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Throat drawing shut, I struggle to croak, “Yeah.”
“If he arrives, I’ll mind my p’s and q’s. Nah, I’ll bow out, Luxxie. I was here last year for the blooming ceremony. Your old man and I can trade off. I’ll just catch a taxi back to the city the second he arri—”
“Uncle Red, I will fight you.” I fork a hand through my reddish-brown kinks and mutter, “There are so many rooms. Everyone will stay. And you willalwayshave a room here.”
He nods appreciatively.
Although Uncle Red’s silent, his presence is like burrowing into Dad’s favorite knit sweater in the wintertime as a child. His presence ispeace. I murmur, “Whenever we speak, Jonah’s angry that I told you what happened to Momma first. Always says that Momma washiswife.”
“Well, we can’t turn back time.”
I place my hand over Uncle Red’s, glad that we overcame the despicable truth of Eugene’s actions. Of how neither of us was there to protect her.
My shoulder softly nudges his. “Uncle Red, I wouldn’t take it back.”
“I wouldn’t take back a second either. I watched you grow up, Luxxie. I fell hard for your momma.”
Footsteps proceed the sound of our butler’s voice. “Pardon me, Mrs. Tudor. Your special guest has arrived.”
Hope clings to my skin as I turn around. On second thought, a dose of doubt settles in, so I ask, “The Queen or Princess Mary?”
“No, ma’am. The Queen is relishing her second cup of tea, and Princess Mary assists Victoria with tickling Mr. Tudor.”
“Oh.” I chuckle softly.Then who?
“Your father, ma’am. Mr. Tudor advised that I should bring Dr. Whitson straight away.” While the butler has stalled just inside of the French doors, his gander flits to the left for emphasis. A second later, my dad, in his signature brown corduroys and checkered shirt, approaches the balcony entrance.
Uncle Red dips his head in greeting.
Dad returns a cool tip of his chin.
“Um,” Uncle Red addresses the butler, “I’m not quite versed on such a lavish mansion.”
“I’ll lead the way,” says our stately butler.
My eyes haven’t left my father’s freckled face. The shorter man doesn’t move an inch while his enemy passes by. Seconds later, he starts toward me.
“Dad,” I say softly. As my father’s embrace envelops me, all of our differences fade away. The girl who drew closer to her father after enduring her mother's death reemerges.
Choked up, I strain out, “I didn’t think you’d . . .”
The hug tightens a notch, and my dad’s voice emotively constricts. “I’ve missed valuable time with you, Luxury. Take pity on this old man, and introduce me to the little girl bossing everyone around downstairs.” A solemn kiss falls onto my cheek as Dad adds, “If it’s not too much, I’d appreciate a reintroduction to the man who claimed your hand in marriage.”
EPILOGUE
Victor
If someone told me that in five years, I’d trade in a 9mm for a tiara, I’d be inclined to give them a swift kick up the old backside. Real men don’t wear tiaras. Nor flowers. And here I am, the bloody double whammy.
A tiara.
Created from sunflowers.
My father would call me a sissy.
Well, bullocks, no argument there. I’m taking orders from someone less than half my height. Afour-year-old, no less.
I crouch down, the bushel of sunflowers in my hair tilts, and Victoria huffs, sliding the fallen crown back into place.
