Finding Home Read online

  Of course, now that I know someone sent me a message, I need to know who it is. I texted Mom and Dad and Rob and the twins to tell them I was going to bed, so it’s not one of them.

  BOO.

  Boo? Who would text ‘boo’ to me?

  WHO IS THIS?

  THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND.

  I TOLD YOU I WOULDN’T PLAY AT YOUR TEA PARTY ALREADY. TWICE. Eyebrow raised emoji.

  WHAT IF I LET YOU WEAR MY CROWN?

  My heart races. I’m pretty sure I know who this is, but I didn’t give him my number. He never even asked for it. CAN I KEEP IT AT THE END?

  DEPENDS.

  ON WHAT? I ask.

  WHETHER IT WILL STAY ON YOUR HEAD.

  I THINK I CAN MANAGE. I’VE ALWAYS WANTED A CROWN.

  Dots. And then finally, IF YOU WERE TO HAVE REALLY FLUFFY HAIR, LIKE A LION’S MANE, IT MIGHT STAY ON BETTER.

  Now I know. HOW DID YOU GET MY NUMBER, COLE?

  A LITTLE BIRD GAVE IT TO ME.

  I have no idea what to say now, but I’m beaming like an idiot. A few goofy words from him, and my horrible day has transformed into a decent one.

  HOW DID IT GO? NOCK THEIR SOCKS RIGHT OFF?

  He didn’t put the k in front of knock. For some reason, I find that so precious that I want to hug him. Or maybe I’ve wanted to hug him since the first day we met. TODAY SUCKED.

  IT WILL GET BETTER.

  I HOPE SO, BECAUSE IF IT GETS WORSE, I’M FIRED.

  WHAT HAPPENED? he asks.

  EVERYONE HATES ME, AND I SCREWED UP TWO SONGS.

  I REALLY DOUBT THAT.

  IT’S TRUE.

  YOU’RE NOT USED TO PLAYING WITH A BIG BAND.

  He’s making excuses for me, which I appreciate, but that wasn’t actually too bad. It was fun, honestly. THEY WERE SONGS NO ONE EVER GAVE ME.

  SO TELL THEM THAT.

  BELIEVE ME, I TRIED. BUT REALLY, I SHOULD HAVE GONE AHEAD AND LEARNED ALL HER SONGS, JUST TO BE ON THE SAFE SIDE.

  YOU’RE TOO NICE. IT’S OKAY TO GET ANGRY.

  Something about his words clicks, and a ridiculous fury I had been denying grows inside me until I hit my pillow. Then I hit it again. Then I start to cry.

  YOU STILL THERE?

  I’M OKAY, BUT I CAN’T SPEAK FOR MY FEATHER PILLOW. NEXT TIME, BEFORE YOU TELL ME ANGER IS THE ANSWER, THINK OF THE POOR BED COVERINGS.

  Laughing face emoji.

  THANKS FOR CHECKING IN. GLAD YOU MADE IT HOME SAFELY.

  YOU KNOW I LIKE TO DRIVE, he texts.

  WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?

  IF THOSE JERKS DON’T TREAT YOU BETTER, I’LL DRIVE BACK AND SMASH SOME HEADS.

  When I can’t go right to sleep, for some reason I find myself pulling up the Liechtenstein government website. I can’t find anything about the Family or House Law, but the Constitution is posted, in English no less.

  I manage to read almost the entire thing before I fall asleep, and it gives me an idea. But of course, if I’ve had the idea, so has everyone else in Cole’s family. I’m just a hairdresser—what do I know about thrones and titles?

  But when I do fall asleep, there’s a smile on my face.

  12

  Cole

  I drink more tea and have more awkward family dinners in the next two weeks than I had in my entire life prior to now. Dozens and dozens of meetings, sometimes several with the same family member. I laugh at flat jokes. I smile at horrifyingly rude comments. I read and compliment a novel that is utter drivel, written by Dad’s cousin. But the worst thing of all is that I doubt it will make a single bit of difference.

  Because, of course, the same people I’m flattering could just as easily be lying to me.

  “How do you feel?” Mom asks for the fourth time.

  I drink the orange juice she poured me in one go and slam the glass on the table. “Mom, I know that it’s very unlikely that the dynasts will vote in my favor. You’re worried I’m going to have some kind of nervous break or something, but the only thing pushing me toward the edge right now is you.”

  She sinks onto a kitchen chair like I shoved her.

  “I’m sorry. Maybe I’m not as zen about the whole thing as I want to be.”

  Dad puts a hand on my shoulder. “No matter what happens, I’m glad that you agreed to sign those papers.”

  “We could delay it,” Mom says. “Spend a little more time—”

  “It’s time,” I say. “I can’t ask Russ to hold my job any more and if this doesn’t work, I need to move on.”

  “I understand,” Dad says. “Then let’s go.”

  The Landtag meets in the Government Building, conducting hearings at an enormous round table with an open space in the middle. When someone has the floor, they can speak from the center.

  When I arrive, thirty-one dynasts are already present. “We don’t even vote for an hour,” I say. “Looks like we’ll have a good turn out.”

  Dad nods. “At least they’re vested in this issue.”

  I do my best to keep calm and steady while I visit with the people already present. I’ve known many of them well for years, but others I’ve only met once or twice. At five minutes until noon, forty-six of the fifty-three have shown up, and six proxies have been registered.

  “Gregor is sitting it out?” I whisper.

  Dad shrugs. “I didn’t think so.”

  As the clock rolls over, I stand and move into the center of the table. We placed extra chairs around the table, between the existing places. It’s tight, but I can see everyone’s faces as I spin around. At least as many women stand up along the walls as men.

  Just before I begin to speak, Gregor slides in the door and stands in the back. Every dynast is now represented.

  “Welcome, and thank you for coming,” I say. “Dad asked me to say a few words before we vote today, mostly to explain why we’ve asked you here. You all know that Dad wants to change the House Law, which has existed for this principality for more than three hundred years, and was in existence for many centuries before in nearly the same form for Austrian houses.” I pause and circle, meeting their eyes. “I do not make this request lightly.”

  Dad probably can’t make out the features of my face, but when I look his way, his smile nearly cracks his face in two.

  “Many hundred years ago, there were no DNA tests. There were no advanced scientific methods to determine if the child a midwife handed you was, in fact, yours. As the years have passed, many things have changed. Most of those things have been for the better. Women can vote. Refrigeration and antibiotics have saved and continue to save countless lives. Technology and banking have become international titans, and Liechtenstein has benefitted from that growth and progress.”

  “When my biological father died, I was too young to understand what I had lost. By the time I was old enough to miss a father, Mom had met Dad.” This time, I’m the one smiling. “He never, not for one second, cared that I was not his biological son. Even when he and Mom were blessed with Noel, and then again with Holly, he never treated me differently. I was taught, cared for, nurtured, loved, and when the worst happened and Noel passed away.”

  I pause and breathe in and out a few times.

  “When Noel died, Holly wasn’t ready to step in and take care of our proud nation, so even though I had no right to inherit, I did it. And again, when Dad’s eyesight began to suffer, I was here. You all know this already, but what you may not have considered is that our blood may not have been the same either way. Without blood tests from centuries ago, for all we know, we might be the children of the baker, or a local farmer. What matters isn’t the DNA we carry. It’s the loyalty we all share to this family. It’s time that the house laws reflect that truth. It’s time for parents who can’t have children to be allowed to adopt one without a penalty. I hope you’ll vote for this so that our family can continue to progress alongside with the world around us.”

  Dad waves and one of the clerks passes out ballots.

  Gregor stands up. His brows are strong and d
ark, his jaw pronounced. He’s wearing a sharp suit, which fits his job as CEO of a competitor bank. When he grew past the management level within the hierarchy of our family and there wasn’t room for him to run things, he left. I imagine it was a difficult decision. “May I say a few words?” he asks.

  Dad nods.

  “I am not senseless to the justice in what you ask of us, Cole. You have exemplified the station of prince and son, and will one day make a great father, I’m sure. But I oppose this amendment, and I’ll explain why. You act as though it’s injustice for a couple to adopt a child and not have that child jump the line of succession, right to the top.”

  My heart hammers in my chest.

  “The harsh reality is that not all men are created equal, no matter what Americans may tout. We are all different. Some smart, some unwise. Some healthy, some not. But our family line has proven to produce intelligent, capable, and devoted heirs. For generation after generation, we have kept our family at the top. Politically, in commerce and finance, across the board. Now, I’m not saying that Cole’s genetic material isn’t acceptable. I’m sure that it is. In spite of early struggles, he’s been an adequate fill-in for his father. But contemplate what happens when he dies. Our job is to consider the possible future consequences. What if Franz and his wife, who married late in life and only had one child, had been unable to conceive? What if they had no children and adopted? What if that child wasn’t bright? What if he wasn’t hard-working? What if he resented us for bringing him here, from, say, China? Or India. Korea, Russia. It doesn’t matter. Children who are adopted frequently have health problems and bumpy upbringings that lead to more issues down the road. Do we really want to build that risk into the house law in the pursuit of being ‘progressive’ or ‘enlightened’? I know that I don’t.”

  No one speaks after he sits down, but every head bows over the ballot. Most of them don’t meet my eye when they bring the ballot to the box Dad’s holding, which is why I’m not surprised when we count the ballots that I lose, thirty-eight to fifteen. I should be devastated. I gave away my father’s property, my title, a reasonable living. I delayed a job, and if I ever worried that I wasn’t good enough, well, this vote confirms those fears.

  But I’m not.

  My dad loves me. My parents believed in me. And now there’s nothing keeping me from dating Beth. I’ve been texting her every day, and more often in the past week as I update her on my efforts to win over the dynasts. She has been unfailingly supportive, but my unease has grown with every day that passes. If I won today, I could never look for a job in finance in Atlanta. If I won this vote, when her tour ended, she’d leave and I’d be busy accepting and learning to manage a regency.

  But I didn’t win.

  Many, many more than fifteen dynasts tell me how sorry they are that I didn’t win. They thought I’d make an excellent ruler. They’re so upset that the others couldn’t see it. I know that most of them are lying to me, but all I care about is getting away as fast as I can so I can look up the tour schedule for Henrietta Gauvón. Almost two hours later, I’m finally free, walking toward the Range Rover, my eyes scanning the tour calendar—Paris tonight—when Mom calls my name.

  “Oh Cole. I’m so sorry.” She hugs me.

  “I need to get out of town for a day or two,” I say. “I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course I do. Where will you go?”

  “I was thinking Paris. Do you mind if I take the jet?”

  Mom grabs my hand and squeezes. “Of course not. Take some friends. Do something fun for a change.”

  I text Rogan. HEADED TO PARIS TO SEE HENRIETTA GAUVÓN. LEAVE IN 90 MIN. YOU IN?

  ERIK AND BEN ARE WITH ME. CAN THEY COME TOO?

  I smile. SURE.

  Which is how, less than three hours later, I’ve booked tickets on the fourth row and I’m in the air, halfway to Beth. I worry that maybe I should have warned her I’m coming, but it’s too late now. Besides, it’s not like this is some grand gesture. I’ve got three of my football friends with me. After we land, we have dinner at Mom’s favorite restaurant to kill some time, but even so, we’re almost an hour early when we pick up our tickets from the concert hall ticket office.

  I wonder whether she’ll be there, already out near the stage. “Let’s go ahead and find our seats,” I suggest.

  “Seriously?” Ben asks. “We could walk around some and grab a crepe.”

  “We just ate,” I say.

  Erik shrugs. “I could eat.”

  I roll my eyes. “Here are your tickets, then. Meet me in there before it starts.”

  “You know there’s an opening act.” Rogan points at the top of the ticket. “Ever heard of ‘Beneficio’? Because I haven’t.”

  I am not going to miss a second of the concert. For all I know, Beth is playing for them too. “Show up late then, I don’t care.”

  “Hey, that’s a crepe cart opening up over there,” Erik says.

  “That’s a hot dog stand,” Rogan says.

  “I like hot dogs,” Ben says.

  For the love. I walk inside, and I’m not even one of the first people finding my seat. Nearly twenty percent of the auditorium is already filled. I think about watching Beth in the tiny Hotel Adler restaurant, brand new fans peering through windows and doorways. I know it’s her mom who’s the draw here, but it’s wild to think about the difference between that small restaurant and this.

  I look around and try to count the seats. It’s a testament to the amount of time that I have to kill that I reach five hundred and forty-three before giving up. Since I barely counted the first tier, I’m guessing thousands. Four different tiers, and seats that circle around on three sides. I wonder if Beth likes playing for Henrietta. She only tells me that she’s ‘improving,’ whatever that means.

  The minutes slowly tick by and people crawl across the stage, shifting equipment and setting up microphones. When eight o’clock rolls around, the time marked on the ticket, no one appears. No Beneficio, no one at all. The stands are more than two-thirds full, and I know it’s a sold-out show, because I paid a hefty price to a third party for our tickets.

  At fifteen minutes past eight, a small man in a banana-yellow suit walks out on stage. He says something in French I don’t understand, then he repeats it, or at least, I assume he repeats it, in English. “I’m very sorry to inform you that Beneficio has fallen ill and will be unable to perform.”

  Murmurs, shouts, and even a few boos follow.

  I have no idea what comes over me, but I don’t think at all before adding my own shout to the mix. “Bring Beth Graham instead!”

  Ben, Erik and Rogan are walking down the aisle behind me, but they’re close enough to hear. “Yes,” Ben says. “Beth Graham!”

  They begin to chant her name, and the people behind them do the same. People are just stupid enough to start demanding something they don’t understand. Within minutes, hundreds and hundreds of people are calling for Beth Graham. The banana man frowns and ducks backstage. Eventually the chanting dies off, and people begin booing again. I can’t understand everything that’s being said, but much of it is in accented English. The young people don’t eschew it quite as much as the older generation.

  Someone a few rows behind me shouts, “We paid for two bands.”

  And in the tier above, someone else yells, “Beneficio sucks!”

  At that exact moment, a tiny figure walks on stage. She walks slowly toward the microphone.

  “You’re not Henrietta Gauvón,” someone yells.

  “Beth Graham,” I scream at the top of my lungs the second I recognize her.

  Ben, Rogan and Erik pick it up immediately and soon others join us.

  She glances around as if she’s looking for something.

  I sit down immediately.

  She reaches for the microphone uncertainly. “I’m a piano player,” she says. “My name is Beth Graham. I didn’t believe it when Henrietta’s agent told us that you wanted me to come out here.”


  The crowd has no idea how to react. I poke Ben. “Cheer, loudly. I don’t want her to notice me.”

  He looks at me like I’ve gone crazy, but he’s had enough to drink that he doesn’t care how dumb he looks. When he starts shouting, so do Erik and Rogan, and then others pick it up too.

  “Sing for us,” I say, once there’s enough other noise to disguise me.

  Beth smiles. “I didn’t plan anything, but I’m willing to give it a try if you are.”

  This time, I do nothing to prompt the applause.

  “I’m sorry I don’t speak French.” She switches languages to German. “But I do speak German. I can sing a few songs in either. I hope that’s alright.”

  More cheering. A few boos, but mostly cheers.

  She walks toward the back of the stage, dragging the microphone stand behind her. Then she lowers it and arranges it close enough that she can sing and play.

  “I call this one ‘Sunrise.’”

  I’ve listened to Henrietta’s music. The piano exists to support the vocals, never rising up, never pulling attention from center stage. But in Beth’s songs, it’s a perfect balance, a delicate interweaving. In this one, the piano begins choppy, unsure. Dark, frightening. When she begins to sing, in German, her voice is angry, almost. She sings about being alone. Lost, afraid.

  The piano is alone, the song one that no one knows. The audience came for a rock concert.

  They’re bored.

  They’re talking, some cheering, some jeering, none of them very vested.

  But then Beth changes keys, and something shifts. Until. Until she met someone. Until the light began to shine over the horizon and she realized the world is a beautiful place. When she changes keys again, no one is yelling or cheering—they aren’t even talking. I have no idea how many of them can speak German, but they grasp the tone, at least. Beth sings that when the sun sets again, she’s not afraid. Thanks to this person, she knows what the world holds and she’s unafraid. She’ll be safe, strong, and ready. For her, the sunrise has already come and the sun will never fail her again.

  It’s perfect.