Highness. It was all in the news.”
Arlen took a gulp of his wine. “Yes,” he said rather softly. “Sadly, it was.”
As Danilo heartily took up knife and fork, evidently about to dive into his grilled salmon cutlet, he paused, his flatware in mid-air. “I—I am sorry I brought it up.”
Arlen shrugged, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “It’s all in the past.”
With her hands on her lap, Sara processed this brief, albeit awkward, interaction. She did remember the time when it seemed all of Europe, and even in America, celebrated the upcoming royal nuptials, only to hear that the princess had abruptly canceled her brief engagement to Arlen. It garnered that much public attention only because of the media and the public’s fascination with the princess who, after her father, Prince Sebastien’s attempted assassination, lived incognito in America for half of her life. She wanted to mention that but held her tongue out of respect for Arlen who clearly was not yet over the princess.
“So how long do you plan on staying here?” Sara asked before taking a sip of rosado.
Arlen refilled all their wine glasses. “Indefinitely. I would certainly like to tour some of the area while I’m here.”
“No doubt you’ll want to spend more time in Santangelo, the ‘Little Paris of the Mediterranean,’ as we locals like to call it,” said Danilo, wrapping up some grilled prawns with soft, crisp thin buttered flat bread. “It’s more cosmopolitan than this place.”
“Yes, I’ve spent time in the capital before.” As Arlen said this, Sara guessed the viscount had his fair share of Santangelo during his visits with his former royal fiancée. “Santangelo holds possible business potential.” He gazed at Sara. “But what you have here is very enchanting; Morada is quite a charming town. You’re fortunate to have grown up here.”
Sara smiled, grateful to Arlen for recognizing the appeal of her hometown of which she was proud to share her humble beginnings. In contrast, she thought about the British nobleman’s upbringing and recalled that, in addition to being a viscount and heir to his father’s estate and fortune, Lord Arlen Spencer-Cromwell amassed a fortune of his own as an entrepreneur establishing hotels in major cities all over the world.
“But I would like to spend more time here in the countryside.” Arlen contemplated, casting eyes at Sara. “I think there’s just as much potential here.”
Feeling heat rise to her cheeks, Sara lowered her head, peering at him through her lashes.
Soon, the band began playing much livelier music. Danilo stood up and took Sara’s hand leading her to the dance floor for a more freestyle dance. As she swayed to the rhythm of the music, she felt as though she was being closely watched. Sure enough, as she turned toward the viscount’s direction, he was observing her. Then it dawned on her. What did happen to his elegant lady companion? And who was she to him?
Two dances later, it was time for the newly-married couple to cut their cake. Sara and the guests applauded as the bride and groom fed each other pumpkin spice cream cheesecake then kissed with their whipped cream-laden lips. As the sun began its iconic descent amid a lavender sky, the band began its slow serenade. Sara stood up. This time the wedding reception was surely an awkward one as first, it reminded her of her own broken engagement a few years ago and second, she didn’t wish to slow dance. Slow dances were intimate ways to connect with a partner, which neither Arlen nor Danilo qualified as such, so this type of dance held no benefits for her. None whatsoever.
Instead, she wandered away from the wedding party, her pumps crunching dry brown leaves as she ambled along a dirt path leading to the vineyards, the warm evening sea breeze caressing her face. From a distance, she heard the birds’ evening serenade give way to a choir of chirping crickets, cawing crows and clucking chickens preparing to roost. Treading slowly between the rows of vines caressed by the glow of the descending sun, Sara recalled how sad she felt at weddings which explained why she attended so few of them even as she was invited by friends to their nuptials through the years. She was known as the single girl with the sense of adventure who wanted to see the world not just be a part of it, enjoying her independence until she met Torsten while serving in the Peace Corps in Africa. Together they experienced so much during their stay there and she thought they wanted the same things. It wasn’t until they returned back to their lives in Europe that Sara felt a shift, Torsten’s marriage proposal on safari a mere distant memory. He seemed to have lost his sense of adventure, preferring to return to Germany to work as an architect and play in his rock band. Heartbroken after he called off their engagement, Sara returned to Moradonia just in time to apply for the lady-in-waiting position which she prepared for with as much exuberance as one would plan her own wedding. There was simply no time to grieve. The prospect of serving a princess in the Royal Palace of Moradonia of all places was the opportunity of a lifetime. She would be in service to someone else besides herself. As a Moradonian, there was no greater honor than that.
“To think these vines have helped to complement a great many meals and celebrations through the generations.”
Startled, but pleasantly so, she recognized Arlen’s voice and turned to see him standing a few feet from her. She watched as he touched the vines with his fingertips, the setting sun casting a glow on his golden brown head.
“With proper care, grapevines can live for fifty to a hundred years or more, but I’m sure you already know that,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.
“Some of Morada's oldest vineyards have grapevines dating back to the 1880s,” she said, her fingertips grazing a few grapes. Suddenly, emboldened by a surge of courage and energy that coursed through her, she said, “What say we visit a pumpkin farm tomorrow since you’ll be in town a while?”
Soon as the words escaped her mouth, regret hung over her like a large dark hovering cloud. As she wished she could scoop up that sentence and throw it far afield, the corners of Arlen’s lips curled up.
“I—I don’t know why I…” she began.
“That sounds perfect,” he said promptly, with a clap of his hands. “I was just going to suggest that myself.” He flashed her a wink. “But you beat me to it.”
Relieved, Sara let out a light laugh. From a distance, laughter and music carried through the air along with the gentle breeze of a cool autumn evening. Arlen extended his hand out to her and cocked his head in the direction of the party.
“We simply can’t end this night without at least a dance,” he said. “Or two.”
She stood there, her eyes on his proffered hand which appeared to glow in the fading sunlight. Slowly she inched toward him and took his hand which was warm, his grip gentle but firm. There was a certain familiarity about walking hand-in-hand with Arlen, whom she barely knew apart from a few encounters with him during his visit to the palace and her accompanying the princess to his country home in England. She didn’t even know if it was proper for them to be holding hands and she fully expected him to release his hold on her once they emerged from their vineyard cocoon.
Instead, Arlen’s hand, with its warm, strong, secure hold, stayed firm as he led her to the dance floor and their sunset promenade segued to a slow dance that seemed utterly natural. She’d always heard about people who claimed that, when entwined, they felt as though they were the only ones in a crowd. Clichéd as that sounded, experiencing it now for herself, she found it was true, yet it still felt surreal.
In fact as she lay in bed in her old room later that evening, the moonlight glow emanating from her window
