The Frog Prince (28 page)

I take this as a yes. “Can you meet me here? I don’t think I’d be able to find my way to wherever we came in.”

“Get in the elevator and push the G,” he says. “I’ll be there when you get off.”

True to his word, Jason is waiting for me when the doors slide open. His eyebrows pull together, like he’s trying to figure something out.

“What?” I say, automatically looking down at my sweater to see if there’s a
mokka
stain or a chunk of
wiener schnitzel
stuck to the front.

“What is that?” he says, pointing.

I follow his finger and realize that he’s pointing at my suede vest. I run my fingers along the fur trim. “You don’t like it?”

He takes another look at it. “It looks like you stole it off a dead Viking.”

I glare at him. “Start speaking German again,” I say. “That way I’ll only understand about ten percent of anything rude and annoying you say.”

He flashes one of his impish grins and heads off down the hall.

Once again I find myself in the side entrance hallway. From there it’s a few steps and we’re outside. It’s cold enough to see your breath, and bright enough to need your sunglasses. There isn’t a cloud in the brilliant blue sky overhead. The sunshine lifts my spirits; I can almost feel my body kicking into high gear to manufacture vitamin D while it has the chance.

A line of sleek, black cars is idling on the paved apron. “How many cars are we going to need to go shoe shopping?” I say, stopping in my tracks. I’m not even sure which one I’m supposed to get into.

Jason chooses the second car in the lineup and pulls the back door open for me. “Just one. The rest of them are decoys.”

I slide in, and turn back to eye him over the top of my sunglasses. “Decoys? Are we going to a shoe store or a duck blind?”

He rolls his eyes and slams the door. I hear the muffled trill of my phone ringing in my purse. This time I have it tucked away in a designated pocket, so I find it easily. The screen is covered with a series of zeroes rather than a phone number, the sure sign of Roman’s secured and blocked number.

I raise it to my ear. “Leigh Fromm,” I say, mimicking the way I hear Jason answer his phone. Austrians like to cut right to the chase and announce themselves when answering, saving you the trouble of having to ask. I love it.

“Hello, Leigh,” comes a woman’s mildly-accented, cultured voice. “This is Elfriede Lorraine.”

Roman’s mother. I freeze and swallow convulsively, trying to decide how to respond. Jason has turned around from the front seat. He looks alarmed. I wonder if I look like I’m about to swallow my tongue.

“I am very sorry to bother you on such a busy day,” she says.

“I’m–I–I need shoes,” I say and then cringe. There are few people with the talent to convey soulless materialism, a footwear fetish, and a mental disability all in the same statement. Jason shakes his head sadly and turns away.

There are a few beats of silence. “Ahem, yes. I was wondering if you would be available to meet for
mokka
today?”

The car begins to move. I lean forward and wave my hand frantically by Jason’s head. He immediately signals the driver to stop. “Of course, of course,” I say. “I’m available any time.”

“Lovely!” she says. “I thought perhaps we could meet at the Gloriette. Do you know it?”

“At the top of the hill, of course. I’m in the car now…I could have the driver drop me off. Or is later better?”

“I am here already,” she says. “A friend and I had lunch together, but now she is leaving. I would very much like to meet you.”

“I’m on my way now. I’m looking forward to meeting you as well.”

“Wonderful. I will be waiting.”

I drop the phone in my purse. “How long does it take to get to the Gloriette?”

Jason looks back at me like I’m crazy. He points out the window without even looking. “It’s right there, Leigh. Two minutes.”

“Damn,” I mutter. Not nearly enough time to call Jerrod for interview practice. I sigh. “Okay then. Let’s go.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

“What is the Gloriette anyway?” I ask Jason as the car moves slowly up the hill on one of the outer avenues.

“
Minipalast
,” I hear the driver mumble.

I lean closer to the tinted window, looking up the hill. From a distance the Gloriette
does
look like a miniature Schönbrunn Palace with its dramatic grand central section and two wings. It’s even painted the same “Maria Theresa yellow” with impressive white marble arches and pillars. I can see tiny figures–people– moving against the front of the stone façade and deduce that by “miniature” the driver means “the size of a small Austrian village.”

“
Kriegdenkmal
,” says Jason. On seeing my blank expression he translates. “War memorial.” He opens his door, then twists around to look at me. “Is she in the restaurant? Or on the viewing platform?”

“She said she just had lunch. I guess she’s in the restaurant.”

Jason says something to the driver in German. He pulls onto the gravel apron at the rear of the Gloriette, parking behind a car that looks very much like ours. The driver opens my door and I step out, my clogs crunching on the pea gravel.

I’m looking down at my shoes, wondering too late if my outfit is too casual to meet the mother of the King of Austria when I hear raised voices around me.

“Leigh,” says Jason in an undertone.

I snap out of it, only now realizing that some of the scattered group of tourists around the Gloriette have recognized me and are pointing their digital cameras and cell phones at me. A little girl of about eight waves frantically at me with one hand while her mother restrains her with the other.

“Princess Leigh!” she screams. “Hi, Princess Leigh!”

“Hi, there!” I say, waving back. Instead of climbing the stairs of the Gloriette, I change directions, walking over to the girl and her mother. Beside me I can see Jason getting jumpy as I hold my hand out to the girl. “Hi! What’s your name?”

The girl is shy and doesn’t look me in the eye even as she holds out her hand and lets me shake it. “Emily.”

“Are you having a good time today?”

She nods. “I had strudel at the castle,” she says, pointing across the artificial lake and down the hill to Schönbrunn Palace in the distance.

“Me too!” I say, pressing my hand to my chest in a
what-are-the-chances?
gesture. “You’re American, right?” She nods. “Where are you from?”

“Portland, Oregan,” her mother interjects.

“Portland! I’ve heard that’s a really beautiful city. Hey, Emily…I have a secret to tell you. But you can’t tell anyone, okay?” I look up at the girl’s mother and wink.

Emily leans towards me eagerly. I bend over her and whisper in her ear. “I’m not a princess.”

“You’re not?”

Just then, a familiar figure descends the sweeping marble stairs of the Gloriette. Beside me I see Jason’s mouth practically fall open and hit the pea gravel at the sight of Princess Isabella of Denmark. Her blonde hair is swept back into a low, elegant ponytail. The full skirt of a tea-length violet dress peeps from beneath the folds of her open, full-length fur coat. In one hand she holds a colorful bouquet of flowers.

I look back at the girl and shake my head sadly. “Nope. But I can introduce you to a real princess.” I hold my hand out to her. She looks up at her mother who nods her permission.

“Isabella!”

Isabella stops at the bottom of the stairs, her expression changing as she sees each person in our group: open scorn for me, a “how
you
doin’?” look for Jason, and a softer look for Emily. Jason nods to her bodyguard, the equivalent of bus drivers waving to each other as they pass on the road. They move apart from each other, orbiting around the two of us, subtly clearing a space around Isabella and me with their no-nonsense body language.

I ignore Isabella’s hostility and haul the little girl over to where she’s standing. “Emily, this is Princess Isabella of Denmark,” I say. “Isabella, this is Princess Emily of Portland, Oregan.”

Isabella says nothing, and just as my fingers are getting itchy with the desire to slap her for her rudeness she suddenly takes the bouquet in both hands and holds it close to her body in front of her waist. Looking very intently at the girl, she raises the bouquet to about shoulder level and slowly unfurls her arms. The flowers now in her left hand, she holds her right hand out to Jason, who is staring, mesmerized, a few feet away from her. He immediately rushes forward and sticks his own hand out.

Without even turning her head to look at him, she rests her fingers in the palm of his hand and begins to melt into herself at the knee, the fabric of her skirt and coat collapsing in concentric circles around her like a violet and fur corona. Just when I think she can’t possibly get any closer to the ground without sitting down, she releases Jason’s hand and begins to lean forward, folding up like a lawn chair, her head sinking into the folds of her dress.

Isabella holds this pose for a moment—long enough for me to wonder if we should fetch a royal chiropractor—before reversing the entire process, reaching for Jason’ hand and effortlessly unseating herself and unbending at the knee until she’s standing again.

“Princess Emily,” she says softly.

The girl stares up at her, eyes round and wide, too stunned to say a word. My eyes flit to Jason, who looks absolutely gobsmacked, his hand still in hers. I think a terrorist could bomb the Gloriette into rubble, and he would still be imagining other positions Isabella could be folded into as the debris rained down around us.

The silence is broken by the enthusiastic applause and hooting of the dozen or so tourists who have gathered around, many of them still recording the event with their phones and cameras. Grinning from ear to ear, Emily runs back to her mother and buries her face under the woman’s coat.

Isabella nods to Jason as she pulls her hand away, and then turns to me. “Leigh,” she says, leaning forward to touch her cheek to mine in a brief air kiss. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Good to see you too,” I say, mustering up all the grace I can manage. “Roman is happy that your family could be here today.”

“
Ja
…” She trails off and looks wistfully over her shoulder. “Elfriede is waiting for you.”

I look up the stairs at the door to the Gloriette café, panic hitting me afresh. “I never learned how to curtsey,” I blurt out.

Isabella smiles, the most genuine smile I’ve ever seen on her face. “Elfriede would be appalled if you curtseyed to her. Just be sure to call her
Frau Doktor Doktor
when you first meet her. Austrians are very particular with their titles.”

I eye her skeptically. I’m trying to envision me calling Roman’s mother “
Doktor Doktor
,” as if I’m about to belt out
Bad Case of Loving You
. “I guess I’d better go,” I say, stretching my lips across my teeth into a pseudo-smile.

“Good luck,” she says. Her driver has the car door open for her in a flash. With a final, lingering glance in Jason’s direction, she climbs into the car and is gone.

“
Es gibt etwas Sie don' t sehen tägliches
,” Jason says, watching the car as it drives away.

I only get the general gist of what he’s saying—something along the lines of ‘There’s something you don’t see every day’–but it annoys me anyway. “Is there any chance that you can pull your head out of your ass long enough for me to meet Roman’s mother?” I say brusquely, sweeping past him towards the stairs, “I’d feel safer right now with Emily providing security.”

Jason laughs, his teeth even whiter in the brilliant afternoon sun. I start climbing the stairs, but he overtakes me, bounding up the steps two at a time and pulling the door open for me.

I pause at the top of the stairs. “Is Isabella trying to jack me with the
Doktor Doktor
stuff?” I say.

Jason’s smile vanishes and he shakes his head. “No, she’s right.
Frau
Lorraine has two doctorates–it’s in her file.”

I tilt my head. “I have two master’s degrees. What does that make me?”

“
Frau Magister Magister
Fromm,” he says immediately.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumble. “I think I prefer Whiskey Tango.”

“You should introduce yourself that way,” he says under his breath from behind me as I sweep into the restaurant. “Show her your rugged American individualism and your disdain for meritocracies.”

I ignore his sarcasm, glancing at the cavernous interior with the familiar, standard arched windows, marble columns and yellow walls with Rococo flourishes. I’m musing over the Habsburgs dynasty’s seeming mid-eighteenth century decorating rut when I realize that the restaurant is empty save bodyguards at each of the three exits, and flustered-looking restaurant staff huddled behind a tastefully concealed wait station. Tinkly music from hidden speakers seems a little too loud considering that the place is deserted.

“
Frau
Fromm?” From my left flank a uniformed man appears. “Right this way,” he says.

I turn back to Jason, but he’s reverted back to his I-barely-know-you-I’m-just-the-body-guard expression, his posture that of alert indifference. I follow the server to the far side of the Gloriette, pushing back at my fear by mentally running over a list of German curse words I can spring on Jason later. My favorite so far is
der Drecksack
–“dirty bastard.”

Beneath one of the colossal windows a grouping of tables is elevated higher than the restaurant floor, the area closed in by a waist-high marble partition. Beyond it I can see the back of a woman’s head. She doesn’t turn at our approach, and seems to be preoccupied by the view of Schönbrunn Palace down the hill in the distance. The host warns me to watch my step, and then about-faces and abandons me. I step up and move towards the opposite side of the table.

“
Frau Doktor Doktor
Lorraine,” I say, extending my hand. “It’s so good to finally meet you.” She seems pleased at my salutation, and my heart warms a fraction towards Isabella.