Page 245 of Naughty Nelle

Rescue me! She’s way worse than Sasperilla! The skinny bitch, at least, had self-control and didn’t blame others for her shortcomings. The smell of something burning cuts my thoughts short. The apple pie! It’s still in the oven—probably burnt to a crisp!

I hurry back to the kitchen to check on the pie. The good news is…only the edges of the crust have burnt. The bad news is…the filling is now the consistency of applesauce. And it’s starting to bubble like molten lava.

Panicky, I jerk it out from the hearth and yelp. I’ve burnt my hand on the red-hot dish. To my horror, my flesh is glued to the rim. I peel it off. Ow! Why am I such a doof in the kitchen? I flashback to my finger-cutting incident at Faraway, then flash forward to my reunion tomorrow night. I can’t wait to see Elz and Winnie. It gets my mind off the pain.

Using my good hand and a large potholder, I bring the once-upon-a-time pie to the table. “My pièce de résistance,” I say in my best French accent.

I have to admit the aroma is tantalizing and wonder if it will taste as good as it smells. I slice a generous piece for everyone. What I really need is a ladle.

“Pass!” grunts Marcella, raising her hand like a stop sign and turning her head.

“Jane, this is simply wonderful!” says The Prince after his first bite. Taking another forkful, he savors my apple mush as if it’s his last morsel of food.

Calla’s equally ecstatic. “Super duper yummy!” she squeals. “Papa, may Lady Jane and I have another piece? Please? Pretty please?” she implores with the coquettish charm that only a little girl can get away with.

The Prince cannot say no to his little princess. I serve Calla and Lady Jane their second helping. There’s only one piece left.

Marcella stares at it, her mouth watering. I’m enjoying every minute. Suffer, you wannabe skinny bitch!

“Jane, I shall have the last piece,” says The Prince. “This splendid pie should not go to waste.”

As I serve The Prince, he notices the burn on my hand; it’s now a big red ugly welt.

“What happened to your hand?” He sounds genuinely concerned.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” I reply. “Un petit cooking faux pas.” Am I kidding myself? My hand is killing me!

“Let me take care of it before it gets infected.” He reaches into his vest pocket and pulls out a white monogrammed silk handkerchief. He gently wraps it around the burn. My hand trembles and my heart pounds. I’m weak. It must be a more serious wound than I thought.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Marcella rolling her eyes in utter disgust.

“That’s much better.” Proud of his makeshift bandage, The Prince holds my hand in his. I keep it there longer than I need to, then hastily pull away.

“Thank you, My Lord.” I quiver. “I mean, Gallant.” Our eyes meet briefly. My heart races; my body tingles. I don’t know why I feel so weird and wonderful.

What I do know is that I’ve learned a valuable lesson: When life gives you apples, make apple pie.

After dinner, The Prince sends Calla up to her room; she’s had a big day and needs some sleep. The little girl protests but finally acquiesces.

“I love you, Papa.” She gives her father a big hug.

“I love you, too, My Little Princess,” says The Prince, holding her tightly.

Their embrace gives me the chills. Maybe, it has something to do with never having a father to kiss me good night. Knowing my mother’s taste in men, it’s just as well I didn’t.

“Good night, Marcella,” says Calla coldly before heading upstairs.

Marcella pays no attention to the child and dismisses herself from the table.

“My love, I need my beauty sleep with the ball so close.” She blows The Prince a kiss, then slinks off.

Ball. Shmall. Personally, I think Her Royal Skankiness wants nothing to do with clean-up. To tell the truth, neither do I. I don’t want to think about how much there is to scrub.

And then I have one of my brainstorms. When they’re all upstairs asleep, I’ll toss all the plates. Tomorrow, I’ll tell The Prince I accidentally broke them and blame it on my burnt hand. That’s sure to get his sympathy. And, come on, he can easily afford a few new dishes. In fact, I bet he and the PIW will get an entire set of new china for a wedding present.

I’m such a creative genius. Okay, so not all my plans work—the poison apple scheme bombed as did my escape from Faraway—but this one’s a sure-fire no-brainer.

Singing “lalala” to myself, I start hauling plates and serving pieces into the kitchen. The Prince orders me to stop.

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