Page 6 of A Princess, Stolen
Since we moved in here, it was my job to make sure there were fresh flowers in the penthouse. Dad had given me the task because I wanted to contribute something to the household but he didn’t like me assisting the maids.
Today, however, even the flowers couldn’t soothe me. I spread them around Dad’s wine bar, my studio, the baroque dining room, the kitchen, and even in the party lounge, but the vague fear followed me like a shadow. The dream still seemed like the harbinger of a catastrophe that was rolling toward me with no way to stop it. Why would I voluntarily go near the Atlantic? And it’s not like tonight’s party was taking place near a body of water, nor was I going to drown in a sink in the Pretoria Hotel.
In the living room where Dad displayed his collections from all over the world, I stopped in front of an arched window. Dad always jokingly called the living roomthe largest living room in New York, or at least that’s how the real estate agent had advertised it at the time.
For the second time today, I looked down over the city, the Hudson River, Liberty Island, and the Statue of Liberty. When we moved in, Dad had explained to me that her seven-pointed crown symbolized the seven seas and the seven continents. Together with the torch, it stood for the liberty of all people.
Liberty!
A bittersweet longing tugged at my heart.
Can you actually get out of your cage?
I swallowed when I recalled the boy from Baton Rouge. Over the years, I had not forgotten him, the kiss, and the Palace of Shards. And sometimes, when I focused on it intensely enough, my heart still fluttered at the memory of his sea-gray eyes, his rough hands, and our dance between the colorful shards of glass and sparks of light.
Inevitably, I remembered the letter from Grandma Anna, my maternal grandmother. Delilah had fished it out of the junk mail yesterday; the return address was Baton Rouge, Louisiana. It was still locked in my bedside table drawer.
I should read it. Despite the communication ban.
The last thought made my heart beat faster. I arranged the last of the roses more carelessly than usual and almost knocked the transparent box with the antique Marie Antoinette brooch off the dresser. I quickly moved it back next to the box containing the first golf ball in living memory, Dad’s favorite piece in his collection of curiosities.
Back in my bedroom, I pulled the letter from Grandma out of the drawer. Was it wrong to open it? Dad certainly didn’t know that she had written me because he always ignored the junk mail, so he must have missed it, otherwise, he most definitely would have confiscated the letter; after all, he was the one who had forbidden me to have contact with Grandma.
Uncertain, I turned the letter over in my hands. I understood. Grandma blamed him for Mom’s death, yet Dad had nothing to do with it. It had been an accident, a tragic mishap that had required quick action.
But I turned nineteen today. I had been an adult for over a year, so I should be able to choose who I had contact with or not. And Grandma probably just wanted to congratulate me. What was wrong with that? Besides, Dad didn’t need to know!
I carefully opened the envelope with the nail of my index finger, under which dark blue oil paint still clung.
Dried rose petals fell toward me and filled the air with a lovely aroma. My heart warmed and the uneasy feeling that the nightmare had left behind faded a bit. Grandma hadn’t forgotten how much I loved flowers. Like her, and like Mom used to. And like Mom, I looked like her.A whole generation of clones, Dadoften joked, throwing his hands up in the air. In the past, before Mom died.
How was Grandma? I suddenly felt guilty because I rarely allowed her into my thoughts anymore. Did she still think about Mom as often as I did? Why was Baton Rouge the return address? As far as I knew, she lived in Bakersfield.
Suddenly uneasy, I unfolded the paper. The words on the cream-colored sheet were handwritten. I read:
Dearest Willa,
I hope the letter reaches you in time for your 19th birthday. With all my heart, I wish you all the best, health, and every happiness in the world. It’s been almost eight years since we last spoke. Back then, you told me you’d had your first kiss. I hope you’ve had many more. And I hope you’re madly in love right now. Nothing is more beautiful than love, my child, isn’t it? Your mom used to say that too.
But I don’t want to start with your mom or the past today, dear Willa, but with the future. I would love it if you would visit me.
I recently moved from the West Coast to Louisiana, specifically to Baton Rouge, and I know how much you love the South. Or, at least, you once loved it. Sometimes, I still see you in front of me, wandering through the statelygardens of Rosewood Manor as a five-year-old. We had magical summers there. You were like a fairy to all of us—in your rustling dresses with the flowing ribbons in your pigtails, always surrounded by a cloud of rose scent. Your nannies often meant well, but I don’t think there is a child in the world who was bathed and powdered as often as you.
Just last week, I drove out to Rosewood Manor to see if you were there, but the groundskeeper said you hadn’t been in town for years. I looked out into the gardens from outside and imagined seeing you there, but of course, those days are over.
The great clock of life only ticks in one direction. Now, I would like to meet the Willa that you have become. We need to talk. Above all, about your mom and dad.
You can find my address below. I am usually home, though when I am not, the neighbor in number 5 has a key. His name is Mr. Jones. I would be happy, no, I would, as you young people call it, completely freak out.
With infinite love,
Your Grandma
With infinite love. With a lump in my throat, I lowered the letter. Grandma’s words had painted a thousand pictures in my head, a thousand beautiful memories. Suddenly, my heart hurt and I wanted nothing more than to turn back time and run with her and Mom through the shaded gardens of Rosewood Manor. Play hide-and-seek. Play tag. Be the happy child again that she told me about in her letter. I swallowed and looked at the address.
Anna Farmer, 3 Antler Drive, Baton Rouge, LA 70817
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