Page 3 of Princessa
Chapter 3
“Mi vida,you’re certain this is what you want to do?” Mama stood behind me, brushing my hair as I sat at the vanity, her voice barely above a whisper. Getting my hair groomed by her was our leisure, mother-daughter-before-bedtime ritual, something we’d performed since I was old enough to talk.
“Yes, Mama, I’m certain. It’ll be good to get away, focus on something sure to rid my head of everything that’s transpired over the last few months.” I swiveled my stool around to face her, tears brewing in my eyes. “I’m gonna miss you, Papa, home so very much.”
Mama crouched, enveloping me in a long embrace, and I could tell by the way her body trembled, she was on the verge of spilling her own grief-laced tears.
After a few long beats, we unlocked, and I swiveled back around, my eyes taking in the view of Mama in the reflection of the vanity mirror as she resumed stroking the gold-plated brush through my hair. The two of us were near-identical, both having long, auburn hair, caramel-colored skin, and hazel-green eyes; even our body frames were practically carbon copies—petite and slim. The only noticeable contrast to our likeness, other than our sometimes less than obvious twenty-seven-year age difference, was the fact Mama’s mild Southern drawl, was glittered with Latin ambiance—something she held onto as if it defined her identity.
“Mija, I want you to know we—your papa and I—are extremely proud of the young woman you’ve become, and we believe with all our hearts, you,mi amor, will accomplish whatever you have your mind set on.” Mama paused as if drinking in our reflection; the sparkle in her eyes told me she was savoring the moment as a cherished keepsake found only in the most sacred of places. She leaned over and pressed a kiss to the top of my head, setting the brush on the vanity. “You’re going to do great things at Royale Resort France. Shine like the star we all know you are. Just be careful over there, mindful of the rules,” she reminded with a curt nod. After all, Mama will forever be diligent in preserving the family image. “You get some rest now, Amor. I’ll help you pack tomorrow.”
A nightfull of tossing and turning ticked by while my head practically drowned in all things France. Never did I believe it was possible to feel eager and anxious all at once, but, come on, packing up my life to begin an unfamiliar—yet hopefully—exhilarating venture? I was surprised my head was still attached to my body and hadn’t already taken off to France without me.
Rolling out of bed, I slid my feet into my favorite pair of plush slippers, and when my phone chirped, the familiar tone made it more than obvious it was a FaceTime call from my BFF.
“According to your Instagram post, it looks like you and I will be sharing the same timezone soon?” Lauren’s face gleamed like the almighty sun penetrating clouds on a stormy day. It was so good to see her chipper, too-gorgeous face through the screen of my phone. I mean, the woman was always drop-dead eye candy, but being with child had somehow catapulted that beauty of hers to the next level.
Chewing on my lower lip, a burning sense of guilt rushed to my belly. Ideally, I should’ve been the one to break the news to Lauren instead of a post to billions on Instagram. “Yes, girl, the jet leaves tomorrow night.” My eyes were still on Lauren via FaceTime as I stepped out onto the terrace, a crisp Savannah breeze hugging me.
“Oh. My. Gosh,” she yapped. “How utterly fantastic. Seriously, I can’t believe you’re finally moving to France. It’s about damn time, you know. Best part about it is, we’ll no longer be chatting with long-ass hours between us. In fact, the two of us will be only a mere train ride apart,” she added, elation flashing in her ocean-blue eyes.
“Yep, only four hours, to be exact.” I eased onto the yellow chaise lounge, my eyes flicking to the boats setting off for a morning sail on the harbor—another something that had crept its way onto the long list of things I’d miss.
“Sweetie, are you nervous?” Lauren’s inquiry seeped out of her mouth in the form of a murmur, as if she were afraid to ask.
“Of course; nonetheless, just like you mentioned last night, it’ll be good to put things behind me. Anyway, enough of all that,” I said, paving the way to an imminent change of subject. “Show me your belly.”
Later that afternoon,packing for France morphed into a festive, invitation-only affair attended by Mama, Camille, my quirky personal assistant, Emma, and a handful of other Royale Resort employees with whom I’d grown especially close to over the years. Tears of joy were transfused with tears of sorrow as we all shared fond memories of me growing up at the resort. My first Christmas, first debutante recital, my first just about anything and everything.
“Remember when you had a crush on one of the good-looking bellmen?” Camille laughed out loud at her spoken memory.
“You were only six years old, the bellman in his early twenties,” Mama remembered through a giggle. “Your father acted as though he was sure you were going to try and run off with him.”
“Yep,” I confirmed, joining the symphony of laughter. “And it seems Papa’s been watching me like a hawk ever since.”
We all snorted out a guffaw, knowing how true my statement was. Though he meant well, Papa showed his love for me in the form of a leash that was short and tight. As his only offspring, and heir to the seemingly iconic Royale name that took his family centuries to build, grooming me into a proper lady became his—even Mama’s—fixation. It’s how I earned the title, Princess of Savannah, or Princessa, my middle name—spelled with two Ss by design. My parents wanted everything about me to stand out.
“We’re surprised he’s given his blessing for you to scurry off to France all on your own,” blurted our Cindy, the woman who’d not only been Mama’s personal assistant for the last twenty-plus years, but I’m pretty sure she’d changed my diapers a few times, as well. Mostly everyone on the resort payroll had some involvement in raising me, small and large.
“Well, Cindy, I’m not allowing Arabella to scurry off to France all on her own,” came a familiar dictatorial, roar-like voice that, in an instant, sucked our fun times out of the room.
My father. Theodore Royale. Commander in Chief. Portrait of Alpha Male. He stood tall, hands tucked in his pressed, custom-suit pants pockets, wearing a smirk that seemed to exist on his face like a birthmark.
Silence swallowed my spacious suite, save for a subtle clearing of Emma’s throat and the sound of suitcases being zipped and unzipped. It wasn’t like Papa instilled fear into all who worked, lived, and breathed under his rule at Royale Resort—“the palace.” Contrarily, respect, admiration, and honor were genuinely dished in the same fashion one would a magnanimous monarch of a faraway kingdom.
“Papa,” I hesitated, slicing his creation of dead air with a jagged, almost unsteady vibration in my voice. “I’ll be fine on my own—”
I wasn’t at all surprised when he cut me off. “Sweetheart, while I’ve no doubt you’ll be fine on your own”—he approached me, cupping my face in the palms of his hands—“having familiarity, folks who know you better than your mother and I combined… Well, my darling, trust me on this one. You’ll thank me soon enough.”
There was no use in putting forth effort or energy into arguing about it, not when I was hours away from flying the coup. Besides, I didn’t want my last night with my family to be spent whining about something futile. So I simply smiled, aware my father did have my best interest at heart, grew a pair, and then inquired, “Who’s coming with me to France?”
When Papa revealed Camille and Emma were the two chosen to accompany me to Royale Resort France, my heart danced. He explained that since Camille was so close to retiring, she’d volunteered to keep an eye on me, have my back, while living in the one place she planned on moving to all along, and Emma, well I kind of suspected she’d join me given how long we’d been working together.
The next night, saying farewell to my resort family, Mama, and Papa was like ripping off skin. Yet, once Camille, Emma, and I hopped aboard the family jet and settled into the roomy leather seats, I couldn’t fight the grin that inevitably stretched across my face.
Swiping away bittersweet tears, I snapped a selfie of the three of us, posting it to my Instagram page with the caption: Fresh Start. #VivaLaFrance.
