
If I had to guess, I’d venture that the lack of vehicular manslaughter is the main thing to recommend
Nappes to outsiders.
The only reason I’m still here is because I don’t know where else to go. I didn’t have money for
university, so I settled in and took the first job that came my way out of school. I started at the pub
bussing tables, but after a couple of years I worked my way up to barkeeper. I’ve been at the Spinning
Spool for eight years now and I’m willing to bet I’ll be there in another fifty. But that’s only because I
have plans to buy the place when old Norman retires.
I flip on the radio and listen to the Proclaimers blather about walking five hundred miles to fall
down at someone’s door. It’s only fifteen miles around all of Nappes and there’s no one worth the
effort of walking it for, which is yet another strike against my hometown. There’s a sorry lack of
social life for the young and single. Probably because most of us are smart enough to get the hell out
of town and try something new.
Pulling up to the pub twenty minutes ahead of schedule, I decide to go in and grab myself a bite
before starting work. One of the perks of the job is all the fish and chips I can eat. As I’m not in a
position to turn down a free meal, I eat them almost every day.
After opening the heavily scarred wooden door that is reputed to being original to the building—
circa 1792—I hear, “Arlo, mate! Over here!”
I wait a beat while my eyes adjust to the dim lighting and then follow the origins of the greeting.
Daniel Creek is sitting at the old scratched up bar, raising a pint in my direction. Danny and I have
been friends since we were in nappies. We graduated the same year from school, but unlike me, he
left town for university before moving home and taking over his dad’s grocery.
I approach my old friend with a smile. “You’re here early tonight.” I normally don’t see him until
after eight when he closes up shop.
“I hired a new girl. I’m going to lose my mind if I keep working ten hours a day, seven days a
week.”
Sitting down next to him, I signal Norman to bring me my usual. “Nappes is not the party capital of
Malquar, is it?”
“I’ve been thinking long and hard, my friend, and I think it might be time to pack it in and move
somewhere more exciting.”
“If you moved, where would I get my toilet tissue?” I joke. Danny threatens to close up shop and
relocate every week, but he’d no sooner do it than I would. Not only are we both creatures of habit,
but we lack the innate ambition to make it in the cutthroat real world. Better the devil you know and
all that.
“Your damn toilet tissue is the only reason I’m still here,” he grumbles. Before he can launch into
his tired complaint that we’re going to die old men who’ve never really lived, the front door opens,
and Danny stops talking mid-sentence. His eyes are round, and his mouth hangs open like his lower
lip has just been caught in a fishing hook.
“Pinch me …” he whispers. I give him a good sharp squeeze which causes him to yell, “What in
the bloody hell was that for?”
“Don’t tell me to pinch you if you don’t mean it.” Norman drops a plate of fish and chips in front
of me and I dig in. When I finally look up from my meal, Danny is still staring at the two young ladies
who came into the pub. They’re situated several stools down the bar from us.
“What do you think they’re doing here?” he wants to know.
“Hoping for a pint on their way into the city?”
“The tall one could tie me up and call me ‘Daddy,’” he says crudely.
I turn to get a closer look and find that I like what I see. While the brunette is tall and gorgeous,
it’s the shorter blonde who’s doing it for me. She has curves on her curves that I wouldn’t mind
exploring. “They look a bit young for the likes of us, don’t you think?”
“What are you, eighty?” he grumbles. “Last I checked, we were twenty-seven, which makes us
practically babes in the woods. I bet they’re at least twenty-one and that means there’s nothing pervy
about what I’m considering.”
I arch my eyebrow in challenge. “Just because it isn’t illegal doesn’t mean it’s not pervy.”
Norman is busy taking a drink order across the room, so I stand up and move behind the counter.
Tying on an apron, I approach the lovely strangers. “What can I get for you ladies?”
The brunette smiles with such mischief, I’m tempted to change my mind about the shorter one.
“Two pints and two of whatever is the best food you serve.” Her accent is clearly American which
accounts for her being the first one to speak up. Americans tend to be bold as a species.
I shift my gaze to her companion who appears nothing short of spooked. She looks like she might
be about to make a run for it. “You want the same as your friend, or are you sharing?”
Her bow-like lips form an O of surprise, before she declares, “Oh, we’re sharing. I couldn’t drink
all that by myself.”
Continuing the joke, I ask, “But you could eat two dinners all by yourself, eh?”
She cocks an eyebrow at me in challenge. “I could eat you under the table.”
“Excuse me?” She couldn’t have meant it to sound like that, could she?
“You heard me. I could eat you under the table.”
Her friend nudges her and whispers, “That sounds rather lewd.”
The blonde’s cheeks flush a deep crimson as she processes how I interpreted her comment. “I … I
didn’t mean that. I only meant I have quite an appetite, you know, for delicious things.”
How naïve can this girl be? I’m about to tell her I’m pretty delicious but decide to cut her some
slack. “Name’s Arlo,” I tell her. “What’s yours?”
She appears to have forgotten, so after a moment her friend answers, “Her name is Betty. Mine’s
Veronica.”
“Betty and Veronica,” I repeat. “Welcome to the Spinning Spool. I’ll be right back with your
drinks and food.”
As I walk away, I hear Betty say, “Betty and Veronica? What, are we starring in an Archie comic
strip?”
“I didn’t know you had those in Europe,” Veronica answers. “But never mind, no one has any
reason to guess we’re lying. I’d bet you my car that we’re going to pull this off.”
Ah, so the ladies at the bar aren’t telling me who they really are. Now if that doesn’t make me
curious …
 Chapter Four

Princess Sophie/Thirteen Years Ago

Not only did I let Avery drag me away from school and drive me two hours out into the countryside,
but now I’m posing as someone named Betty and trying to fend off the flirtatious advances from a guy
named Danny. Well, he’s not actually flirting with me, but I’m helping Avery.
“So, what brings you gorgeous creatures to Nappes?” Danny wants to know.
“We’re on vacation,” I tell him.
“And where are you headed?” He takes a long drink from his mug.
“Here.”
His head jerks up in surprise. “Here, as in Nappes? Why?”
Crap, I hadn’t thought that far into our fabrication. Luckily, Avery answers so I don’t have to. “We
like to play this game where we close our eyes, spin around three times, and then stick a pin into the
map. It was Betty’s turn, and she picked Nappes.” Nice, blame it on me.
“Where are you staying?” His eyebrows furrow like Nappes is one of Dante’s nine circles of hell
or something equally dismal. I’m not yet sure that he’d be wrong.
“We’re hoping to find an inn,” Avery tells him. “Don’t most pubs in this part of Europe have
rooms to let?”
“That’s a very American assumption,” he tells her.
Taking no offense whatsoever, Avery responds, “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Most Americans learn about Europe through the cinema. The whole inn above the pub thing
sounds like something you saw in a chick flick.”
“Is it untrue?” Avery doesn’t confirm or deny the root of her knowledge. The truth is that even
though she’s been in Malquar for years, she’s spent very little time in the countryside without already
having booked accommodations.
“Most pubs nowadays rent the upstairs out as apartments. It’s a steadier income and less work than
running an inn.”
“Is that what they do here?” Avery crosses one long leg over the other, effectively hypnotizing
Danny into silence.
Before he can find his voice again, Arlo drops our fish and chips in front of us and tells his friend,
“Leave the girls alone, Danny. You’re going to put them off their food.”
Danny sputters, “They need a place to stay while they’re in town and they were wondering if they
could rent the rooms upstairs.”
“Here? I can’t imagine anyone wanting to stay here.” I look closely at Arlo for the first time and
notice that he’s one handsome man. He has a cocky sort of playboy quality but the crinkles around his
eyes suggest he smiles—a lot. Those little lines add humor to his chiseled face and that makes him
even more attractive.
“They played some game where they have to stay wherever they stuck a pin in a map,” Danny tries
to explain.
“Why would you put a pin in Nappes?” Arlo demands. He sounds almost angry.
“Betty was blindfolded,” Avery says. “That’s how the game is played.”
“We don’t have an inn in town.” Arlo still looks confused.
 “How about a bed and breakfast?” Avery asks.
“What’s that?” Danny wants to know.
I inhale the aroma of the food in front of me and it smells delicious. By the look everyone is giving
me, I can only assume I just groaned out loud. Trying to divert everyone’s attention from my faux pas,
I explain, “It’s a place that lets rooms and feeds you breakfast.”
Both men shake their heads like this is a totally foreign concept to them. “You could stay in
Whitten. That’s only sixty kilometers down the road.”
“No can do,” Avery says. “The rules are that we have to stay where we put the pin.”
I’m tempted to stick a pin in her. There is no game, hence there are no rules. “How big is
Whitten?” I ask.
“Thirty thousand give or take,” Danny says. “But we don’t want you to go there.” Turning to his
friend, he asks, “Why can’t they stay upstairs?”
“Because that’s where I live.” That knowledge sends a river of awareness on a journey through
my insides. While I’ve not felt any interest in Danny, Arlo is very much my type. He’s tall and built—
his form-fitting white shirt doing little to hide the muscular nature of his arms and chest. His wavy,
chin-length hair is so dark it’s almost black, and his eyes are the same color green as the ivy that
covers the gazebo in my family’s rose garden. He’s like a rogue pirate straight off the cover of a
historical romance novel.
Before I can either gag her or kick her, Avery asks, “Would you rent your place to us for a week?”
Arlo appears totally stumped by the request, making it obvious that it’s not something he hears
every day. Or ever, for that matter. “There’s only one bedroom,” he eventually says.
“Oh, well, too bad …” Off to Whitten we go …
“But there’s a pull-out sleeper in the parlor. Arlo can sleep on that and the two of you could share
his room.” Danny is working hard to keep us here, and by the way he’s been drooling over Avery, it
doesn’t take much to gather why.
Renting a strange bartender’s apartment is the singularly most absurd idea I’ve ever heard, and I’m
about to say as much when Avery announces, “We’d pay you the same amount we’d spend at a proper
hotel.”
“Avery …” Shoot, I forgot to use her fake name. “Veronica … Avery Veronica … we cannot stay
in a strange man’s apartment for a week. What would our parents say?” More like, what would my
parents say? Avery’s father and stepmother had no problem sending her to boarding school and then
university in Europe. They’d never know what we got up to, but my parents are the king and queen in
this country. Heads would roll—likely mine—if they discovered the scheme we were contemplating.
“The money could help your mum and George,” Danny tells Arlo.
I watch as Arlo’s demeanor does a one-eighty. Clearly his mum and this George are in some dire
straits if a paltry sum like a weekly rental would help them. Arlo nods his head gravely. “I’ll need
thirty minutes to tidy the place up.”
Avery sticks her hand out and shakes his. “You’ve got yourself a deal. Five hundred pounds and
we leave a week from today.” Her outrageousness is one of the reasons I love her so much, but I think
she’s finally outdone herself.
“Five hundred pounds …” he sputters, like he’s having second thoughts.
“Is that not enough?” I ask. “Would you do it for a thousand?” In for a penny, in for a pound, as
they say.
Arlo turns to me, either in a state of shock or outrage, and says, “I’d do it for two hundred.”
“How about we pay the five hundred and you include coffee and supper here in the pub every
night?” my friend suggests.
“Deal.” Arlo reaches out and shakes Avery’s hand. He unties his apron and hands it across the bar
to Danny. “Take over for me. I’ll be down in a bit.”
I watch as he crosses the dark wooden floor and opens a brown door that’s so weathered and
worn, it looks like it leads to a pit in the center of the earth. While Danny gets up and stations himself
behind the bar, I tell Avery, “I cannot believe we’re doing this.”
“It’s fun, isn’t it?”
“It’s foolish,” I tell her.
She shakes her dark hair causing it to move like a solid sheet of satin. “You were right. No one has
looked at you twice, so I predict you’re about to have a full week away as a normal girl.”
“I can’t believe we’re really going to pull this off,” I say in awe, as thoughts of traveling outside
of the country fill my head. No wonder my brother Geoffrey went to university in the States and then
stayed to work there after graduation. The sensation of being a normal person is unlike anything I’ve
ever felt, and I’ve only been doing it for a few minutes. I briefly wonder if I could have the same
result in London or Paris.
In a cloud of excitement, I nearly inhale my supper, and by the time I take my last bite, I’ve
determined to make this week the best one of my entire life.
When Arlo comes downstairs, he looks slightly disheveled. His sleeves are rolled up and his hair
is mussed. He takes his apron back from Danny before sliding a key across the bar. “It’s my only
spare, so you’ll have to share it.”
Avery pockets it. “We’ll just come and go as we please then, right?”
Arlo shrugs. “I’m just renting the room, I’m not your keeper.”
Danny shrugs his eyebrows in Avery’s direction. “But we’d like to take you ladies out and show
you the town while you’re here.”
“What do you do around here?” she asks without agreeing.
“We play a lot of darts and watch football. Other than that, not much.” Arlo could clearly care less
about trying to sell us on Nappes.
Danny taps his fingers on the bar like a piano player banging out a particularly rigorous sonata.
“Arlo’s mum makes the best shepherd’s pie you’ve ever eaten. I bet she’d have us out to the farm
some night if we asked.”
“You grew up on a farm?” I ask with enthusiasm. I’ve always fantasized about living on a farm.
He looks at me like I’ve just confessed to an odd fetish. “I did, but I’m not sure Mum will be up to
it. She’s pretty beat by the time she gets home from work.”
“Nonsense.” Danny shakes his head vigorously. “We’ll ask her about tomorrow night. Isn’t that
George’s night out with his gambling buddies?”
Arlo’s head bobs up and down slowly before gathering steam. “It is.” Then with his eyes set on
me, he says, “Would you like to come to my mum’s house for supper tomorrow night?”
I surprise myself by answering, “Very much.” Having an ordinary supper at someone’s farm
suddenly sounds like the most delightful thing I’ve ever done. Especially as no one has any idea who I
really am.
 Chapter Five

Arlo/Thirteen Years Ago

A small part of me wants to be annoyed with Danny for inviting Betty and Veronica to Mum’s for
supper tomorrow night, but the bigger part of me is excited to have something different to do. And a
meal with a beautiful blonde is certainly different. While it’ll be a bit unconventional to have my
mother there, she really is the best cook in town. Also, I’m guessing she’ll appreciate the diversion.
Her life is pretty tedious.
While the ladies chat, I motion for Danny to meet me at the other end of the bar. He strolls over,
looking very pleased with himself.
“You do realize that we’re just having supper and we’re not going to marry these girls and live
happily ever after,” I point out.
“Speak for yourself.” Eyeing the American, he says, “I’m all for tying the knot with Veronica. I
might even move to the States with her if she wants me to.”
“What about Isabelle Allard?” I ask him. “I thought you wanted to ask her out.”
He rolls his eyes at me. “Belle is nice, and she’s pretty enough, but she’s dull. I want more
excitement in my life than wiling away the years with my childhood neighbor and raising yet another
generation in this going-nowhere town.”
“Yes, but what would I do without you here?” Danny truly is my only diversion.
“You need to get out, too. Watching over your mum can’t be the only thing to keep you in this
godforsaken place.”
“Why not? She’s watched out for me all these years.”
“She’s your mum. That’s her job.” He stares at me so intently, I feel like he’s trying to cut me in
two with the laser vision he pretended to have the year we turned eight. “Plus, she has George.”
“George is the reason I’m staying. The idiot is on the verge of stealing money from the widow
Hancock to pay his back mortgage.” For clarification, I add, “The mortgage he took out on the already
paid off farm.”
Danny shrugs. “Who cares if he takes it. She’s got plenty to go around.”
Slamming a rag onto the countertop, I wipe up the rings left by the abandoned pints I just cleared.
“I care. If she were my grandmother, the last thing I’d want is for her to be swindled by the very scum
of the earth.”
“If her grandchildren were as worried about her as much as you are, surely they’d be here to take
care of her,” he counters.
“So, you condone what George and Bernie are doing?”
“What’s to condone? If the woman hands over money, it’s hers to do with as she pleases.”
Before I can argue further, the front door opens and, like clockwork, the pub starts to fill with
regulars. I know Danny thinks it’s depressing to do the same thing day after day, but to me, routine is
the lifeblood that keeps me going. I figure if I can control eighty percent of my life, I should be able to
manage whatever George throws my way.
I like seeing the same faces and hearing the same stories while refilling the same pints. It’s
comforting. While I carry on with my duties, my gaze travels down the length of the bar to my new
tenants. I wonder who they really are and why they’re pretending to be girls named Betty and
Veronica.
Maybe they’re on the run from the mob, or they’re thieves who’ve stolen the crown jewels. But no
matter the truth, I’ll happily use their funds to help my mum. And while that may sound like the same
thing George is doing with old lady Hancock, it’s not. We’ve known the widow our whole lives,
which makes her someone to protect. I don’t know Betty or Veronica well enough yet to take on the
role of their champion should they need one.
Once everyone is served, and I find myself with a few moments, I instinctively head back toward
the woman I’ve spent the better part of the last hour thinking about. But she’s no longer on her stool.
She’s watching Veronica play darts with Danny and Norman, of all people. No wonder I’ve been
running around as much as I have; Norman has decided to act like a customer and not the owner of the
place.
They’re all laughing their heads off at how badly Veronica is doing. Most of her darts are nowhere
near the board, let alone the bullseye.
Betty is standing off to the side, more of an observer than a participant. Yet, the smile on her face
indicates she’s enjoying herself. Darts must not be a game she normally participates in.
I walk toward her like we’re polar ends of a magnet, as in, I practically charge at her. “Hey,” I
call out as I approach.
She startles and immediately seems to put her guard up. Her posture squares off and her smile
fades until she appears more of a statue than a young woman enjoying a night out on the town.
“Hello.”
“I thought I’d come over and get to know my new lodger.” I’m aiming for a light tone, but the two
steps she takes toward the back wall to distance herself from me make me think I’ve missed the mark.
“There’s not much to know.” Her focus is now on the dregs of foam left in her glass.
“What do you do in your real life?”
Her eyes slowly rise up to meet mine as a half-smile forms on her lips. “I work in a flower shop.”
“Really? My mum loves flowers. I told her she needs to sell them, but she won’t listen to me.”
“What does she do instead?” Betty wants to know.
“She works at the laundry in town. I’d much rather see her spending time in her garden and making
her beautiful bouquets than scrubbing other people’s dirty clothes.”
Instead of commenting on that, she asks, “And this George? I’m guessing he’s not your father.”
My shoulders slump in a way a body language expert would accurately call a pose of defeat.
“George is my stepdad. He’s the only father figure I’ve ever known, but believe me when I say he’s
not much of that.”
“I’m sorry.” She takes an infinitesimal step toward me as though part of her wants to offer me
comfort.
Waving my hand, I tell her, “Don’t be. We all have a cross to bear. Am I right?”
She nods her head in agreement, but it’s the haunted expression behind her eyes that makes me
think her secrets are bigger than I might have previously thought. “Can I get you another?” I ask,
pointing to her empty glass.
“No, thank you.” She gently places her mug down on an empty table. “I never drink more than one
when I’m out.”
“Why is that? It seems to me that having a couple pints with friends is a great way to let your hair
down.” I lift my chin in the direction of her friend Veronica, who just tossed a dart through an open
window. Her uproarious laughter leads me to guess that wasn’t her intent.
“My parents taught me to always keep my composure in public.” Which means what? She’s not
allowed to have any fun?
“Are your parents the king and queen?” I tease. I can see parents worrying about their daughter, but
it seems a bit strict to try to enforce the alcohol consumption of an adult.
The spooked look on Betty’s face immediately makes me regret my joke. “They’re just very
protective.”
“That’s cool,” I tell her. I can’t help but wonder what it is about her that draws me in so much.
Betty is beautiful, but she’s tightly wound in a way that’s totally foreign to me. The folks of Nappes
tend to be more what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of people. That’s not Betty at all. It’s not just that
she’s lying about her name, either. Nothing about her seems to fit, including her presence in a pub in
the middle of nowhere.
 Chapter Six

Queen Charlotte
“Did Sophie ever mention anyone by the name of Arlo Hammond?” Charlotte asks her middle
daughter Bree while attending her bridal gown fitting.
Bree twitches as the seamstress pins the back of her wedding dress. “Not that I can remember,
why?”
“He’s been sending her flowers, and she won’t tell me who he is to her.” Charlotte picks up her
teacup and rests it on her bottom lip.
“He can’t be someone she knows from society, or we would have heard of him.” Bree turns to the
side to watch the dressmaker’s progress in the mirror. “Why don’t you suggest that Sophie bring him
to my wedding?”
Charlotte’s eyes brighten at the idea. “I’ll do that. I mean, if the man thinks enough of her to
regularly send flowers, I’m willing to bet he’d like to set eyes on her again.”
“What makes you think they aren’t already seeing each other?”
Shaking her elegant head, Charlotte answers, “Because I’ve read all the notes that have
accompanied the bouquets and none of them have made mention of a meeting having taken place.”
The seamstress takes Bree’s hand to steady her as she steps down from the temporary platform
that’s been set up for her fitting. “Sophie let you read the notes?” Bree sounds shocked.
“Of course not. I read them before they’re delivered to her.”
“Mum,” Bree admonishes. “I’m sure they’re meant to be private.”
Standing up, Charlotte places her teacup on her daughter’s dressing table. “Everything to do with
my children is my business.” She adds, “After all, if I didn’t involve myself in your relationship with
Grady, the two of you would still be hissing around each other like street cats under a full moon.”
A myriad of expressions ranging from annoyance to acceptance crosses Bree’s face before she
finally concedes, “Maybe.”
“Maybe, nothing,” Charlotte replies. “A mother’s place is to help her children in any way she can
for as long as she can.” Before Bree can respond, Charlotte turns and purposefully strides out of the
room.

Princess Sophie/Present Day

There’s no use avoiding it; if I don’t meet with my mum, as per her orders, she’s going to start stalking
me. Outside the parlor door, I smooth invisible wrinkles from my skirt while taking five slow breaths.
But when I walk into the room, I find she isn’t even there. Talk about a bullet dodged.
With a sense of lightness, I turn around to leave but run smack into her. She has the bearing of a
general about to address her troops. “Sophie, you came.” She sounds shocked and pleased at the same
time.
“You told me to,” I answer. Not that I always do what she says, but I’m guessing it will behoove
me to come across as accommodating, especially as I know what she wants to talk about.
Gliding past me, Mum says, “Come sit down.” As we arrange ourselves on the settee facing the
rose garden, she asks, “Should I ring for tea?”
 I shake my head. “I just drank an entire pot with breakfast. If I have any more, I’ll float away.”
Mum angles her body so she’s facing me. Patting my knee, she jumps right in. “Tell me about this
Arlo Hammond fellow.”
I shrug my shoulders and force a nonchalant reply. “There’s nothing to tell. I met him while I was
at university, and I haven’t seen him in over thirteen years.”
“Did you date?”
What happened between us was something so much bigger than mere dating, but there’s no way
I’m going to tell her that. “His friend Danny went out with Avery for a while, so we saw each other
occasionally because of them.” Avery would faint dead away if she knew I was spreading gossip like
this. Especially as it wasn’t true.
My mum tips her head to the side and stares at me like I’m a particularly gnarly disease infecting
her roses. “Then why is he sending you those gorgeous arrangements so many years later? It doesn’t
make sense.”
“I don’t know, Mum. I agree it’s rather odd.” Keep it light … keep it light …
“Where does this Arlo Hammond person live?” she asks.
“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” I tell her.
Looking disappointed, she decides, “There really wasn’t anything between you, was there?”
“No.” I keep my eyes locked on her while ordering my face to remain pleasant and clueless.
“Shoot.” She seems genuinely distressed. “I thought for sure he was an old lover who has come
back into the picture to swoop you up.”
“Arlo was never my lover.” Lies. “So I can assure you he hasn’t come to carry me away to some
happily-ever-after fairy tale you’ve been concocting.” Scooting back so that I can relax my spine into
the down cushions of the sofa, I add, “But while we’re on that topic, I believe you told me some
months ago that you were hard at work trying to find my Prince Charming. How’s the search going?”
“Horribly,” she confesses. “Every time I come up with a new prospect, I tell your aunt Jacqui
about him, and she shoots him down. They’re either playboys, cheaters, or gay. The whole thing is
distressing me to no end.” Aunt Jacqui is my mom’s best friend and mother to my sister Bree’s fiancé.
She’s also godmother to me and my five siblings.
“That’s disappointing,” I tell her. “All your children are spoken for except me. I should think it’s
embarrassing for you to have an old maid daughter still on the shelf.”
“Sophie,” Mum says sharply. “Don’t say that. You are not an old maid and if it weren’t for that
horrid Baron Harquardt being such a jackass, you’d be married now, probably with your first child
bouncing on your knee.”
“Is this your way of trying to make me feel better?” It’s true that Thomas was no prize. I canceled
our engagement when he told me he had no plans to retire his mistress after we got married. Being
that I didn’t even know he had a mistress, I clearly didn’t take the news well.
“Not at all,” Mum says. “I know you’re completely over Thomas. I’m simply saying you are a very
desirable young woman, and your perfect match is surely out there waiting for you to find him.”
“Because you can’t?”
“Darling, I’m looking. But truthfully, most men I would consider a suitable catch are already
married or have already been married.”
“And you don’t think I’m desperate enough to consider a divorcé yet?”
“You’re not desperate at all, Sophie. It’s just taking a bit longer for you, is all.” While she’s trying
her best to sound comforting, I can see a hint of panic in her eyes.
Standing up, I announce, “It surely is. I guess I’d best get out there and back to the great man hunt.”
 As I take a step toward the door, my mum says, “You don’t have to get married if you don’t want
to, Sophie. And if you meet an eligible divorced man, no one will stop you from marrying him. Just
know that your family is not going to judge if you decide you’re fine just the way you are.”
I know she’s trying to be supportive, but the very last thing I want is to be alone. And if my mother
is wondering why Arlo Hammond has started to send me flowers after all these years, you’d best be
sure I’m wracking my brain for an answer to the same question.
The strangest part is that all his notes are so romantically benign they’re like something he heard in
the movies. They don’t sound anything like the man I remember him being, and are quite possibly the
reason I don’t find them stirring anything but a mild curiosity inside of me.
Had Arlo been reaching out with thoughts of rekindling our long-ended romance, there are a dozen
things he might have written that would make me putty in his hands.
He hasn’t said one of them.
 Chapter Seven

Arlo/Present Day
“I’ll be home for supper tonight, Maggie,” I call across my house. “I’d appreciate it if you left
something warming in the oven for me.”
My housekeeper is a veritable superhero the way she takes care of me. I’ll probably walk through
the door at six and the whole place will smell like I’m having a dinner party— something I never do.
I’m too much of a loner to bother entertaining.
“Maggie?” When there’s still no answer, I make my way to the back of the house where the kitchen
is. My fifty-eight-year-old housekeeper is sitting at the counter watching some program in a language
that sounds suspiciously like Portuguese. Odd, because to the best of my knowledge, Maggie only
speaks English. “Anything good?” I ask. She waves her hand in my general direction to shush me.
So, I repeat, “Maggie, I’m leaving.” No answer. “I’d like supper tonight.”
“Shh … Alfonso is about to tell Elena that her babies aren’t his …” So many questions come to
mind, the main one being, do the Portuguese procreate differently than the rest of us?
“How could she not know something like that?” Also, who are Alfonso and Elena?
“She doesn’t know because she went to a sperm bank and the samples got mixed up.”
“So, how does Alfonso know, and she doesn’t?”
She motions for me to sit at the counter next to her where I proceed to watch while the most
spectacularly unbelievable melodrama plays out on the screen. Even though I don’t know the
language, it becomes abundantly clear that Elena’s sister has been trying to steal Alfonso away from
her and has gone so far as to bribe the doctor at the sperm bank to insert a stranger’s specimen into
her sister.
I quickly become so engrossed in the turmoil that I totally forget I have a meeting. I should have
already been on the road if I’m to have any chance of making it in time. Twenty minutes later when the
credits start to roll, Maggie turns off the television and demands, “Game hens or pasta?”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, momentarily forgetting why I came into the kitchen.
“What do you want for supper?” she asks.
“You heard me ask for supper and you didn’t bother answering?”
“Of course I heard you, Arlo.” Maggie has never called me Mr. Hammond. Probably because she
lived next door to me when I was growing up and knew what a rascal I was. “You practically
screamed the house down.” She continues, “I venture to guess they heard you across town at the
palace.” My heart momentarily misses a beat.
“So what’s it going to be?” she demands again.
“I was hoping for one of your cottage pies.” I don’t really care, but I know her cottage pies take
hours to prepare and right now I feel like being difficult.
She nods once. “Then you’d best get out of here. Those need to marinate for hours to be their
tenderest and I’m going to have to shake my tail feathers.”
“I don’t suppose you’d want to stay and join me tonight.” I suddenly feel bad for putting her
through all the extra work for just me.
“I already told you I’m not going to date you, Arlo,” she responds cheekily. “It’s not that I’m too
old for you, either. I mean, the world wouldn’t blink if you dated a woman eighteen years younger, so
why can’t I do the same?” Her hands are on her hips and her chin is sticking straight out in a way that
makes her look quite formidable.
Ignoring the whole dating angle, I clarify, “I was asking out of friendship.”
As if she doesn’t hear me, she says, “The next man to be on top of me will be filling my grave.”
Well, that paints a sordid picture.
Before I can think of a coherent response, she adds, “I’m having supper at Mary’s house. She’s got
a date and she needs me to stay with the grandkids.” Tapping at her chin with her index finger, she
continues, “You know I hate the men she goes out with. I still think the two of you would be good
together.”
I don’t want to shoot the idea down out of hand. After all, Maggie is the best housekeeper I could
ever hope for, and I don’t want to insult her. For that reason, I don’t mention that Mary is a bit rough
for my taste. She looks like she could take me in the first round if we ever found ourselves in a
pugilist ring. “Thank you for thinking of me, Maggie, but you know I’m happy on my own.”
“You’re a miserable old shite who does nothing but work and read history books. You’re only
forty years old, man, quit acting like a fella twice your age.” She raises her eyebrows in a challenge.
“I’m happy,” I tell her. “Now I’m off to work. I’ll see you on Saturday?”
“I’ve got no better place to be,” she tells me while strapping on her apron. Being that I’m a single
man, Maggie only comes twice a week. It’s enough to keep me in suppers, make sure my laundry is
done, and the house maintains its cleanliness.
Once I’m in the car, I turn on the ignition before calling Danny. “I’m running behind schedule. I
don’t suppose you could take the meeting at the hotel?”
“You get lucky last night?” my lifelong friend wants to know.
“I got stuck watching a Portuguese soap opera with Maggie and I lost track of time.”
“You’re turning into an old woman, do you know that? I’m embarrassed for you.”
“Not you, too,” I grumble at him. “I’m a perfectly happy human,” I repeat for the second time in as
many minutes. “Take care of your own life and leave me to mine, will you?”
“It just seems to me that now that you live in the capital, you might have considered checking out
an old love interest.”
“I don’t live here,” I profess. “I keep a place here to stay a couple nights a week.” That’s what I
told myself when I bought my house anyway. The truth is, I’m here more than I’m not, which is why
Maggie has moved in with her daughter. When I go back to Nappes, she goes back to her own house.
She hasn’t been there in a long time.
“Princess Sophie’s engagement broke up over a year ago,” he tells me.
“So?”
“I figured it wasn’t a coincidence that when you found out, you moved to be closer to her.”
“I moved because our business was expanding. I moved to help set up shop.”
“Liar,” he hisses. “Don’t forget I was there when the two of you fell for each other. I know all the
gory details and I know she meant more to you than you ever let on. I’m guessing she still does.”
I shift the car into drive and slam my foot onto the gas. “Are you going to take my meeting for me
or not?”
“Don’t get your knickers in a knot. As it happens, I’m already at the hotel. I had an early breakfast
meeting here.” When I don’t respond, he warns, “Don’t let your life pass you by, Arlo. You know as
well as I do, we have to court joy if we want to have any.”
“Sophie hasn’t meant anything to me for a very long time.” I boldly lie, “I don’t feel the same way
about her that I used to. Also, I doubt she even remembers me.”
 “Oh, I’m pretty sure she remembers you,” he says mysteriously.
“What do you know that I don’t?”
“Nothing.” I know Danny well enough to know that he’s lying about something.
“I’m not going to argue with you,” I say. “I’ll tell you what I told Maggie: I’m happy with my life
and the only thing that could make me happier is if the two of you would allow me to live it on my
own terms.”
Instead of agreeing that I have a right to make my own decisions, Danny says, “I accepted an
invitation for us next Friday night. I think we’ll be able to make enough contacts to open another
Floribunda across town.”
“Text me the details and I’ll be there.” Clicking off the phone, I focus on the road ahead and let my
mind wander. Danny came to work for me ten years ago when I opened my first flower shop in
Nappes. When his father died, and he wanted nothing more to do with the grocery business, he sold
his interest to his sister and ventured out with me. I gave up on buying the bar after my mum died.
Ever since, the two of us have been doing remarkably well. We have fourteen storefronts across
Malquar and just last year we made our boldest move to date by setting up shop in the capital. Even
though the competition here is much greater, we’ve already made a name for ourselves.
The key to our success is that we grow at least half of the flowers we sell at my mum’s farm in
Nappes. In addition to keeping more of the profit in our own pockets, it also means we can make sure
only the best flowers are picked for our use.
After my mum died and George got put away again, this time for arson, I moved back to the
farmhouse and took over. I expanded Mum’s sizable garden and then rented a small shop in town to
give a storefront to the fledgling business she’d already begun. While Mum sold flowers out of her
house, she barely charged enough to make it worth her time. I upped the price to a competitive one
and started making a decent living for myself.
When I had asked Mum why she didn’t charge more, she’d said, “Because everyone should be
able to afford to have flowers in their lives, Arlo.”
While I agreed that was a nice idea, I did not think it was a good way to do business. But in
Mum’s memory and to pay respect to her feelings, I offer five and ten-pound bouquets that, while
arguably smaller than the more dearly priced ones, still allow everyone to be able to have something
of beauty in their homes.
While owning a floral business may not seem the manliest of pursuits, as George has been sure to
let me know from prison, I’ve enjoyed it immensely. After all, Floribunda has allowed me to honor
both the great loves of my life.
My mum and Sophie.
 Chapter Eight

Princess Sophie/Thirteen Years Ago

Once Avery finally puts the darts down, we end our very busy day of fleeing one life for another. We
are no longer socialites at uni, we’re now ordinary girls rusticating in the tiny town of Nappes and
renting a bed from a bartender at a local pub. The scenario has trouble written all over it.
“I’ll be late,” Arlo calls after us as we move to leave the bar. “But I’ll be quiet.”
As we climb the rickety stairs to our temporary home, I tell my friend, “This has the potential for a
lot of horrific newspaper headlines.”
She laughs. “‘Princess Sophie Goes Away and Nobody Knows!’”
“More like, ‘Princess Murdered in Barkeep’s Dingy Apartment,’ or ‘Princess Thrown Out
Window in Nappes!’”
As we arrive at the only door at the top of the stairs, Avery orders, “Quit being such a pessimist.
The worst thing I see happening is that we have to wear socks in the shower to keep from getting foot
fungus.”
“If this apartment is anything less than immaculate, I’m going to sleep in your car.”
“My car isn’t big enough to lie down in,” she reminds me as she sticks the key into the ancient-
looking lock.
“Then I’ll go down and sleep on a table in the bar.”
“‘Princess Passes Out in Pub.’” Avery chuckles while turning the key and pushing the door open.
Neither of us is prepared for the sight that greets us. While it’s immediately clear the flat is tiny,
it’s also neat as a pin and quite charmingly decorated.
I turn to look back down the stairs before asking, “Do you think we passed through a portal into
another dimension down there?”
Avery shrugs. “Maybe?” Even though she sounds as cynical as I am, she forges onward. Passing a
kitchenette—there’s no way a room that small classifies as a full kitchen—we land in the parlor.
There’s an overstuffed sofa that looks surprisingly comfortable, a small television, one armchair, and
one floor lamp. The lamp has been left on, ostensibly so we wouldn’t enter a dark apartment.
“This is surprisingly decent.” I pick up a magazine sitting on the small side table and show it to
Avery.
“Country Floral? I know this is a horrible stereotype, but Arlo doesn’t strike me as the gay type.”
“Me either,” I say, feeling more than a slight amount of disappointment. He did mention his
mother’s love of flowers, but not his own. “It certainly helps explain why he’s such a meticulous
housekeeper.”
Screwing up her face in curiosity, she says, “Do you suppose he and Danny are a couple?”
“Hardly! Danny was flirting with you all night long. Plus, if Arlo and Danny were an item,
wouldn’t they live together?”
Avery starts to walk toward the only hallway. “Maybe not in a small town. They might have to
keep separate residences so that people don’t talk.”
“Aves, this is the two thousands, not the sixteen hundreds.”
Shrugging, she says, “How do I know how small town Malquarian folks treat their gays? I’m
pretty sure there are still some towns in America that would throw you in jail for daring to be
different.”
Turning on the light in the bathroom, I decide, “Oh yeah, he’s playing for the other team. I haven’t
seen a bathroom this clean since I was home.” To clarify, I remind my friend, “And we have
something like fifteen house cleaners.”
Avery lifts the toilet lid, peeks behind the shower curtain, and even opens the medicine cabinet.
“It’s immaculate.” She sounds so disappointed.
“On a positive note, I’m feeling slightly better about staying here. It takes one major potential
crime off the table.”
“Rape?” she asks while nodding her head.
“Yup. Also, I’m guessing there are fewer gay serial killers than straight ones.”
“How do you figure?”
“Murder is a messy business.”
“And gay men don’t like messes?” Even as she agrees with me, her brow furrows. “Do we sound
racist or sexist?”
“Technically neither, but as we’re the only two people here, I think we can risk sounding less than
politically correct. Plus, I have a gay sister, so it’s not like I’ve got anything against homosexuality.”
Avery backs up into the hallway. “Let’s check out the bedroom.”
I follow behind for three short steps. Once again we both gasp when she turns the light on. The bed
takes up most of the room and it looks decidedly nest-worthy. It hosts an oversize navy duvet that
looks like it’s been stuffed with three feather comforters. There are two long pillows in matching
shams, and two smaller ones in crisp white pillowcases.
“If not for the whole gay thing,” Avery decides, “Arlo would be the perfect man.”
I step forward onto a rag rug that brings some color to the room. Reds, greens, and yellows
abound. “What do you want to bet he threw everything messy under his bed?”
Avery bends down and peers under the elevated mattress. “Not so much as a dust bunny.”
I spot our suitcases sitting across the room. Danny insisted on carrying them up for us earlier in the
evening. Picking mine up, I put it on the bed before unzipping it. Pulling out my heavy flannel
nightgown, I begin to undress. “I’m not up to showering tonight, how about you?”
“I think I will,” Avery says. “That way I can use up all the hot water.” Opening her suitcase, she
removes her cosmetic case and pajamas, then she shoots me a wink before walking out of the room.
Left alone in Arlo’s inner sanctum, I hurriedly put on my nightgown to ward off the early spring
chill permeating the air. There’s a radiator under the window, but it doesn’t seem to be performing its
job overly well. As I climb into bed, I let out a sigh. It’s deliciously cozy and surprisingly firm for all
that it looks like clouds piled on top of each other.
Propping the pillows up behind me, I stare at my surroundings in sheer contentment. After several
minutes, I scoot under the duvet and snuggle in. My eyelids flutter while I relish the pure enjoyment of
having successfully fallen off the face of the earth. Without being able to pinpoint the exact moment, I
fall into a dreamless sleep.
I have no idea when Avery comes to bed or when Arlo comes home. This is surprising as I don’t
usually sleep well when I’m away from my own bed. It took me months at school before I was finally
used to all the nighttime sounds and didn’t startle at every creak. But here I feel like I’ve crawled into
the most comfortable cave in the world. I feel safe, secure, and totally at ease.
I don’t wake up in the morning until Avery shouts, “I have coffee!”
“Don’t want to go to class …” I mumble while burying my face into a down pillow.
“It’s a good thing we’re not at school then.”
 Not at school … The events of yesterday slowly creep into my consciousness and my eyes pop
open. It all comes back to me in a rush and I push up into a sitting position. “Is Arlo out there?” I pull
the covers up like I’m some Victorian maiden about to be discovered in a compromising situation.
“He made the coffee.” Avery smiles like she has a secret.
“Why are you smiling?” I demand.
“I’m smiling because Arlo is definitely not gay.”
“Did he hit on you?” A wave of jealousy slams into me like an oncoming hurricane.
She shakes her head. “Nope. But he asked a lot of questions about you.”
“Like what?” I drop the duvet and throw my legs over the side of the bed.
“Like, ‘Is Betty seeing anyone? Does she live close by? Do you think she’d like some toast for
breakfast?’”
“He’s just being a good host.” I pick up my robe and tie it tightly around my waist. “Is he still
here?”
Nodding her head, Avery smiles. “He is.”
“Is he dressed?” My face warms in what is surely an epic blush at the thought of Arlo in something
less than his street clothes. It also spurs me on to move faster in case he’s not.
“He’s wearing flannel pajama pants.” Stepping out of my way, she adds, “And nothing else.”
Modesty would dictate I remain in the bedroom until he’s fully clothed, but my desire to see a
bare-chested Arlo overrides common sense, and I practically sprint out into the parlor.
 Chapter Nine

Arlo/Thirteen Years Ago

Five hundred pounds is about a third of what Mum and George need to keep the bank from foreclosing
on their farm. So, while it’s not enough to save them, it might be an adequate amount to get an
extension to pay off the rest.
After closing the bar last night, I stayed and drank a whiskey in hopes it would help me sleep. My
sleeper sofa is too short for me which means I can’t stretch out like I normally do. Having said that,
the ability to help my mum is worth a small amount of discomfort.
I did my best not to make any noise when I came into the apartment. I simply got undressed and
then moved the furniture around so I could pull out the sleeper. Once I was settled, I expected to toss
and turn the night away, but was surprised by how easily I succumbed to my dreams.
When I woke up, my first thought was that there’s something comforting about not being alone in
my apartment. While I don’t know Betty and Veronica in the least, having them here is oddly nice. I
don’t stop to investigate the thought, I merely jump out of bed and put on a pot of coffee as per
Veronica’s suggestion that I supply coffee while they’re my guests.
Once the kettle is heating, I hurry off to the bathroom to take a quick shower. I’m in and out in five
minutes and towel drying my hair when I run into Veronica. “Hey there, Arlo,” she says
appreciatively. “You look … rested.” The long, slow glance she gives me starts at my head and isn’t
over until she’s inspecting my bare feet.
“Is Betty up yet?” She needs to know I’m not interested if that’s what was on her mind.
“Not yet. She’s enjoying a lie in.”
“Do you work at the flower shop with her?” I ask, hoping to learn more about the mysterious
blonde in my bed.
Veronica looks confused while repeating, “The flower shop.”
“The place where Betty works?”
Veronica is not much of an actress. “Betty works at a flower shop?”
“That’s what she told me.” I toss my towel back into the bathroom.
“Oh, that flower shop.”
“Was she lying about working in a flower shop?” I shouldn’t be surprised as I already know she’s
lying about her name.
“Of course she works in a flower shop.” Veronica is either the world’s worst liar or she’s on the
spectrum. No offense to people on the spectrum, but of the three I know, they all have a slightly
different affect, and none of them lie well.
“What’s the name of it?” Here’s my chance to catch her.
“It’s … um … you know … Floribunda.”
“Floribunda?” I’m not buying it.
Tightening the knot on her robe, Veronica says, “They’re roses, which I’m guessing you know
something about?”
“Why would I know anything about roses?” I move around her to reach into the cupboard to pull
down and then fill coffee mugs.
“You have a floral magazine in the parlor,” she tells me. There’s an accusatory tone in her voice.
 “Danny brings me his mum’s old magazines to give to my mum,” I explain. “You didn’t secretly
think I had a flower arranging habit, did you?”
Her lopsided shrug makes me laugh before I confess, “I’m actually very good at arranging flowers,
but only because my mum taught me.”
“So, you and Betty have that in common.” Her eyes are twinkling like she’s up to something. “You
know she’s not seeing anyone.”
“You don’t say.” I try not to express blatant relief at the comment, but that doesn’t mean the
emotion isn’t there.
“She’s free as a bird.” Veronica reaches out for the mug I offer her and takes a tentative sip.
“What are you two up to today?” I finally ask.
“What do you suggest?”
“You could take a stroll down by the pond,” I say. “Or you could walk around town. That ought to
fill up at least twenty minutes.” There really isn’t that much to do in Nappes.
“How about if you show us around?” Veronica asks. “We could pay you extra to be our tour
guide.”
“You’re paying me enough,” I tell her. “I’d be happy to give you the grand tour.”
She picks up the mug I poured for Betty and declares, “Excellent. We can be ready in ten minutes.”
Then she disappears into the bedroom.
I make use of the privacy to put on a pair of jeans. While I’m still trying to finagle my head through
the opening of my wooly jumper, I hear a voice behind me. “Good morning.” It’s Betty and she sounds
uncertain.
Finally shoving my head through the hole, I respond, “Good morning to you, too. How did you
sleep?”
“Very well, thank you.” She looks marvelously tousled and adorable in her oversize plush robe. A
mental image of her in my bed fills my head in a very appealing way.
While I’m tempted to ask her the name of the flower shop she works in—I’m assuming Veronica
hasn’t had time to let her know that I’m on to her lie—I suddenly feel protective of Betty. I don’t want
to put her on the defensive. “I told Veronica I’d give you a tour of Nappes.”
“That’s awfully nice of you.” A hint of a blush washes over her cheeks while she looks down at
her hands.
“I’m a nice guy,” I tell her. I’m also a guy who hasn’t kissed anyone in a very long time and am
suddenly battling an urge to pull Betty into my arms and remind myself what it’s like to hold a woman.
“You’ve certainly been very accommodating,” she says. “We’re grateful for all you’re doing to
make our little getaway possible.”
Offering a shrug, I tell her, “I predict that after today, you and Veronica are going to question what
you’re doing here, and you’ll be on your way to greener pastures by nightfall.” Even while I say that I
hope it isn’t true. Not only do I need their money, but I suddenly find myself upset at the idea of Betty
leaving Nappes.
Almost like she’s reading my mind, she says, “I promise we’re staying a full week. We both need a
break, and this town seems like the perfect place for that.”
“I haven’t even shown it to you yet.”
“No.” She takes one step closer to me. “But I like what I’ve seen so far.”
A half smile forms as I say, “I like what I see, too.”
Clearly neither of us is talking about Nappes. We seem to be declaring our interest in each other,
which is both welcome and surprising. You wouldn’t think a woman who only lets herself have one
drink when she’s out would stand in a strange man’s apartment and flirt with him while still wearing
her nightgown, but that’s where we are, and to be quite honest, I’m a big fan of whatever is going on
here.
After all, I don’t need to know a woman’s real name in order to enjoy spending time with her. And
maybe if things go well, Betty will tell me who she really is.
 Chapter Ten

Princess Sophie/Thirteen Years Ago

“I think I’ll stay here.” Avery announces this as we’re putting on our coats to leave Arlo’s apartment
for a tour of Nappes.
“Excuse me?” I turn to her with such force, I almost upset my center of balance and fall over. I
grab a hold of her arm to steady myself. “You have to come with us.”
She holds up her pointer finger to signal that she needs a moment alone with me before pulling me
the few steps into the parlor. Turning her back to the door, she leans in and whispers, “He’s safe and
you like each other. I don’t want to be a third wheel.”
“How do you know he’s safe?” I demand, even though I know to my very depths that he is.
“Soph, go have some fun,” she encourages. “When was the last time you spent the day with a guy
who didn’t know who you were?”
Never. Never is the last time I spent time with anyone who didn’t know who I was. “Fine. But
leave your phone on in case I need you.”
Pushing me to the front door, she speaks louder. “Have fun, you two!”
Arlo’s uncertain expression quickly morphs into one of happiness. “Call us if you need anything,”
he tells Avery. Then he opens the door for me, and we leave his apartment.
Once we’re down the stairs and standing in the empty pub, he says, “Why don’t we start with a
drive in the countryside and then we can grab a bite of breakfast.” In response to the word breakfast,
my stomach lets out a monster growl, causing me to flush with embarrassment.
Arlo tries and fails to suppress a smile. “You know, I’m kind of hungry. Would you mind if we ate
first?”
“That sounds good.” My words sound choked, but my stomach is cheering.
He unlocks and opens the door to the pub, and we walk through it. The gust of wind that blows by
feels more like winter than spring. Pulling my coat more tightly around me, I walk beside Arlo as he
turns down the small street.
“Where did Nappes get its name?” I ask.
He shrugs. “It depends on who you ask. My mum says it was named for all the hardworking
women who’ve kept house here over the years. But George says that’s a load because the town was
founded in the sixteen hundreds, and no one cared what women thought then.”
“He’s probably right,” I decide. “So where does he think the name came from?”
“He doesn’t care,” Arlo says. “George isn’t an intellectually curious man.”
“It sounds like you don’t like him very much.” Princess Sophie would never be so gauche as to
talk about something so personal with a man she’d just met, but Betty doesn’t have to follow such
strict rules. I’m planning on enjoying every moment of being a normal person.
Enough time passes that I’m not sure whether Arlo is going to comment, and I start to feel like I
shouldn’t have asked. “Have you ever had one of those relatives you wish you didn’t?” he asks.
I shake my head, so he continues, “My mom married George when I was four. I think she did it
because she wanted to give me a father figure, but if that was her goal, she picked poorly.”
“Does she love him?” Look at me asking all the personal questions.
“Maybe? I mean there must have been something between them once, but George isn’t the kind of
guy to get all sappy and romantic. He’s nice enough to Mum, but he takes terrible advantage of her.”
I really want to know what that means, but that seems like it would be going too far. After
spending my whole life walking the tightrope of decorum, there’s no way I can jump off to that
degree. Instead, I ask, “Do you still have a relationship with your father?”
“Never knew him,” he says.
A breathy “Oh” escapes my mouth.
“George reminds me often that I’m a bastard,” Arlo says, not sounding particularly bothered by it.
Before I can try to figure out how to respond to such candor, he asks, “How about your parents? Are
they still together?”
“They are.” I read somewhere that if you’re going to lie you need to keep your story as close to the
truth as possible so you have a better chance of remembering what you’ve said. “They love each other
very much.”
“Do you have brothers and sisters?”
Again, sticking to the truth, I say, “I have two sisters and three brothers.”
He stops and opens the door to a little café called Claire’s. Once we walk into the warmth, he
comments, “That’s a big family. You don’t see a lot of those around these days.”
While I worry that I should have lied and said I was an only child, a slim, middle-aged woman
wearing a floral print dress greets us. “Arlo Hammond, what are you doing here?”
“My friend Betty is in town visiting and I thought I’d have her try the best crepes in all of
Malquar.” He helps me take my coat off before hanging it on a coat rack next to the wall.
She turns her attention to me in what can only be described as skepticism. “Betty, is it? Have we
met? You look very familiar.”
Shifting nervously from side to side, I tell her, “I hear that a lot. I must just have one of those
faces.” My throat tightens so much it feels like it’s starting to close. Just because no one knew who I
was in a dark pub yesterday, doesn’t mean I’m unrecognizable in the stark light of day. What was I
thinking, coming out like this?
Taking two menus off the counter next to her, she says, “My name’s Claire, and any friend of
Arlo’s is a friend of mine.” Then she turns around and leads the way across the small dining room to a
round table for two.
Once we’re seated, Arlo says, “Two lattes, please.”
Claire says, “You can have one, but why don’t you let Betty decide what she wants for herself.” I
don’t know if it’s paranoia, but I swear she emphasizes my name like she knows it’s fake.
Arlo looks at me. “What would you like to drink?”
“A latte sounds great.”
Claire's gaze shifts between the two of us before resting on Arlo. “So, you know what the lady
likes to drink in the morning, do you?” Oh dear, she thinks we’re a couple. Before I can disabuse her
of that notion, she adds, “Hearts will be breaking all over Nappes.” Then she offers a bold wink
before walking away.
“I’m sorry,” I tell Arlo. “I hope being seen with me won’t have people gossiping about you.”
Arlo’s expression softens as his luscious lips turn up at the edges. “Don’t be sorry. It’ll do my
reputation a world of good, I assure you.”
“But I wouldn’t want your girlfriend to hear anything and worry.” Talk about slick. I can’t even
look at him while I say that.
He reaches across the table and touches my hand. It’s barely any contact at all but the jolt of
electricity that runs through me is intense. “I don’t have a girlfriend, Betty.”
 I stare at the ramekin holding sugar packets. “Oh?”
“Nappes is a small town. Most women around my age who grew up here moved out as soon as
they could. And trust me, no younger people ever move here willingly.”
“So, who do you date?” Talk about none of my business.
“Danny and I occasionally go pub crawling in nearby towns.” His grip tightens slightly on my hand
before he lifts his to pick up his water glass. Instead of taking a sip, he asks, “Where do you live? You
didn’t tell me last night.”
Crap, now what do I say? Reminding myself to stay close to the truth, I say, “Ave …Veronica and I
are in our final year at uni.”
His head tilts to the side in a confused manner. “I thought you worked for a florist?”
“A florist?” That’s what I get for getting inventive. “Yes, I do. I mean, I work for them when I’m
not in school. You know, on the weekends.” I am the world’s worst liar.
“What are you going to school for?”
Claire stops by with our drinks which buys me some time. She asks, “What kind of crepes would
you like?”
“I like anything,” I tell her, while wondering what I should tell Arlo about my studies.
“The chocolate, raspberry, and lemon crème are my favorites,” Arlo says. “Why don’t we get an
order of each?”
“It sounds like you have quite an appetite this morning.” Claire shrugs her eyebrows at him before
smiling and raising one brow at me.
Arlo shakes his head and smirks. “I work hard, Claire. It makes a man hungry.”
“Be still my heart.” She flutters her hand in front of her face like it’s a fan. “I’m going to be
thinking of how hard you work all day.”
It’s clear she’s making a double entendre, and her insinuation sets my face aflame once again. As
she walks away, I tell Arlo, “I think Claire likes you.”
“Claire is a flirt and always has been, which can be awkward as she’s one of my mum’s best
friends.” While I open a sugar packet and pour it into my latte, he adds, “You were about to tell me
what you’re studying at university.”
“Fine arts.” Once again, I decide to stick with the truth.
“And what do you plan to do with your degree?” He takes his first sip which leaves foam on his
upper lip. It’s so distracting, I want to lick it off. Talk about bold. Instead of acting on that ill-advised
instinct, I gently run my tongue over my upper lip to let him know there’s something on his.
He doesn’t seem to be taking the hint as his gaze remains riveted on my mouth. “You have some
foam,” I finally tell him.
“Oh.” He startles and picks up his napkin. After wiping it away, he says, “So, fine arts. What are
you going to do with that?”
“I’d like to open a florist shop.” This would be the truth if I weren’t a princess. My mum’s parents
owned a small florist shop and it’s actually how my mum and dad met. She was making a delivery to
the cook in the kitchen of the palace, and my father happened to walk in. He was so taken with her he
found out which shop she worked at. He started to visit often in hopes of having a chance to talk to
her.
“What are you going to call it?” Arlo’s question breaks into my thoughts.
“Floribunda,” I tell him. “Those are my mum’s favorite roses.”
“I thought the florist you worked at was called Floribunda?” Before I can ask where he got that
idea, he offers, “That’s what Veronica said anyway.”
 “Did she?” Come on brain, think of a snappy response … “That’s because we like to pretend I
already own the shop.” Look at me, I’m becoming a better liar by the second.
“You’re going to love my mum then,” he says. “Roses are her favorite, too.”
Arlo and I both clearly love our mums and we’re attracted to each other. In the real world that
would be a decent enough start to a relationship. But in our case, I’m not sure it’s sufficient.
Especially when he’s sure to turn tail and run when he finds out who I am.
It’s been my experience that the only people who want anything to do with dating the next
generation of royals only want to do so for their own gain. It surprises me to realize that it would
break my heart if Arlo were like that.
 Chapter Eleven

Arlo/Thirteen Years Ago

Betty and I don’t talk much once our food arrives. I suspect we’re both thinking about something more
than what we’re putting into our stomachs. I know I am.
When Claire comes over to see how we’re doing, Betty tells her, “Everything was exceptional,
really.” When asked if she wants anything else, Betty says, “We’ll just take the check.” Then she
reaches for her purse.
After Claire walks away, I motion for her to put her purse down. “Breakfast and suppers are on
me, remember?”
She shakes her head and I’m momentarily overwhelmed by her presence. Betty is a beautiful
woman, made even more so by the fact that I don’t think she has any idea how attractive she is. She
has a shy reservedness about her that makes me think she doesn’t relax very often.
“I thought you were only in charge of coffee and supper,” she says.
“Maybe so, but this breakfast is on me.” Pulling out my wallet, I extract the appropriate amount of
money and leave it on the table. Standing up, I pull her chair out for her before offering a small wave
to Claire. Then we’re on our way.
I lead Betty up one side of the road and down the other while pointing out all the spots of interest,
which truly aren’t that interesting. There’s the market, the apothecary, the petrol station, another café,
and a clothing store. When we pass the laundry, she asks, “Can we go in so I can meet your mother?”
I’m not sure my mum would want to be met while at work, but I figure if Betty wants to meet her
now, there’s probably no harm. Also, it’s very warm inside the laundry with all the irons and
machines at work. I think we’d both enjoy taking the chill off.
After opening the heavy glass door for Betty, I spot my mum before she sees me. Hunched over the
iron, she looks old and tired. She’s only fifty but she looks closer to sixty. Mum has not had an easy
life, and I feel bad that I’ve not been able to help make it easier.
When she finally looks up from the shirt she’s pressing, shock etches across her features. Walking
out to the front counter, Mum says, “I thought I wasn’t seeing you until tonight.” When she notices I’m
not alone, she adds, “You must be the lass renting my son’s apartment. Betty, is it?”
Betty stretches out her hand to shake my mum’s. “I am. Your son has been very accommodating.”
“So much so that he’s having you to the house for supper, eh?” I can’t tell exactly what she’s
thinking but she’s not smiling, which is not her norm. She’s usually amiable.
Betty nods her head once. “I wanted to bring something tonight and thought it best to ask you in
person what that should be.”
With a furrowed brow, Mum looks at me before answering, “Why don’t you bring some wine?”
“I could bring dessert, as well,” Betty says. “If there’s a pastry shop nearby.”
Mum shakes her head. “I’ve got everything else under control.”
“Thanks for having us, Mum,” I say. “Your shepherd’s pie is the best in the whole village.”
A hint of a grin breaks through her pensive demeanor. “That’s not saying much, is it?” She always
teases that being the best at anything in Nappes is no compliment as so few people live here.
“It’s better than being the worst,” I declare. The crinkle lines at the corner of her eyes indicate
she’s trying to repress a smile.
 “Will George be joining us?” I know it’s supposed to be his night with his cronies, but I figure it’s
best to confirm.
Shaking her graying head, Mum says, “No, and thank God for that. The man isn’t much for
company.”
Just as she turns to go back to her work, Betty says, “Mrs. Hammond.”
Mum looks back. “Elizabeth.”
“Elizabeth. Thank you very much for hosting us this evening. It’s always been a dream of mine to
visit a real farm.”
Mum looks like you could knock her over with a feather. “Why?”
Betty shrugs. “I guess I see them as romantic kinds of places. You know, like in the movies.”
“I don’t know what kind of films you go to,” Mum tells her. “But I can assure you, there’s nothing
romantic about farm living. It’s a lot of hard work and most days, I’m not sure it’s worth it.”
Mum is clearly not happy about something. While I knew she might not want to be bothered at
work, I didn’t think she’d be quite so prickly. I reach out and take Betty’s hand in mine before giving
it a small tug. “Bye, Mum, we’ll see you tonight.”
Betty resists my attempt to pull her as she watches Mum go back to her pressing machine. When
her posture finally relaxes, I lead her out of the shop.
Once we’re back on the street, I tell her, “Mum isn’t very friendly when she’s working.” I don’t
know if that’s true or not, but I feel like I have to say something.
“I can’t say that I blame her. It looks like a lot of hard work.”
While we walk across the street to where my car is parked, I ask, “Are you ready to see the
famous Nappes countryside?”
As I open the passenger side door, she jokes, “It’s famous, is it? I thought it was the most boring
place on earth.”
“While that might be the impression I gave”—I pause while I run around to the driver’s side and
get in—“someone who loves the idea of farms might just think it’s the most magical place on earth.” I
wink at her and add, “Lots of fresh air and manure.”
She visibly relaxes as she leans her head back. “You had me at fresh air. Manure, not so much.”
“You have been to a farm before, haven’t you?”
“Of course. I’ve been to an apple orchard, and several wineries. My parents even brought in a
little petting zoo of farm animals for one of my birthdays.” No need to wonder at Betty’s background.
If her parents threw her parties like that, our upbringings were vastly different.
We spend the next two hours driving aimlessly around the countryside and talking about all manner
of things—favorite foods, favorite movies, favorite music. I learn that she plays both the piano and
the violin, but prefers the piano; she graduates university in the summer and plans to keep working in
the flower shop for a few years before opening her own. I discover she doesn’t have a lot of friends,
as she claims it’s too hard to trust people. This makes me wonder if there’s some heartache in her
past. Betty seems like the kind of person that would organically be surrounded by a crowd of
admirers.
My tour ends at the pond on the outskirts of town. As we get out of the car, I take her hand in mine
and tell her, “This little body of water has quite a history.”
She holds onto me in a way that suggests she’s worried I’m going to disappear if she lets go. “Do
tell.”
“In the late sixteen hundreds, Princess Sophie came to town to meet a man she thought she loved
…”
 Betty stops walking in her tracks. “This is the Fainting Pond?”
“You’ve already heard of it then.”
“Of course. Princess Sophie came here to meet the man she loved, and she found him in the arms
of another.” She pauses before saying, “But I thought that happened in a town called Neve not
Nappe.”
“The pond is right between Nappe and where Neve used to be. Neve is nothing more than a few
old, abandoned buildings now.” I tell her, “I’m surprised you even know the story. I thought only local
folks kept that tale alive.”
“Other people have heard of it,” she says distractedly.
“It’s the only thing that gives our little village any space in the Malquarian history books.” Her
gaze is transfixed on the scene ahead of us, so I keep talking. “Princess Sophie fainted when she saw
Eduardo in the arms of another, and she fell into the water. Her heavy skirts carried her under and by
the time they pulled her from the depths, she was dead.”
Betty shakes her head. “She lived for two weeks. She was taken to a nearby home, but she
developed what we now assume is pneumonia. She died there.”
“How do you know that? Everyone around here thinks she died immediately.”
“I’m sure it was more of a sensational story that way. Every generation of royals since that time
has named one of their daughters Sophie, whether it’s their first name or a middle name.”
“Is that why there’s a Princess Sophie today?”
She blinks her eyes several times before answering. “The story is that the royal family wants to
give the original Princess Sophie a chance at the happy ending that she didn’t get in life.”
“That’s awfully fanciful,” I tell her.
Kicking her toe into the ground, she says, “I can’t help but wonder if any of those princesses ever
felt that great weight of expectation on them, like they owed it to their ancestor to have the life she
never did.”
The air is suddenly full of tension and emotion. Something is going on here and I’m not sure what
that is. Feeling compelled, I take both of Betty’s hands into my own and gently pull her toward me.
“We’re lucky we’re just a couple of regular people then.” Before she can respond, I slowly lower my
mouth to hers. She doesn’t move away so I kiss her gently as if she were fragile porcelain.
I hadn’t planned on kissing her, but I feel a strange connection to Betty that runs deeper than
anything I’ve ever had with any other woman, which is astonishing as I haven’t even known her for a
day. I want to kiss her again and again, but I’m not going to. At least, not until she trusts me enough to
tell me her real name.
 Chapter Twelve

Queen Charlotte
Picking up the telephone on her desk, Charlotte rings for her butler. Moments later, a slight but austere
man gently knocks on the door before entering. He bows before saying, “Ma’am?”
Looking up from her pile of correspondence, the queen smiles. “Simpson, I believe my husband
has a file in his office on a man named Arlo Hammond. Would you please collect it for me?”
“I’ll ask Mr. Harrison for it,” he says with another bow.
Before he can leave, Charlotte inquires, “How are wedding plans going down in the kitchen? I
have a meeting with Cook later today to get an update, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel it.”
“It’s a flurry of activity, ma’am, but with the recent nuptials of Prince Geoffrey and Prince Alistair,
I’m certain everyone knows what they’re doing.”
“Now we just have Bree and Sophie and then all the birds will have flown the nest.” Simpson’s
furrowed brow prompts her to add, “I realize Sophie doesn’t have a suitor yet, but it’s only a matter
of time.”
“She’s been receiving some lovely floral arrangements,” Simpson says, clearly not feeling it
appropriate to come right out and ask the question forming in his mind.
“Yes, she has.” Charlotte asks, “Speaking of which, would you also get me the telephone number
for a florist called Floribunda?”
“I would be happy to make the call for you, ma’am, if you tell me what it is you’d like to have
ordered.”
“No need. I’ll place the call myself.” Then she turns her attention back to her desk, effectively
dismissing her butler.

Princess Sophie/Present Day

I haven’t eaten at Duval since before Drew brought his secretary here and then rescued her in the
ladies’ room. While not as sordid a tale as it sounds, it was the beginning of the end for my eldest
brother’s single years. His and Agnes’s wedding will be right after Bree and Grady’s.
I take a sip of my tea while I watch the other diners. By the number of business suits, there appear
to be several work-related meetings happening around us, which I suppose isn’t surprising for a
Tuesday afternoon. Avery is late as usual, and my stomach starts to grumble. I’m about to attack the
breadbasket when I spot her striding across the room like a model on the catwalk. She looks as
radiant as ever. Her skin is clear and rosy, and her eyes sparkle like she has a secret.
We haven’t seen each other in nearly two months, which makes this get-together long overdue. We
normally see each other every week or so. In lieu of a more traditional greeting, I stand up and say, “I
wish you spent less time making yourself so gorgeous.”
She pulls me into a less than delicate hug. “I did it all for you, so the press doesn’t comment on
what a dowdy old friend you have.”
Once we’re both seated, I ask, “Have you noticed how little the press actually thinks of me these
days?”
“That’s good, right?”
 I shrug my shoulders off-handedly. “Yes and no. Yes, because they’ve certainly run me through the
wringer in the last year and it’s been awful. And no, because I feel like they’ve given up on me.”
Avery places a napkin in her lap. “Given up on you? What does that even mean?”
“It means that now that my siblings are all settling down, they’ve decided I’ll be the old maid
princess they don’t have to speculate about anymore.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says. “It wasn’t that long ago that we sat right here, and I listened while
you threatened to burn down every newspaper in town.”
“That was last year.” I sound whiny. “And last year all they could write about was how pathetic I
was for having a cheat of a fiancé.”
“They never called you pathetic.”
The waiter arrives and we pause our conversation to order salads and wine. When he leaves, I tell
my friend, “You do realize you’re the only person alive that I day drink with.”
“That’s because in Texas it’s already after five.”
“I think it’s five a.m. in Texas.”
“That’s when we start drinking in Texas,” she says with a wink.
“You haven’t even lived there since secondary school,” I remind her.
With an audacious tilt to her head, she tells me, “Once a Texan, always a Texan. Now, tell me,
how have we gone so long without seeing each other?”
“I blame your state of domestic bliss. If you didn’t adore Tony so much, you’d leave your house
more often.”
“I do love him.” She stares across the room like she’s looking right at him.
“Stop it,” I tell her. “You have the rest of your life for that nonsense; meanwhile, my life is stuck
on pause and I’m ready to get back out there.”
“Do you want me to ask Tony if he knows anyone he can set you up with?” She sounds surprised.
“Why haven’t you done that before now?” I don’t really expect an answer as I know Avery has
been giving me time for my heart to mend.
After the waiter delivers our wine, Avery immediately lifts her glass as though toasting me. “If
you’re serious about being back on the market, I’ll get busy looking.”
“Thank you.” I take a sip of the crisp Viognier and let the citrusy flavors play on my tongue. I am
ready to get back out there, but so far I haven’t told anyone outside of my family for fear that they’d
fuss over me like I’m some delicate crystal that would break at another disappointment.
“Tony and I are going to a party on Friday night. Why don’t you join us?”
“I can’t crash a party.” But before she can respond, I ask, “What party?”
“It’s at the art museum. I’m sure they’d love for you to attend. After all, a royal at their event will
only give it more cachet.”
“What is the gathering for?” I ask.
“Tony’s firm is throwing it to thank their clients for yet another year of record profits.”
“It’s nice to hear the PR game is going to be able to keep you in your lifestyle,” I tease.
“Especially because I just quit my job.” Her eyes are sparkling again.
“I would accuse you of being pregnant right now, but you’re drinking, so what gives? You love
your job.”
“I do love my job,” she says. “And you’re correct, I’m not pregnant. Yet …”
Raising my eyebrow in question, I repeat, “Yet? It sounds like you might have started trying.”
“We have. Tony and I both want two or three children, so we figure there’s no time like the
present. I’ll be thirty-five in a few months and at that point things will get increasingly harder and
more dangerous in the procreation game.”
I’m only a few months younger than Avery, so if she’s nearing risky territory, so am I. The
difference is, she’s already in love with the man she wants to have babies with. I haven’t even met
mine. I’m clearly doing a horrible job hiding my reaction to her news because she reaches across the
table and places her hand on mine. “I’ll have my second and third babies with you.”
“If that’s what you’re thinking, you’d best parade every stud in Malquar in front of me on Friday,”
I grumble.
“Don’t be grumpy, Soph.” Before I can defend my demeanor, she asks, “Now what’s this about
Arlo Hammond getting in touch after all this time?”
“I have no idea,” I tell her. “But one thing is clear, he’s not the same man I remember him being.”
“How in the world would you know that?”
“The notes he sends with the flowers are so generic. The Arlo I remember would have said
something that would have touched my soul.”
“Maybe he’s afraid to scare you away,” she says.
“Maybe he’s boring and what we had was nothing more than a figment of my imagination.”
“That would have been some figment,” Avery says. “The two of you were hot and heavy from
almost the first day. I swear, I thought you were going to marry the guy.”
“How could I have? Not after what happened. My parents would have never agreed.”
“People run away together all the time, Soph. Just because you’re a princess doesn’t mean you
don’t have the right to make your own choices.”
“Now you tell me.” I take a roll out of the basket and butter it.
“I told you the same thing then,” she reminds me. “You just didn’t want to hear it.”
The first bite sits in a lump in my throat. I take a sip of water to aid its removal, before asking,
“What are the chances Arlo Hammond was all that I thought he was? I was young, and I wanted
something big to happen in my life. If I had to guess, I’d say I projected my desires onto him, and he
wasn’t nearly the man I thought he was.”
“What are the chances you’re trying to talk yourself out of something you regret not doing?” she
asks.
I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about him over the years. At first, I felt every bit that we
were tragic star-crossed lovers, like Romeo and Juliet. But as time went on, I moved on. I didn’t
startle every time I saw a tall, strapping, dark-haired man. I dated. Heck, I even got engaged. But now,
for some reason, Arlo is back and he’s sending flowers.
“He doesn’t say he wants to see me,” I tell Avery.
“He’s sending flowers, you dolt. Obviously, he wants to see you. He’s probably just as scared as
you are.”
“I wouldn’t know how to get a hold of him if I wanted.”
“You could start with the florist who delivers his gifts. Who are they?”
A shiver jolts through me as I tell her the name. “Floribunda.”
“Isn’t that the name you always said that you’d use if you could have opened your own flower
shop?” I nod my head slowly in reply.
Screwing up her features in confusion, she asks, “What kind of coincidence is it that Arlo would
send you flowers from a shop with the name Floribunda?”
I wish I knew, although I’m oddly afraid of the answer.
 Chapter Thirteen

Arlo/Present Day
I’ve started scheduling my meetings for after eleven in the morning so I can watch Segundas
Oportunidades. I know I could watch it later in the day, but I want to see it the minute it goes live. I’ll
go to my grave without telling anyone this, but I’ve become that invested in Alfonso and Elena’s
future. Will they stay together once she knows the babies she carries aren’t his? Will he even want to
raise another man’s children? Will they have their second chance like the title of the show suggests?
On day three of my new habit—I watch in my room on the days Maggie is here—I start to consider
that I’ve become a rather pathetic figure. Danny is right when he says I’ve been acting like an old
woman. Although, I’d venture to guess most old women are still more exciting than I am.
My friend is also right when he says the only reason I bought a house in the capital is because
Sophie ended her engagement to that degenerate lord. While I’ve barely admitted it to myself, I had
hoped to run into her. I secretly thought that after all these years, she and I might actually be able to
build a life together. But here’s a newsflash: florists and royals don’t generally run in the same
crowd. Heck, I don’t even have a crowd. The only people I know here are the people who work for
me.
Turning off the television, I hurry down the stairs to start my day. As I’m pulling my jacket out of
the closet, Maggie sneaks up on me. “What do you want for supper tonight?”
I turn around and startle at the sight of her. She’s wearing a full face of makeup and appears to
have curled her hair as well. In lieu of answering her question, I tell her, “You look nice.”
“Why do you sound so surprised?” she demands. “Don’t I always look nice?” Her hands are on
her hips in a posture of pure challenge.
“You always do.” That didn’t sound quite as sincere as I’d hoped it would.
“Just because I’m not looking for a man doesn’t mean I don’t like to look good.” The glare she
gives me makes me feel like I’m between a live volcano and an alligator pit at suppertime—in other
words, in jeopardy of disaster.
I clear my throat and start again. “You look lovely as always, Maggie.”
“You’re a liar.”
“Are you looking for a fight?” I ask. “Because I really need to go.”
“I’m looking to find out what you want for supper tonight,” she hisses. “Any chance you’re going
to tell me?”
On impulse, I decide, “I thought I’d go out tonight.” Not because I really want to, but Maggie is in
such a state, there’s no telling what she might do to my food.
“Do you want me to make something to get you through the rest of the week?” How she makes that
sound like a threat, I don’t know, but she does.
“No, thanks, Maggie. I’m good.”
Turning around, she grumbles about men who can’t just let things be. There’s clearly something
else going on, but there’s no way I’m going to ask what that is. I may not know much about the moods
of women, but I do know when not to poke the bear.
I make quick work of driving the three kilometers to Floribunda. Turning down the alleyway that
leads to the parking lot, I pull into my regular spot. Instead of getting out, I revisit the epiphany I had
Another random document with
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 DON TIMOTEO Ó EL LITERATO

Genus irritabile vatum ha dicho un poeta latino. Esta expresión

bastaría á probarnos que el amor propio ha sido en todos tiempos el
primer amor de los literatos, si hubiésemos menester más pruebas
de esta incontestable verdad que la simple vista de los más de esos
hombres que viven entre nosotros de literatura. No queremos decir
por esto que sea el amor propio defecto exclusivo de los que por su
talento se distinguen: generalmente se puede asegurar que no hay
nada más temible en la sociedad que el trato de las personas que se
sienten con alguna superioridad sobre sus semejantes. ¿Hay cosa
más insoportable que la conversación y los dengues de la hermosa
que lo es á sabiendas? Mírela usted á la cara tres veces seguidas;
diríjala usted la palabra con aquella educación, deferencia ó placer
que difícilmente pueden dejar de tenerse hablando con una
hermosa; ya le cree á usted su don Amadeo, ya le mira á usted
como quien le perdona la vida. Ella sí, es amable, es un modelo de
dulzura; pero su amabilidad es la afectada mansedumbre del león,
que hace sentir de vez en cuando el peso de sus garras; es pura
compasión que nos dispensa.
Pasemos de la aristocracia de la belleza á la de la cuna. ¡Qué
amable es el señor marqués, qué despreocupado, qué llano! Vedle
con el sombrero en la mano, sobre todo para sus inferiores. Aquella
llaneza, aquella deferencia, si ahondamos en su corazón, es una
honra que cree dispensar, una limosna que cree hacer al plebeyo.
Trate éste diariamente con él, y al fin de la jornada nos dará noticias
de su amabilidad: ocasiones habrá en que algún manoplazo feudal
le haga recordar con quién se las ha.
No hablemos de la aristocracia del dinero, porque si alguna hay falta
de fundamento es ésta: la que se funda en la riqueza, que todos
pueden tener: en el oro, de que solemos ver henchidos los bolsillos
de éste ó de aquél alternativamente, y no siempre de los hombres
de más mérito; en el dinero, que se adquiere muchas veces por
medios ilícitos, y que la fortuna reparte á ciegas sobre sus favoritos
de capricho.
Si algún orgullo hay, pues, disculpable, es el que se funda en la
aristocracia del talento, y más disculpable ciertamente donde es á
toda luz más fácil nacer hermosa, de noble cuna, ó adquirir riqueza,
que lucir el talento que nace entre abrojos cuando nace, que sólo
acarrea sinsabores; y que se encuentra aisladamente encerrado en
la cabeza de su dueño como en callejón sin salida. El estado de la
literatura entre nosotros, y el heroísmo que en cierto modo se
necesita para dedicarse á las improductivas letras, es la causa que
hace á muchos de nuestros literatos más insoportables que los de
cualquiera otro país: añádese á éste el poco saber de la
generalidad, y de aquí se podrá inferir que entre nosotros el literato
es una especie de oráculo que, poseedor único de su secreto y solo
iniciado en sus misterios recónditos, emite su opinión oscura con
voz retumbante y hueca, subido en el trípode que la general
ignorancia le fabrica. Charlatán por naturaleza, se rodea del aparato
ostentoso de las apariencias, y es un cuerpo más impenetrable que
la célebre cuña de la milicia romana. Las bellas letras, en una
palabra, el saber escribir es un oficio particular que sólo profesan
algunos, cuando debiera constituir una pequeñísima parte de la
educación general de todos.
Pero, si atendidas estas breves consideraciones es el orgullo del
talento disculpable porque es el único modo que tiene el literato de
cobrarse el premio de su afán, no por eso autoriza á nadie á ser en
sociedad ridículo, y éste es el extremo por donde peca don Timoteo.
No hace muchos días que yo, que no me precio de gran literato, yo
que de buena gana prescindiría de esta especie de apodo, si no
fuese preciso que en sociedad tenga cada cual el suyo, y si pudiese
tener otro mejor, me vi en la precisión de consultar á algunos
literatos con el objeto de reunir sus diversos votos y saber qué
podrían valer unos opúsculos que me habían traído para que diese
yo sobre ellos mi opinión. Esto era harto difícil en verdad, porque, si
he de decir lo que siento, no tengo fijada mi opinión todavía acerca
de ninguna cosa, y me siento medianamente inclinado á no fijarla
jamás: tengo mis razones para creer que éste es el único camino del
acierto en materias opinables: en mi entender todas las opiniones
son peores; permítaseme esta manera de hablar antigramatical y
antilógica.
Fuíme, pues, con mis manuscritos debajo del brazo (circunstancia
que no le importará gran cosa al lector) deseoso de ver á un literato,
y me pareció deber salir para esto de la atmósfera inferior donde
pululan los poetas noveles y lampiños, y dirigirme á uno de esos
literatazos abrumados de años y de laureles.
Acerté á dar con uno de los que tienen más sentada su reputación.
Por supuesto que tuve que hacer una antesala digna de un
pretendiente, porque una de las cosas que mejor se saben hacer
aquí es esto de antesala. Por fin tuve el placer de ser introducido en
el oscuro santuario.
Cualquiera me hubiera hecho sentar; pero don Timoteo me recibió
en pie, atendida sin duda la diferencia que hay entre el literato y el
hombre. Figúrense ustedes un ser enteramente parecido á una
persona; algo más encorvado hacia el suelo que el género humano,
merced sin duda al hábito de vivir inclinado sobre el bufete; mitad
sillón, mitad hombre; entrecejo arrugado; la voz más hueca y
campanuda que la de las personas; las manos mijt y mijt, como
dicen los chuferos y valencianos, de tinta y tabaco; gran autoridad
en el decir; mesurado compás de frases; vista insultantemente
curiosa, y que oculta á su interlocutor por una rendija que le dejan
libres los párpados fruncidos y casi cerrados, que es manera de
mirar sumamente importante y como de quien tiene graves
cuidados; los anteojos encaramados á la frente; calva, hija de la
fuerza del talento, y gran balumba de papeles revueltos y libros
confundidos que bastaran á dar una muestra de lo coordinadas que
podía tener en la cabeza sus ideas; una caja de rapé y una petaca:
los demás vicios no se veían. Se me olvidaba decir que la ropa era
adrede mal hecha, afectando desprecio de las cosas terrenas, y
todo el conjunto no de los más limpios, porque éste era de los
literatos rezagados del siglo pasado, que tanto más profundos se
imaginaban cuanto menos aseados vestían. Llegué, le vi, dije: éste
es un sabio.
Saludé á don Timoteo y saqué mis manuscritos.
—¡Hola! me dijo ahuecando mucho la voz para pronunciar.
—Son de un amigo mío.
—¿Sí? me respondió. ¡Bueno! ¡Muy bien! Y me echó una mirada de
arriba abajo por ver si descubría en mi rostro que fuesen míos.
—¡Gracias! repuse, y empezó á hojearlos.
—«Memoria sobre las aplicaciones del vapor».
—¡Ah! esto es acerca del vapor, ¿eh? Aquí encuentro ya... Vea
usted... aquí falta una coma: en esto soy muy delicado. No hallará
usted en Cervantes usada la voz memoria en este sentido; el estilo
es duro, y la frase es poco robusta... ¿Qué quiere decir presión y...?
—Sí; pero acerca del vapor... porque el asunto es saber si...
—Yo le diré á usted; en una oda que yo hice allá cuando muchacho,
cuando uno andaba en esas cosas de literatura... dije... cosas
buenas...
—Pero ¿qué tiene que ver?
—¡Oh! ciertamente ¡oh! Bien, me parece bien. Ya se ve; estas
ciencias exactas son las que han destruido los placeres de la
imaginación: ya no hay poesía.
—¿Y qué falta hace la poesía cuando se trata de mover un barco,
señor don Timoteo?
—¡Oh! cierto... pero la poesía... amigo... ¡oh! aquellos tiempos se
acabaron. Esto... ya se ve... estará bien, pero debe usted llevarlo á
un físico, á uno de ésos...
—Señor don Timoteo, un literato de la fama de usted tendrá siquiera
ideas generales de todo, demasiado sabrá usted...
—Sin embargo... ahora estoy escribiendo un tratado completo con
notas y comentarios, míos también, acerca de quien fué el primero
que usó el asonante castellano.
—¡Hola¡ Debe usted darse prisa á averiguarlo: esto urge mucho á la
felicidad de España y á las luces... Si usted llega á morirse, nos
quedamos á buenas noches en punto á asonantes... y...
—Sí, y tengo aquí una porción de cosillas que me traen á leer; no
puedo dar salida á los que... ¡Me abruman á consultas!... ¡Oh! estos
muchachos del día salen todos tan... ¡Oh! ¿Usted habrá leído mis
poesías? Allí hay algunas cosillas...
—Sí; pero un sabio de la reputación de don Timoteo habrá
publicado además obras de fondo y...
—¡Oh! no se puede... no saben apreciar... ya sabe usted... á salir del
día... Sólo la maldita afición que uno tiene á estas cosas...
—Quisiera leer con todo lo que usted ha publicado: el género
humano debe estar agradecido á la ciencia de don Timoteo...
Dícteme usted los títulos de sus obras. Quiero llevarme una
apuntación.
—¡Oh! ¡Oh!
—¿Qué especie de animal es éste, iba yo diciendo ya para mí, que
no hace más que lanzar monosílabos y hablar despacio, alargando
los vocablos y pronunciando más abiertas las aes y las oes?
Cogí sin embargo una pluma y un gran pliego de papel presumiendo
que se llenaría con los títulos de las luminosas obras que habría
publicado durante su vida el célebre literato don Timoteo.
—Yo hice, empezó, una oda á la Continencia... ya la conocerá
usted... allí hay algunos versecillos.
—Continencia, dije yo repitiendo. Adelante.
—En los periódicos de entonces puse algunas anacreónticas; pero
no con mi nombre.
—Anacreónticas; siga usted; vamos á lo gordo.
—Cuando los Franceses escribí un folletito que no llegó á
publicarse... ¡como ellos mandaban!...
—Folletito que no llegó á publicarse.
—He hecho una oda al Huracán, y una silva á Filis.
—Huracán, Filis.
—Y una comedia que medio traduje de cualquier modo; pero como
en aquel tiempo nadie sabía francés, pasó por mía: me dió mucha
fama. Una novelita traduje también...
—¿Qué más?
—Ahí tengo un prólogo empezado para una obra que pienso
escribir, en el cual trato de decir modestamente que no aspiro al
título de sabio: que las largas convulsiones políticas que han
conmovido á la Europa y á mí á un mismo tiempo, las intrigas de mis
émulos, enemigos y envidiosos, y la larga carrera de infortunios y
sinsabores en que me he visto envuelto y arrastrado juntamente con
mi patria, han impedido que dedicara mis ocios al cultivo de las
musas; que habiéndose luego el gobierno acordado y servídose de
mi poca aptitud en circunstancias críticas, tuve que dar de mano á
los estudios amenos que reclaman soledad y quietud de espíritu,
como dice Cicerón; y en fin, que en la retirada de Vitoria perdí mis
papeles y manuscritos más importantes; y sigo por ese estilo...
—Cierto... Ese prólogo debe darle á usted extraordinaria
importancia.
—Por lo demás, no he publicado otras cosas...
—Conque una oda y otra oda, dije yo recapitulando, y una silva,
anacreónticas, una traducción original, un folletito que no llegó á
publicarse, y un prólogo que se publicará...
—Eso es. Precisamente.
Al oir esto no estuvo en mí tener más la risa, despedíme cuanto
antes pude del sabio don Timoteo, y fuíme á soltar la carcajada al
medio del arroyo á todo mi placer.
—¡Por vida de Apolo! salí diciendo. ¿Y es éste don Timoteo? ¿Y
cree que la sabiduría está reducida á hacer anacreónticas? ¿Y
porque ha hecho una oda le llaman sabio? ¡Oh reputaciones fáciles!
¡Oh pueblo bondadoso!
¿Para qué he de entretener á mis lectores con la poca diversidad
que ofrece la enumeración de las demás consultas que en aquella
mañana pasé? Apenas encontré uno de esos célebres literatos, que
así pudiera dar su voto en poesía como en legislación, en historia
como en medicina, en ciencias exactas como en... Los literatos aquí
no hacen más que versos, y si algunas excepciones hay, y si existen
entre ellos algunos de mérito verdadero que de él hayan dado
pruebas positivas, no son excepciones suficientes para variar la
regla general.
¿Hasta cuándo, pues, esa necia adoración á las reputaciones
usurpadas? Nuestro país ha caminado más de prisa que esos
literatos rezagados; recordamos sus nombres que hicieron ruido
cuando, más ignorantes, éramos los primeros á aplaudirlos; y
seguimos repitiendo siempre como papagayos: Don Timoteo es un
sabio. ¿Hasta cuándo? Presenten sus títulos á la gloria y los
respetaremos y pondremos sus obras sobre nuestra cabeza. ¿Y al
paso que nadie se atreve á tocar á esos sagrados nombres que sólo
por antiguos tienen mérito, son juzgados los jóvenes que empiezan
con toda la severidad que aquéllos merecerían? El más leve
descuido corre de boca en boca; una reminiscencia es llamada robo;
una imitación plagio, y un plagio verdadero intolerable
desvergüenza. Esto en tierra donde hace siglos que otra cosa no
han hecho sino traducir nuestros más originales hombres de letras.
Pero volvamos á nuestro don Timoteo. Háblesele de algún joven
que haya dado alguna obra. No lo he leído... ¡Como no leo esas
cosas! exclama. Hable usted de teatros á don Timoteo.—No voy al
teatro; eso está perdido... porque quieren persuadirnos de que
estaba mejor en su tiempo; nunca verá usted la cara del literato en
el teatro. Nada conoce, nada lee nuevo; pero de todo juzga, de todo
hace ascos.
Veamos á don Timoteo en el Prado; rodeado de una pequeña corte
que á nadie conoce cuando va con él: vean ustedes cómo le oyen
con la boca abierta; parece que le han sacado entre todos á paseo
para que no se acabe entre sus investigaciones acerca de la ruina
que á nadie le importa. ¿Habló don Timoteo? ¡Qué algazara y qué
aplausos! ¿Se sonrió don Timoteo? ¿Quién fué el dichoso que le
hizo desplegar los labios? ¿Lo dijo don Timoteo, el sabio autor de
una oda olvidada ó de un ignorado romance? Tuvo razón don
Timoteo.
Haga usted una visita á don Timoteo; en buena hora; pero no
espere usted que se la pague. Don Timoteo no visita á nadie. ¡Está
tan ocupado! El estado de su salud no le permite usar de
cumplimientos; en una palabra, no es para don Timoteo la buena
crianza.
Veámosle en sociedad. ¡Qué aire de suficiencia, de autoridad, de
supremacía! Nada le divierte á don Timoteo. ¡Todo es malo! Por
supuesto que no baila don Timoteo, ni habla don Timoteo, ni ríe don
Timoteo, ni hace nada don Timoteo de lo que hacen las personas.
Es un eslabón roto en la cadena de la sociedad.
¡Oh sabio don Timoteo! ¿Quién me diera á mí hacer una mala oda
para echarme á dormir sobre el colchón de mis laureles; para hablar
de mis afanes literarios, de mis persecuciones y de las intrigas y
revueltas de los tiempos; para hacer ascos de la literatura; para
recibir á las gentes sentado; para no devolver visitas; para vestir
mal; para no tener que leer; para decir del alumno de las musas que
más haga: «es un mancebo de dotes muy recomendables, es mozo
que promete»; para mirarle á la cara con aire de protección y darle
alguna suave palmadita en la mejilla, como para comunicarle por
medio del contacto mi saber; para pensar que el que hace versos, ó
sabe donde han de ponerse las comas, y cuál palabra se halla en
Cervantes, y cuál no, ha llegado al summum del saber humano;
para llorar sobre los adelantos de las ciencias útiles; para tener
orgullo y amor propio; para hablar pedantesco y ahuecado; para vivir
en contradicción con los usos sociales; para ser en fin ridículo en
sociedad sin parecérselo á nadie?
 LA POLÉMICA LITERARIA
...à Madrid la république des lettres était
celle des loups, toujours armés les uns
contre les autres; et livrés au mépris où
ce visible acharnement les conduit, tous
les insectes, les moustiques, les cousins,
les critiques, les maringouins, les envieux,
les feuillistes, les libraires, les censeurs,
et tout ce qui s'attache à la peau des
malheureux gens de lettres, achevait de
déchiqueter et de sucer le peu de
substance qui leur restait.
Beaumarchais. Le Barbier de Séville, act. I.

Muchos son los obstáculos que para escribir encuentra entre

nosotros el escritor, y el escritor sobre todo de costumbres que
funda sus artículos en la observación de los diversos caracteres que
andan por la sociedad revueltos y desparramados: si hace un
artículo malo, ¿quién es él, dicen, para hacerle bueno? Y si le hace
bueno, será traducido, gritan á una voz sus amigos. Si huyó de
ofender á nadie, son pálidos sus escritos, no hay chiste en ellos ni
originalidad; si observó bien, si hizo resaltar los colores, y si logra
sacar á los labios de su lector tal cual picante sonrisa, «es un
payaso», exclaman, como si el toque del escribir consistiera en
escribir serio; si le ofenden los vicios, si rebosa en sus renglones la
indignación contra los necios, si los malos escritores le merecen tal
cual varapalo, «es un hombre feroz, á nadie perdona. ¡Jesús, qué
entrañas!» ¡Habrá pícaro que no quiere que escribamos disparates!
¿Dibujó un carácter, y tomó para ello toques de éste y de aquél,
formando su bello ideal de las calidades de todos? ¡Qué picarillo,
gritan, cómo ha puesto á don fulano! ¿Pintó un avaro como hay
ciento? Pues ése es don Cosme, gritan todos, el que vive aquí á la
vuelta.—Y no se desgañite para decirle al público:—«Señores, que
no hago retratos personales, que no critico á uno, que critico á
todos. Que no conozco siquiera á ese don Cosme».—¡Tiempo
perdido!—Que el artículo está hecho hace dos meses, y don Cosme
vino ayer.—Nada.—Que mi avaro tiene peluca y don Cosme no la
gasta.—¡Ni por ésas! Púsole peluca, dicen, para desorientar; pero
es él.—Que no se parece á don Cosme en nada.—No importa; es
don Cosme, y se lo hacen creer todos á don Cosme por ver si don
Cosme le mata; y don Cosme, que es caviloso, es el primero á decir:
«ése soy yo». Para esto de entender alusiones nadie como
nosotros.
¿Consistirá esto en que los criticados que se reconocen en el
cuadro de costumbres se apresuran á echar el muerto al vecino
para descartarse de la parte que á ellos les toca? ¡Quién sabe!
Confesemos de todos modos que es pícaro oficio el de escritor de
costumbres.
Con estas reflexiones encabezamos nuestro artículo de hoy, porque,
no nos perdone Dios nuestros pecados, si no creemos que antes de
llegar al último renglón han de haber encontrado nuestros
perspicaces lectores el original del retrato que no hacemos. Como
cosa de las doce serían cuando cavilaba yo ayer acerca del modo
de urdir un artículo bueno que gustase á todos los que le leyesen, y
encomendábame á toda priesa, con más fe que esperanza, á santa
Rita, abogada de imposibles, para que me deparara alguna musa
acomodaticia, la cual me enviase inspiraciones cortadas á medida
de todo el mundo. Pedíale un modo de escribir que ni fuese serio, ni
jocoso, ni general, ni personal, ni largo, ni corto, ni profundo, ni
superficial, ni alusivo, ni indeterminado, ni sabio, ni ignorante, ni
culto, ni trivial; una quimera, en fin, y pedíale de paso un buen
original francés de donde poder robar aquellas ideas que
buenamente no suelen ocurrirme, que son las más, y una baraja
completa de transposiciones felices, de éstas que el diablo mismo
que las inventó no entiende, y que por consiguiente no
comprometen al que las escribe... Pero estoy para mí que no debía
de hacer más caso de mis oraciones la santa que el que hacen los
cómicos de los artículos de teatros, porque ni venía musa, ni yo
acertaba á escribir un mal disparate que pudiese dar contento á
necios y á discretos. Mesábame las barbas, y renegaba de mi mal
cortada pluma, que siempre ha de pinchar, y de mi lengua que
siempre ha de maldecir, cuando un cariacontecido mozalbete con
cara de literato, es decir, de envidia, se me presentó, y mirándome
zaino y torcido, como quien no camina derecho ni piensa hacer cosa
buena, díjome entre uno y otro piropo, que yo eché en saco roto,
como tenía que consultarme y pedirme consejos en materias
graves.
Invitéle á que se sentara, lo cual hizo en la punta de una silla, como
aquél que no quería abusar de mi buena crianza, poniendo su
sombrero debajo de una mesa á modo de florero ó de escupidera.
—¿Y qué es el caso? le pregunté; porque ha de advertir el lector
que yo me perezco por los diálogos.
—¿Qué ha de ser, señor Fígaro, sino que yo he puesto un artículo
en un periódico, y no bien le había leído impreso, cuando zas, ya me
han contestado?
—¡Oh! Son muy bien criados los periodistas, le dije: no saben lo que
es dejar á un hombre sin contestación.
—Sí, señor; pero de buenas á primeras, y sin pedirme mi parecer,
dan en la flor de decirme que es mi artículo un puro disparate. Es el
caso que yo también quiero contestar, porque ¿qué dirá el mundo, y
sobre todo la Europa, si yo no contesto?
—Cierto: no se piensa en otra cosa en el día sino en Portugal y en
su artículo de usted.
—Ya se ve: y como usted entiende de achaque de contestaciones, y
de cómo se lleva por aquí eso de polémica literaria, vengo á que me
endilgue usted, sobre poco más ó menos, cuatro consejos
oportunos, de modo que la materia en cuestión se dilucide, se
entere el público de quién tiene razón, y quede yo encima, que es el
objeto.
—¿Y de qué habla el artículo?
—Le diré á usted: de nada: el hecho es que en la cuestión no nos
entendemos ni él ni yo, porque como la mitad de las cosas que
podrían decirse en la materia, uno y otro las ignoramos, y la otra
mitad no se puede decir...
—Sí... pues eso es muy fácil... ¿pero trata de?...
—De tabacos, sí, señor. Conque yo quisiera que usted me indicase
todos los hombres que han tenido que ver con tabacos desde Nicot
que los descubrió hasta Tissot, por lo menos, que está contra su
uso. Con la vasta erudición que usted me va á proporcionar yo haré
trizas á mi contrario...
—¡Ay, amigo!, le interrumpí, ¡y qué poco entiende usted de polémica
literaria! En primer lugar, para disputar de una materia lo primero
que usted debe procurar es ignorarla de pe á pa. ¿Qué quiere
usted?, así corren los tiempos. En segundo lugar, ¿usted sabe quién
es el autor del artículo contra usted?
—¿Y qué falta hace para aclarar la cuestión al público saber quién
sea el autor del artículo?
—¡Hombre, usted está en el cristus de la polémica literaria del país!
¿De dónde viene usted? Usted no lee. En vez de buscar libros que
confirmen la opinión de usted, la primera diligencia que ha de hacer
es saber quién es el autor del artículo contrario.
—Bueno: pues ya lo sé. Pero el caso no es ése, sino que un
periódico dice que mi artículo es malo.
—Calle usted. Somos felices.
—Yo pensaba dar razones y probar...
—No, señor, no pruebe usted nada. ¿Usted se quiere perder? Diga
usted, ¿qué señas tiene el adversario de usted? ¿Es alto?
—Mucho; se pierde de vista.
—¿Tendrá seis pies?
—Más, más: hágale usted más favor... pero ¿qué tiene que ver eso
con la cuestión de tabacos?
—¿No ha de tener? Empiece usted diciendo que su artículo de
usted es bueno: primero porque él es alto.
—¡Hombre!
—Calle usted. ¿Ha escrito algunas obras?
—Sí, señor: en el año 97 escribió una comedia que no valía gran
cosa.
—Bravo: añada usted que usted entiende mucho de tabacos,
fundado en que él hizo el año 97 una comedia...
—Pero, señor, haremos reir al público...
—No tenga usted cuidado: el público se morirá de risa, y la palestra
queda por el que hace reir. ¿Qué más tiene el adversario? ¿Tiene
alguna verruga en las narices, tiene moza, debe á alguien, ha
estado en la cárcel alguna vez, gasta peluca, ha tenido opinión
nula?...
—Algo, algo hay de eso.
—Pues bien: á él: la opinión, la verruga: duro en sus defectos. ¿Qué
entenderá él de achaque de tabacos, si escribió en los periódicos de
entonces, y si el año 8 jugaba á la pipirijaina ó á la pata coja?
—¿Pero adónde vamos á parar?...
—Á la tetilla izquierda, señor: usted no se desanime: ¿le coge usted
en un plagio? El testo en los hocicos, el original, y ande. ¿Sabe
usted algún cuento? á contársele.
—¿Y si no vienen á pelo los cuentos que yo sé.
—No importa; usted hará reir, y ése es el caso. ¿Dice él que usted
se equivoca una vez? Dígale usted qué él se equivoca ciento, y
pata. Usted es una tal; y usted es más: éste el modo.
—Pero, señor Fígaro, ¿y dónde dejamos ya la cuestión de tabacos?
—¿Y á usted qué le importa ni á nadie tampoco? Déjela usted que
viaje. Por fin luego que usted haya agotado todos los recursos de la
personalidad, concluya usted apelando al público y diciendo que él
sabrá apreciar la moderación de usted en la cuestión presente: que
se retira usted de la polémica; en primer lugar, porque ha probado
suficientemente su opinión acerca de tabacos con las poderosas
razones antedichas de la estatura, de la verruga, de la comedia del
año 97, de las deudas y de la opinión del adversario: y en segundo
lugar porque habiendo usado el contrario de mala fe y de
indecorosas personalidades (y eso dígalo usted aunque sea
mentira), de que usted no se siente capaz en atención á que usted
respeta mucho al público respetable, la polémica se ha hecho
asquerosa é interminable. Aquí dice usted una gracia ó dos si puede
acerca del mayor número de suscriciones que reúne el periódico en
que usted escribe, que es razón concluyente, y que le piquen á
usted moscas.
—Señor Fígaro, ese plan será bueno; mas yo le encuentro el
inconveniente de que si en un país en que tan poco prestigio tienen
la literatura y los literatos, en vez de darnos honor unos á otros nos
damos mutuamente en espectáculo, derribamos nosotros mismos
nuestros altares, y nos hacemos el hazmereir del público... y á mí
me da vergüenza...
—¡Ay! ¡ay! ¡ay! ¿Ahora salimos con que tiene usted vergüenza?...
y... ¡voto ya! Dijéralo usted al principio. Usted es incorregible. Pues,
amigo, voy á concluir: hace muchos años que ando por este mundo,
y las más de las polémicas que he visto se han decidido por ese
estilo. Fuera, pues, razones, señor mío: látigo y más látigo: no sé
qué sabio ha dicho que las más de las cuestiones son cuestiones de
nombre: aquí, amigo mío, las más son cuestiones de personas.—Y
con esto despedí á mi cliente, quien no sé si habrá aprovechado mis
consejos. Una cosa tan sólo le supliqué al salir por el umbral de mi
puerta.—Si acaso, le dije, oye usted decir á las gentes cuando le
vean por el mundo: «ahí va el cliente de Fígaro: ése es el del
artículo».—No lo creo, responda usted: el cliente de Fígaro es un
ente ideal que tiene muchos retratos en esta sociedad, pero que no
tiene original en ninguna.
 LA FONDA NUEVA

Preciso es confesar que no es nuestra patria el país donde viven los

hombres para comer: gracias por el contrario si se come para vivir:
verdad es que no es éste el único punto en que manifestamos lo mal
que nos queremos: no hay género de diversión que no nos falte: no
hay especie de comodidad de que no carezcamos. «¿Qué país es
éste?», me decía no hace un mes un extranjero que vino á estudiar
nuestras costumbres. Es de advertir, en obsequio de la verdad, que
era francés el extranjero, y que el francés es el hombre del mundo
que menos concibe el monótono y sepulcral silencio de nuestra
existencia española.—Grandes carreras de caballos habrá aquí, me
decía desde el amanecer: no faltaremos.—Perdone usted, le
respondía yo; aquí no hay carreras.—¿No gustan de correr los
jóvenes de las primeras casas? ¿No corren aquí siquiera los
caballos?...—Ni siquiera los caballos.—Iremos á caza.—Aquí no se
caza: no hay dónde, ni qué.—Iremos al paseo de coches.—No hay
coches.—Bien: á una casa de campo á pasar el día.—No hay casas
de campo, no se pasa el día.—Pero habrá juegos de mil suertes
diferentes, como en toda Europa... habrá jardines públicos donde se
baile; más en pequeño, pero habrá sus tívolis, sus ranelagh, sus
campos elíseos... habrá algún juego para el público.—No hay nada
para el público: el público no juega.—Es de ver la cara de los
extranjeros cuando se les dice francamente que el público español,
ó no siente la necesidad interior de divertirse, ó se divierte como los
sabios (que en eso todos lo parecen) con sus propios pensamientos:
creía mi extranjero que yo quería abusar de su credulidad, y con
rostro entre desconfiado y resignado, «Paciencia, me decía por fin:
nos contentaremos con ir á los bailes que den las casas del buen
tono y las suarés...».—Paso, señor mío, le interrumpí yo: ¿conque
es bueno que le dije que no había gallinas y se me viene
pidiendo?... En Madrid no hay bailes, no hay suarés. Cada uno
habla ó reza, ó hace lo que quiere en su casa con cuatro amigos
muy de confianza, y basta.
Nada más cierto sin embargo que este tristísimo cuadro de nuestras
costumbres. Un día sólo en la semana, y eso no todo el año, se
divierten mis compatriotas: el lunes, y no necesito decir en qué: los
demás días examinemos cuál es el público recreo. Para el pueblo
bajo el día más alegre del año redúcese su diversión á calzarse las
castañuelas (digo calzarse porque en ciertas gentes las manos
parecen pies), y agitarse violentamente en medio de la calle, en
corro, al desapacible son de la agria voz y del desigual pandero.
Para los elegantes todas las corridas de caballos, las partidas de
caza, las casas de campo, todo se encierra en dos ó tres tiendas de
la calle de la Montera. Allí se pasa alegremente la mañana en contar
las horas que faltan para irse á comer, si no hay sobre todo gordas
noticias de Lisboa, ó si no dan en pasar muchos lindos talles de
quien murmurar, y cuya opinión se pueda comprometer, en cuyos
casos varía mucho la cuestión y nunca falta que hacer.—¿Qué se
hace por la tarde en Madrid?—Dormir la siesta.—¿Y el que no
duerme, qué hace?—Estar despierto; nada más. Por la noche, es
verdad, hay un poco de teatro, y tiene un elegante el desahogo
inocente de venir á silbar un rato la mala voz del bufo caricato, ó á
aplaudir la linda cara de la altra prima donna; pero ni se proporciona
tampoco todos los días, ni se divierte en esto sino un muy reducido
número de personas, las cuales, entre paréntesis, son siempre las
mismas, y forman un pueblo chico de costumbres extranjeras,
embutido dentro de otro grande de costumbres patrias, como un
cucurucho menor metido en un cucurucho mayor.
En cuanto á la pobre clase media, cuyos límites van perdiéndose y
desvaneciéndose cada vez más, por arriba en la alta sociedad, en
que hay de ella no pocos intrusos, y por abajo en la capa inferior del
pueblo, que va conquistando sus usos, ésa sólo de una manera se
divierte. ¿Llegó un día de días? ¿Hubo boda? ¿Nació un niño?
¿Diéronle un empleo al amo de la casa?, que en España ése es el
grande alegrón que hay que recibir. Sólo de un modo se solemniza.
Gran coche de alquiler, decentemente regateado; pero más gran
familia: seis personas coge el coche á lo más. Pues entra papá,
entra mamá, las dos hijas, dos amigos íntimos convidados, una
prima que se apareció allí casualmente, el cuñado, la doncella, un
niño de dos años y el abuelo: la abuela no entra porque murió el
mes anterior. Ciérrase la portezuela entonces con la misma
dificultad que la tapa de un cofre apretado para un largo viaje, y á la
fonda. La esperanza de la gran comida, á que se va aproximando el
coche mal que bien, aquello de andar en alto, el rubor de las
jóvenes que van sentadas sobre los convidados, y la ausencia sobre
todo del diurno puchero alborotan á nuestra gente en tal disposición,
que desde media legua se conoce el coche que lleva á la fonda á
una familia de enhorabuena.
Tres años seguidos he tenido la desgracia de comer de fonda en
Madrid, y en el día sólo el deseo de observar las variaciones que en
nuestras costumbres se verifican con más rapidez de lo que algunos
piensan, ó el deseo de pasar un rato con amigos, pueden obligarme
á semejante despropósito. No hace mucho sin embargo que un
conocido mío me quiso arrastrar fuera de mi casa á la hora de
comer.—Vamos á comer á la fonda.—Gracias; mejor quiero no
comer.—Comeremos bien; iremos á Genyeis: es la mejor fonda.—
Linda fonda: es preciso comer de seis ó siete duros para no comer
mal. ¿Qué aliciente hay allí para ese precio? Las salas son bien
feas: el adorno ninguno: ni una alfombra, ni un mueble elegante, ni
un criado decente, ni un servicio de lujo, ni un espejo, ni una
chimenea, ni una estufa en invierno, ni agua de nieve en verano,
ni... ni burdeos, ni champagne... Porque no es burdeos el
valdepeñas, por más raíz de lirio que se le eche.—Iremos á los Dos
Amigos.—Tendremos que salirnos á la calle á comer, ó á la
escalera, ó llevar una cerilla en el bolsillo para vernos las caras en la
sala larga.—Á cualquiera otra parte. Crea usted que hoy nos van á
dar bien de comer.—¿Quiere usted que le diga yo lo que nos darán
en cualquier fonda adonde vayamos? Mire usted, nos darán en
primer lugar mantel y servilletas puercas, vasos puercos, platos
puercos y mozos puercos: sacarán las cucharas del bolsillo, donde
están con las puntas de los cigarros; nos darán luego una sopa que
llaman de yerbas, y que no podría acertar á tener nombre más
alusivo; estofado de vaca á la italiana, que es cosa nueva; ternera
mechada, que es cosa de todos los días; vino de la fuente;
aceitunas magulladas; frito de sesos y manos de carnero, hechos
aquéllos y éstas á fuerza de pan: una polla que se dejaron otros
ayer, y unos postres que nos dejaremos nosotros para mañana.—Y
también nos llevarán poco dinero, que aquí se come barato.—Pero
mucha paciencia, amigo mío, que aquí se aguanta mucho.
No hubo sin embargo remedio: mi amigo no daba cuartel, y estaba
visto que tenía capricho de comer mal un día. Fué preciso, pues,
acompañarle, é íbamos á entrar en los Dos Amigos, cuando llamó
nuestra atención un gran letrero nuevo que en la misma calle de
Alcalá y sobre las ruinas del antiguo figón de Perona dice: Fonda del
Comercio.—¿Fonda nueva?—Vamos á ver. En cuanto al local, no
les da el naipe á los fondistas para escoger local; en cuanto al
adorno, nos cogen acostumbrados á no pagarnos de apariencias;
nosotros decimos: ¡como haya que comer, aunque sea en el suelo!
Por consiguiente nada nuevo en este punto en la fonda nueva.
Choconos sin embargo la diferencia de las caras de ahora, y que
hace medio año se veían en aquella casa. Vimos elegantes, y
diónos esto excelente idea. Realmente hubimos de confesar que la
fonda nueva es la mejor; pero es preciso acordarnos de que la
Fontana era también la mejor cuando se instaló: ésta será, pues,
otra Fontana dentro de un par de meses. La variedad que hoy en
platos se encuentra cederá á la fuerza de las circunstancias; lo que
nunca podrá perder será el servicio: la fonda nueva no reducirá
nunca el número de sus mozos, porque es difícil reducir lo poco; se
ha adoptado en ella el principio admitido en todas: un mozo para
cada sala, y una sala para cada veinte mesas.
Por lo demás no deja de ofrecer un cuadro divertido para el
observador oscuro el aspecto de una fonda. Si á su entrada hay ya
una familia en los postres, ¿qué efecto le hace al que entra frío y
sereno el ruido y la algazara de aquella gente toda alborotada
porque ha comido? ¡Qué miserable es el hombre! ¿De qué se ríen
tanto? ¿Han dicho alguna gracia? No, señor; se ríen de que han
comido, y la parte física del hombro triunfa de la moral, de la
sublime; que no debiera estar tan alegre sólo por haber comido.—
Allí está la familia que trajo el coche... ¡¡¡Apartemos la vista y
tapemos los oídos por no ver, por no oir!!!
Aquel joven que entra venía á comer de medio duro; pero se
encontró con veinte conocidos en una mesa inmediata: dejóse coger
también por la negra honrilla, y sólo por los testigos pide de á duro.
Si como son conocidos fuera una mujer á quien quisiera conquistar,
la que en otra mesa comiera, hubiera pedido de á doblón: á pocos
amigos que encuentre, el infeliz se arruina. ¡Necio rubor de no ser
rico! ¡Mal entendida vergüenza de no ser calavera!
¿Y aquél otro? Aquél recorre todos los días á una misma hora varias
fondas: aparenta buscar á alguien: en efecto, algo busca; ya lo
encontró; allí hay conocidos suyos: á ellos derecho: primera frase
suya:—¡Hombre! ¿Ustedes por aquí?—Coma usted con nosotros, le
responden todos.—Excúsase al principio; pero si había de comer
solo... un amigo á quien esperaba no viene... Vaya, comeré con
ustedes, dice por fin, y se sienta. ¡Cuán ajenos estaban sus
convidadores de creer que habían de comer con él! Él sin embargo
sabía desde la víspera que había de comer con ellos: les oyó
convenir en la hora, y es hombre que come los más días de oídas, y
algunos por haber oído.
¿Qué pareja es la que sin mirar á un lado ni á otro pide un cuarto al
mozo y?... Pero es preciso marcharnos, mi amigo y yo hemos
concluido de comer: cierta curiosidad nos lleva á pasar por delante
de la puerta entornada donde ha entrado á comer sin testigos aquel
oscuro matrimonio... sí; duda... Una pequeña parada que hacemos
alarma á los que no quieren ser oídos, y un portazo dado con todo el
mal humor propio de un misántropo nos advierte nuestra
indiscreción y nuestra impertinencia. Paciencia, salgo diciendo: todo
no se puede observar en este mundo; algo ha de quedar oscuro en
un cuadro: sea esto lo que quede en negro en este artículo de
costumbres de la Revista española.
 POESÍAS DE

DON FRANCISCO MARTÍNEZ DE LA

ROSA

Es tan conocido el mérito del autor de esta nueva colección poética,

son tan justamente apreciados en España y fuera de ella los varios
ensayos didácticos y composiciones dramáticas que en anteriores
tomos ha publicado, que no es mucho que entremos con respeto y
miedo á juzgar al que puede juzgar á los demás. El justo criterio, el
gusto depurado son las dotes que más brillan en sus escritos; pero
no contento el señor Martínez de la Rosa con haber indicado el
camino que deben trillar los que á la gloria inmortal de poetas
aspiren, nos quiere dar el ejemplo al lado de la admonición. Harta
empresa es ésa para un solo hombre. No presta el cielo al mismo
tiempo la fría severidad del crítico y la ardiente imaginación del vate,
y mal pudiera prestarlas sin contradecir sus propias leyes. Si alguna
vez, pues, se ven ambas calidades reunidas puede reputarse
fenómeno. Recorramos la lista de los primeros poetas; no
hallaremos en ésa á los grandes didácticos: preceptos será lo que
en sus obras encontraremos, preceptos de inspiración; rara vez
preceptistas. Homero, Virgilio, Anacreonte, Píndaro, Taso, Millón,
etc., etc., se contentaron con la parte que les tocó; verdad es que
les tocó lo más, porque nunca harán los preceptos un poeta.
Recorramos por otra parte las obras de los grandes maestros del
arte. Aristóteles hubiera probado á entonar la trompa épica; en balde