The Frog Prince (21 page)

I jump at the sound of my name. Suddenly I see myself—me!—on the screen. The first thing I think: I look
good
. At least this picture wouldn’t embarrass Roman.
I stare at the photo, recognizing it from the dinner at the Almost Royal Weekend in Aspen. I wonder how the press got it.

“There has been no official confirmation of Prince Roman’s current romance,” the host goes on. “In fact, for the first time since 1918 the Austrian government was forced to release a statement which reads in part: ‘We do not comment on the private lives of the members of the Royal Family.’”

A second thought jumps into my head: What in the world are my mother and father going to say? I rifle through my purse, looking for my Blackberry. I punch a few keys and try to be patient as the hour glass icon flips again and again–it’s booting up. No sooner has it powered up than the phone starts ringing. I don’t recognize the number and send the call straight to my voicemail.

An asterisk next to the mailbox icon on the main screen tells me that someone has tried to call while I was in the air. I press a button and stare at the screen. The call log shows that I have fifty-seven voicemails—
fifty-seven voicemails
. I don’t even think I know fifty-seven people.

“I have fifty-seven voicemails,” I say, turning to Jarrod and holding up my phone just as it starts ringing again. I look at the screen; again, I don’t recognize the number. I finally silence the phone.

Jarrod nods as if this was expected. “The press probably has your cell phone number,” he says, fishing his own phone out of his pocket and handing it to me. “Here, use mine. You’ll want to avoid using yours so your calls aren’t recorded. We’re already working on getting you a new, secure number. For the next few months you’re going to want to change your number every week or so.”

“Every week or so…” I repeat slowly.

“No matter how careful you are about giving out your number, it will eventually leak to the media,” he explains. He pauses, considering something. “Of course,” he says, “we could explore hiring a full-time personal assistant for you if you’d like to screen your calls and arrange your schedule.”

“A personal assistant?” I say, my voice getting higher in pitch. “I don’t need a personal assistant, I just need to call my mom!” Not to mention that I don’t really have a “schedule.” Not one that requires a whole other human being to organize for me anyway.

We step off the moving sidewalk and G1 veers off towards an unmarked row of doors, where customs officials are waiting for me in a small conference room. Ten minutes later we’ve been spit back through the doors. We walk briskly down the concourse into an empty gate area, passing the deserted boarding counter where G1 uses a badge around his neck to open a door to the jetway. Well, I
think
it’s going to be a jetway. Instead the door opens directly into bright daylight. I follow Jerrod outside and down a set of steep metal stairs to the tarmac below where a limousine waits for us.

G1 gets in the front with the driver, while Jerrod, G2 and I pile into the back.

“Um...” I start to say to Jerrod, then lose my nerve.

“Go ahead,” says Jerrod.

“I-I don’t have very much money,” I say. “I’m not sure how much all this is going to cost–the plane and the car and everything–so I just wanted to tell you that I’m happy to fly commercial.”

Jerrod is sitting across from me so I can see that he is suppressing a smile, which makes me feel really dumb. He leans forward in his seat. “All of this is taken care of, so don’t worry about anything. Our firm, the security, the flight from Stockholm, the car…all that will be covered by the palace. And the flight to Denver was actually a, uh, donation.”

“A
donation
?”

Jerrod smiles. “Prince Faisal of Saudi Arabia has put one of his jets at your disposal for as long as you need it.”

“Oh.” I decide not to ask anymore stupid questions–at least for awhile. When we pull up to the jet I see that it is not the same one Roman used to fly me to Aspen; this one is three times as big. Inside there are twelve seats clustered in facing sets on either side of the fuselage. I move all the way to the back, hoping for a little bit of privacy. I am in luck—G1 and G2 take the front two seats and Jerrod sits across from them.

Using Jerrod’s cell phone I dial my mom’s home number. I am not surprised when she doesn’t answer. I pull out my own phone and dial again.

“Leigh?” she screeches.

“Mom, I am going to call you right back from a phone with a—” I look down at the screen on Jerod’s cell—“with a two-one-two area code.” I hang up without waiting for her to respond and redial her number using Jerrod’s phone.

“Hello?” she says warily.

“Mom, it’s me.”

“Leigh,” she says, more calmly this time. “What in the world is going on? There are reporters at our door, your dad and I can’t even leave the house to go to work. My phone is ringing off the hook, there are pictures of you and Roman all over the news–”

“I’m really sorry, Mom,” I say. “I didn’t know this was going to happen.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m sitting on an airplane in New York. I’ll be back in Denver in a few hours.”

“There are reporters at DIA,” she says. “I saw it on the local news.”

“Yeah…uh, I doubt I’ll be going through the airport the normal way. I don’t know if we’ll even land at DIA.”

“You can’t go home,” she says. “If they’re at
our
house they’re definitely going to be at
your
house. Where are you going to go?”

“Roman’s taking care of everything. There are bodyguards with me and they’ve hired some guy who…well, I’m not exactly sure what he does, but so far he’s been really helpful.”

“Leigh, is it true?”

“Is
what
true?” The whole experience has been so surreal I’m not even sure which part she’s talking about.

“Is Roman really going to be the King of Austria?”

I sigh. “I don’t know, Mom. I don’t know if that’s what he wants.”

“You mean he didn’t tell you?”

“I’ve spoken to him for exactly three minutes since he found out about this,” I say, annoyed. “He told me to watch his speech. Listen, I don’t really want to talk about it. I’ll call you guys when I’m back in Denver, okay?”

“Okay, honey, I’ll talk to you then. You be safe…I’ve seen all these crazy, screaming people on the news. They make me nervous.”

“Yeah, me too,” I say. “Bye, mom.”

I get out of my seat and walk up to where Jerrod is sitting. “Jerrod, my mother says there are reporters around her house and she and my dad can’t go to work. What should they do?”

I watch as Jerrod pulls another cell phone out of his pocket like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat—how many phones does this guy have anyway?

“I’ll take care of it,” he says. “We have security on the ground in Denver waiting. I’ll send a car to get them.” He punches a few buttons on his phone, and looks up at me. “Is there anyone else in your family that you think will need a place to stay for a few weeks?”

“’A place to stay?’” I say. “Where exactly are all of us going to go hide out for a few weeks? I have a job I have to go to on Monday! My parents have jobs!”

“I understand,” says Jerrod, holding up his hands. “It’s my responsibility to make sure you have everything you need, Leigh. I don’t have answers to all your questions. Let’s just make sure you’re in a safe place, your family is safe, and then we can take a breath and get some answers for you, okay?”

I stomp back to my seat in frustration just as the captain comes on and lets us all know that we’re about to take off. I am tightening my seatbelt when I see Jerrod has followed me to the back of the plane.

“Roman’s address starts in two minutes if you want to watch it,” he says, motioning to the black miniature flat screen TV folded tightly to the wall next to my seat.

“Sure, thanks,” I say.

Jerrod reaches over me and pulls it out, then fumbles with the buttons on my armrest. The TV blinks on, and the first image I see is an aerial shot of an enormous palace. Two giant television screens have been erected on opposite ends of the courtyard, and it is wall-to-wall people everywhere in between.

“Schönbrunn Palace, which you can see here,” says the announcer “was built in 1696 to rival the Palace of Versailles in France. In earlier times it served as a summer residence to various Habsburg rulers. Prince Roman von Habsburg-Lorraine has chosen Schönbrunn Palace to give his first official address to the nation, but it’s unclear if Schönbrunn will become the official royal residence. In 1996 the palace was made a UNESCO World Heritage Site,
and
it continues to be one of the largest tourist attractions in Austria, so there may be difficulties with that plan.”

“On the other hand,” says a second anchor, “Buckingham Palace in Great Britain has been the official residence of Queen Elizabeth the Second and a popular tourist attraction for years.”

“That’s true,” says the first. “So there are certainly examples where royalty has found a way to share their residence with the public.”

I stare at the footage of the palace on the screen, thinking that Roman would have no problem “sharing” this monstrosity with the public. In fact, he’d probably just let the public have the palace and build a treehouse somewhere out back.

The image changes to an interior shot, a long hall with tall windows on one side and identically-sized crystal mirrors on the other. Gigantic chandeliers hang from the ceiling and golden candelabra are affixed to the walls for the length of the hall. The camera pans up to showcase the white and gold stucco decorations and extraordinary ceiling frescoes.

“This, of course, is the Great Gallery,” says the first talking head, “a magnificent location for the Crown Prince’s first address to the nation. You can see the podium there at the top of the hall.”

After an awkward pause the other says, “The Great Gallery is typically used for receptions and banquets.”

“And classical music concerts,” adds the first.

The two of them seem to have run out of things to say, and I wonder what’s delaying Roman. I look through the plane window, happy to see that we’re taxiing to the runway. All of a sudden I see Jerrod hurl himself from his seat and launch his body down the aisle in my direction. My stomach leaps into my throat, and I think the worst.

“Are my parents okay?” I say, ripping my seatbelt off and jumping from my seat in one fluid motion.

“It’s not your parents—they’re fine,” he says in a rush, holding his other phone to me. “It’s Prince Roman. He wants to talk to you.”

“Oh!” I take the phone from him and turn around, holding my finger to my other ear so I can hear him over the whine of the jet. “Hello?”

“Leigh?” His voice sounds strained.

“Hey, is everything okay?” I say, still in semi-panic mode. “I thought you were giving a speech. I have it on.”

“I was. I
am
, “he says. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

He doesn’t say anything else and I wonder if we’ve been disconnected. “Roman?” I say.

“I’m here,” he says.

“What’s wrong?”

“Leigh, will you support me no matter what I decide to do?”

I am flabbergasted. I have never, ever heard Roman be anything less than one hundred percent confident about anything, so his uncertainty catches me completely off-guard. I look back to the television where the hosts have, out of desperation, started talking about a herd of ducks that live on the palace grounds.

“Of course!” I say. “Why wouldn’t I?”

I hear him exhale in relief.

“Just out of curiosity…what
are
you going to do?” I ask. “So I’m prepared–you know how I hate surprises.”

I’m relieved when he chuckles. “Yeah, I know.” He pauses. “I wanted to talk to you about it–explain why–but I’m sort of out of time.” Another pause. “Leigh, I’m not going to refuse the crown…and I wanted to tell you myself.”

“Well, okay,” I say, wondering why he’s so worried about telling me personally. I would have heard it all on TV, just probably not in the same language.

“This affects you too, you know,” he says. “I’ve already heard your name on TV. It’s going to get
a lot
worse.”

“You really should stop watching TV,” I say. “It kills brain cells.”

“Leigh,” he says, his voice brittle, “it’s going to be really hard for us.”

“Yes.” That seems obvious, so I don’t feel that anything more than general agreement is needed.

“Don’t you believe anything that you hear unless you hear it from me,” he says.

“That seems reasonable.”

“I wish you were here.”

“You were the one who cast me off and sent me away,
Your Majesty
,” I say, barely able to get the last two words out without choking with laughter.

“Mmmm, I kind of like the sound of that,” he says. “You think you can call me that while we’re–”

“Don’t you have a speech to give?” I say, looking back to the television. “I turned it on just to hear you and now they’re talking about the history of the royal plumbing. I’m not sure how much more I can take.”

“Okay, okay, I’m going,” he says. “I’ll call you later.”

It’s silly to be disappointed, I know, by the way the call is coming to a close; I can hardly expect him to top our conversation last night.

“Leigh?” he says.

“I heard you…you’ll call me later,” I say, trying to keep the dejection out of my voice.

“Have you ever thought about moving to Austria?”

I reach for the back of the seat to steady myself, miss it, and stumble sideways into the wall of the plane.

“Leigh?”

“It’s cold in Austria,” I say, once I’ve righted myself and gotten my rear end safely into the seat.

He laughs. “What if I promise to keep you warm?” His voice becomes distant and I hear him speaking to someone else in German. “Okay, I’m on in thirty seconds,” he says to me. “Wish me luck.”

“
Ich liebe dich
,” I say instead.

The dead air lasts for several seconds. Finally he responds, his voice full of emotion: “Even better.”