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His baritone voice drifted to her over thousands of miles. “Hello, Princess. I had to hear your voice once more before I started my day. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
She glanced at the clock. It was 8:00 a.m. in Alma. “No, not at all. I’m doing some research right now. I’m glad you called. How are you?”
“Besides missing you, I’m doing well. I’m scheduled to do a television interview later this morning. All of Alma is rejoicing over our art find, sweetheart. But I have a feeling the interviewer is more interested in our engagement. I’m sure I will be barraged with questions about our wedding.”
“I’m sure you can handle it, Your Highness.”
“What I can’t handle is not being with my perfect princess. When will you be returning to me?”
“Give me a week, Juan Carlos,” she said. “I need the time to get some things in order.”
“Sounds like an eternity.”
“For me, too, but I have a lot to accomplish. Jasmine has been persistent. We are very close to choosing a wedding gown.”
“I can’t wait to see you in it. No matter which you choose you’ll be beautiful. But what have you decided about your work?”
“I’ve managed to take a three months’ leave of absence. I’m thinking of relocating to Europe. There are many American art collectors living abroad who might need my services. I...I don’t have it all figured out yet.”
“Take your time, sweetheart. I want you to be happy with whatever you choose.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“I’ve been thinking. How does a Christmas wedding sound?”
“A Christmas wedding?” She pictured lush holly wreaths, bright red poinsettias and twinkling lights decorating the palace. “Sounds heavenly. But it’s less than two months away.”
Her fiancé was eager to make her his wife. She couldn’t complain, yet her mind spun. She had so very much to do.
“We can make it work, Portia.”
“Yes, yes. Okay,” she said, smiling. The idea was too tempting to pass up. “Let’s have a Christmas wedding.”
There was a pause, and she pictured him smiling. “I love you, Portia.”
“I love you, too, Juan Carlos.”
* * *
The nursing home smelled of lye soap and disinfectant. Yet somehow the word sterile didn’t come to mind as Portia walked the halls toward her great-aunt Margreta’s room. Her aunt had once told her, “The odors of old age are too strong to conceal.” Sharp old bird, Aunt Margreta was, back in the day. But Portia never knew what she’d find when she visited. Some days, her great-aunt was lucid, her wits about her. And some days, it was as if she’d fallen into a dark hole and didn’t know how to get out.
This kind of aging was a slow, eternally sad process. Yet, as Portia popped her head into her aunt’s room, she was greeted with cheery buttercup-colored walls and fresh flowers. Aunt Margreta sat in a chair, reading a crime thriller. A good sign.
“Hello, Auntie,” Portia said. “It’s me, Portia.”
Her aunt looked over her thick eyeglasses and hesitated a moment. “Portia?”
Her voice was weak, her body frail and thin. “Yes, it’s me.”
The old woman smiled. “Come in, dear.” She put the book down on her lap. “Nice of you to visit.”
Thank heaven. Her aunt was having a good day. Maybe now, she could gather information about the Lindstrom monarchy that Portia hadn’t been able to find anywhere else. She’d used up every one of her massive tools of research, including going through newspaper archives searching for an inkling about her family’s rule and traditions carried out in Samforstand. She found nothing, which was very odd, and that lack of information brought her here today. Maybe Aunt Margreta could shed some light. She was her grandmother’s sister and had lived in the homeland before the war.
Portia pulled up a chair and sat down beside her. “How are you, Auntie?”
“I can’t complain. Well, I could, but it would do no good. I’m old, Portia. And you,” she said, gazing over her glasses again. “You are as beautiful as I remember.”
Portia took her hand and smiled. Aunt Margreta’s hands were always soft, the skin loose and smooth over the aging bones. At ninety-three years old, she was as physically fit as one could expect, but for daily bouts of arthritis. But her mind wasn’t holding up as well as her body and that worried Portia. “So are you, Aunt Margreta. You’re a beautiful lady.”
