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I nod. “She said I should stay overnight in it.”
As I read, more memories surface.
Dappled sunlight on green grass paths. Tall rose bushes in full bloom, sculpted into rows. Sweet, sugary, and milky tea, sipped in the Ceremonial Room, with the high, ornate ceilings gilded in gold.
My grandmother’s laugh.
Clay’s hand in mine.
The castle used to be a private residence for the wealthy Isabella. She had it built as a small-scale replica of the actual Windsor Castle. Though it’s known as the Mini Windsor Castle by many, it’s hardly ‘mini.’ The building is big enough to get lost in for days, the grounds and gardens expansive and park-like.
I read the history of the Queen’s Room as a vivid memory washes over me.
My mother is in one of her long and flowy skirts. She kneels in the lush grass of the castle gardens, holding her hands out to me. I run into her arms, and she bundles me into a hug and kisses the top of my head.
My grandmother, nearby, holds Clay, who is only three or four.
He looks up at my grandmother and places both his pudgy hands against her cheeks. “Is this heaven, Nana?” he asks.
My grandmother laughs. “Sure feels like it.”
My mom holds me tighter and rocks me back and forth. “It really does feel like heaven, doesn’t it, baby girl?” she whispers in my ear.
It was the first time I heard the word heaven.
And after that, whenever I heard that word, I thought about the castle gardens.
I thought about my mother’s arms.
My grandmother’s laugh.
Clay’s smile.
Sunshine. Pink roses. The pale, heather-gray stone castle rising up over rows and rows of manicured greenery.
When I pull myself out of the memories and look at my brother, I see a peaceful look has replaced his gloom.
“Are you thinking about Grandma?” I ask him.
He nods. “It always felt magical, going up to the castle with her, didn’t it?” That subtle smile won’t quit. He strokes his chin, which is covered in reddish stubble. “Man, she was the best.”
“She really was.” I bite my lip and look down at the tiny print that covers the page.
The article is crowned with a black-and-white photograph of the Queen’s Room. The huge, four-poster canopy bed is draped in silk, satin, and even fur. The room’s walls are covered with embroidered fabric in a rose pattern. A chandelier hangs from the high ceiling, and oil paintings in ornate frames decorate the walls.
On the edge of the photograph, tall French doors are visible, along with a hint of the view beyond: the gardens, treetops, and downtown Windsor, far in the distance.
“It was one of the last things she said to me,” I tell Clay in a whisper.
Around us, the buzz of the office goes on. Phones ring. People talk. But now Clay and I are walking down our own private, peaceful memory lane, and the hubbub of the office feels very far away.
“What did she want, exactly?”
“She wanted me to stay the night in this room.” I tap the photo of the Queen’s Room.
The news says that the room will soon be closed to overnight stays. That’s going to make following through on my grandmother’s dying wish very difficult.
“Like she did, right?” Clay asks.
