Chapter Eight
Natalie
Six Years Later
“Wow! Do you think a real king and queen live here?” Jasmine, my five-year-old daughter, asks, her blue eyes locked on the beautiful castle we’re standing in front of. She asks this same question about every castle we visit. Ever since I read her my childhood fairy-tale book, she’s become obsessed with royalty. Since she was old enough to walk, we’ve been traveling all over the globe. We visit different cities, monuments, castles, parks, museums, learning about the different cultures, the history. I started my blog shortly after she was born—my first post being my first trip—to Napa Valley—and take photos of everywhere we visit, writing, not only about what I see, but what my daughter sees.
“Yep,” I tell her. “Unfortunately, the queen has recently stepped down and has given the throne to her son…” I glance at the tour guide. “William Arnold Thomas Lewis Christiansen the Fourth. So, for now, until he meets his queen, it’s only a king.”
Jasmine sighs. “It’s so pretty. One day I want to live in a pretty castle like this one.”
I laugh at her comment. She always says the same thing every time we see a castle. When we were in the UK a few months ago and visited the Windsor Castle, she begged me to meet a king and marry him so she could become a princess and live in a pretty castle. When we got home, Aria, Giovanni, and I took the girls to see Santa and she actually asked him if he could bring me a king so she could live in a castle.
“I know you love the pretty castles, but remember—”
“I know,” she says, cutting me off. “It’s not about the size of the castle, but the hearts that fill it.” She playfully rolls her eyes, having heard this too many times over the years.
I scoop her up, peppering kisses all over her face. “That’s right. Our home might not be as big as this castle, but it’s filled with love.”
“Maybe this castle is filled with love too,” she says, when I set her back down. “Maybe they get a big castle and love.” Her eyes go wide at the thought, and I chuckle at how smart and adorable she is.
“Maybe. You ready to go check it out?”
“Yep!” She takes my hand in hers and we head to the gate where several security officers are standing guard. After being searched and having our passports and tickets scanned, we go inside to the main room to wait for the tour to begin. Every tour is the same thing: they walk you through roped off areas of the castle that the residing family doesn’t use, tell you all about the castle and the history, and at the end, you go through a gift shop where you can buy a souvenir. Jasmine insists we buy a magnet from each place we visit, and at home, we have a huge magnetic blackboard filled with mementos from our travels.
“Can I take a picture?” she asks, pulling her digital camera out of her small backpack.
I glance around and don’t see anywhere stating photography isn’t allowed. “Yeah, go ahead, but stay close, please.”
She’s already running to the front of the room, her camera in hand. She takes several pictures of the fireplace and furniture, commenting on what’s pretty and what they should replace.
The tour guide begins speaking, explaining where she’ll be taking us, and we start walking from the first room into the second.
“We have a special treat for you today,” she says. “King William is here and has agreed to take pictures and answer a few of your questions.”
“Mom! Did you hear that?” Jasmine shrieks. “We’re going to get to meet a real king!”
“I heard.”
Everyone crowds around the front of the room as the tour guide makes a show of welcoming the king and thanking him for stopping by. Because we’re in the back, we can’t see him. Jasmine tries to stand on her tiptoes, but it doesn’t do anything.
“I can’t see.” She pouts.
“Patience,” I tell her. “I’m sure the line will move soon and everyone will get a chance to meet him.”
She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest like the impatient five-year-old she is, and I stifle my laugh.
I’m checking out the photos I’ve taken on my camera and not paying attention, so when the line moves and we reach the front, I don’t notice, until Jasmine tugs at my arm. “It’s our turn, Mom!”
I glance up and my eyes land on the most gorgeous man. His brown hair is flopping partly over his eyes and his face is sporting a little bit of scruff. He’s dressed impeccably in a suit that’s obviously tailor-made to fit him. But none of that is what has my attention. Not his strong nose or his chiseled jaw. Or the way he’s smiling down at my daughter. No, it’s his striking blue eyes. The same ones my daughter has. She’s all mine: same olive skin, same chestnut hair, but her eyes, they belong to her father.