“Are you kidding me? When we came up with that campaign to change the direction of Friedman’s shoes to Ferrama five years ago, the royalty connection was an inspiration. It gave us an instant P.R. bonanza. I’m not sure we would have succeeded in this competitive business without it.”
The missing puzzle pieces fell together for Cynthia. Unfortunately, she was discovering that when the puzzle was completed, there was no room for her in the picture.
Stricken, she searched the room through the blur of welling tears and finally located Ferrama—plain old Peter Ferrama. Dammit. Not a prince. Not my husband. Not my lover. Not my anything. He was standing in a group of office employees, including Maureen, when he became aware of her scrutiny.
Like a slow-motion video, she saw the instant he realized that his game was up. At first, he just tilted his head in question. Then he glanced at Alvarez, still lounging against the wall beside her, then back to her. His dark skin paled visibly, as he silently mouthed, “No!”
She didn’t know what happened next because she spun on her heel and ran from the room. He caught up with her as she was about to enter the elevator.
“Go away,” she sobbed.
“No. Never.” He wedged a shoulder into the closing doors and came up beside her, trying to take her into his arms.
She shrugged him away.
“Let me explain.”
She raised her chin angrily. “Did you come up to the castle with a slimeball scheme to seduce me into a quick settlement?”
“No…yes…it’s not like it seems, querida.”
“Oh, how is it, then?” she stormed. “Is it that you came up to seduce me but fell madly in love? Is it that there never was a love spell? Is it that you and Elmer and your stepsisters have been in cahoots all along? Is it that you set out to catch a shark and I’ve been the centerpiece of a world-class fish fry?”
“It’s not like that at all, Cynthia. Just calm down and I’ll explain everything. Be sensible.”
“Sensible? I’ll give you sensible,” she shrieked. Forcing herself to take several deep breaths, she said in a flat voice, “One more question. Are you a real prince?”
“Technically, yes.”
She let out a loud exhalation of disgust. “Technically?”
“Dick bought a title for me, and a vacant volcanic island in the Spanish Canaries. But to answer your question…am I a prince? Hell, no.”
“Where are you from?”
“Puerto Rico.”
She put a fist to her trembling lips to stifle a cry.
“Ah, Cynthia, what difference does it make?”
“You fool! If you can’t see the difference, then you know nothing at all about dreams and hope and, most of all, trust.”
The elevator doors swished open and she started to exit, head held high. She wasn’t sure how long she could hold out before her shaky legs gave way under the duress of her breaking heart.
To her back, she heard him whisper, “I love you.”
It should have been enough—that precious declaration—but it wasn’t. Not in the real world, where dreams and hopes were dead…where fairy tales did not come true.
Cynthia was miserable.
For the first time in a week, she’d left her apartment. She was sitting now on a bench in Central Park, watching the children feeding the ducks, lovers walking by arm in arm, police patrolling the area…in essence, life continuing around her while she felt dead inside.
She would never be able to forgive Ferrama for restoring her hopes and dreams only to tear them apart again. She’d refused all visits and telephone calls from the wretch, had even changed her phone number so she would be able to take business calls without hearing his phony professions of love on her answering machine. If she didn’t know him for the con artist he was, she could swear there had been tears in his voice. Hah! From the man who professed never to weep!
Elmer, Ruth, Naomi, even a fiercely apologetic Alvarez, had also tried repeatedly to storm her barricades, but she’d been adamant in refusing any contact from the enemy camp. And they were her enemies, no doubt about it.
“Like the sun on the hill and the thistle on the hearth,” Cynthia murmured with a sigh, “that’s how fleeting a man’s affections are.”
It would be hard to forget Ferrama. She tried to tell herself that the old triad was true: “Three things there are that leave no trace: a bird on a branch, a ship on the sea and a man on a woman.” But she feared it wasn’t true in her case. Ferrama’s trace would always be on her. Always.
On Monday, Cynthia would return to work. She hoped life would regain some semblance of normalcy. She would survive. Sharks always did. But it would be a different Cynthia Sullivan who hit the exchange now. A wiser one, who’d learned well from her harsh lesson: never trust; take the offense; harden the emotions; never, ever believe in dreams again.
“Is that a fairy castle?”
Cynthia was jolted out of her morbid reverie by the sound of a child’s voice.
A little girl of about four, dressed in faded denim coveralls, had sidled up on the bench beside her and was staring off in the distance at the barely discernible outline of the Dakota. To a small child, she supposed it would appear to be a palace.
“Yes, sweetie, you could say it is.”
“I’m gonna be a princess someday,” the girl told her, swinging her tiny legs over the edge of the seat. Her blond hair was braided neatly into two pigtails, tied with ratty red ribbons. She was an absolute doll, but clearly from a poor family if her holey sneakers and mended clothing were any indication.
“I’m sure you will, sweetheart. Where’s your mommy? She must be worried about you.”
The child pointed to a group of children near the edge of the pond, supervised by two overworked women. “Thass Miss Penny. She’s from the center. She reads me Cinderella every day.”
“Well, that’s nice. You like fairy tales, do you?”
The girl nodded. “But we don’t have any, ’sides Cinderella. Miss Penny’s gonna buy some more…someday. But first…”
The young woman—Miss Penny, Cynthia presumed—ran up to them. “Diana, you have to stop running off like this. You know the rules. No wandering.” She turned to Cynthia. “I’m sorry if she was bothering you. It’s just that we’re so understaffed at the project’s day-care center. We try to keep tabs on the children for this one field trip a month, but…” She shrugged helplessly.
“Diana was no problem. In fact, I enjoyed talking with her,” Cynthia said, but all she could think of was that Diana lived in the projects. Just as Cynthia had.
On her walk back to the Dakota, a teenager on a bicycle, boom box blasting, almost ran her over, so deep in contemplation was she. Ironically, the song blaring out at about a hundred decibels was, “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry.” For some reason, Cynthia didn’t feel like crying now.
The minute she got home, she rooted through some old boxes till she found what she’d been searching for—her childhood collection of tattered and well-read fairy-tale books. She tightened her jaw with determination. Never underestimate the power of an Irishwoman with a mission.
I might not have any fairy-tale endings in my life, but I sure as hell can make them happen for other children. Princess Diana, I’m about to make your dreams come true.
P.T. was so lonesome he could cry.
A week after his stock offering…the day his world had fallen apart…a box of his clothing and personal items was delivered to the Ferrama offices by special courier. Inside was a terse note, formally addressed to Peter Ferrama on business stationery:
Don’t call or try to contact me anymore. If you ever cared for me at all, respect that wish.
Cynthia Sullivan
He’d thought it telling that she’d used her maiden name. And even more soul-crushing had been the note she’d scribbled on the back of the uncashed million-dollar check she’d enclosed:
You won. Congratulations. Is there any heat greater than that of shame?
>
He’d honored her request to be left alone, grudgingly, but as a last-ditch effort to win her back, he went on “20/20” for an exclusive interview with Barbara Walters. In that excruciating twenty minutes, he disclosed the entire prince charade, why he’d pulled it off and what he’d lost in the process. He hadn’t used Cynthia’s name, but he hoped she’d see the show and his remorse. He prayed she would forgive him.
Unfortunately, the interview backfired.
The next day Ferrama stock shot up another two points. His face was plastered on every tabloid in the country, along with speculation on who the mystery woman might be. Old photos of him in compromising poses were dredged up. “Hard Copy” claimed to have some European historian with documents showing he really was a prince, after all…that his absentee father had been a renegade Spanish prince.
Cynthia would probably believe that he’d done the “20/20” interview for self-serving purposes. For money and ambition and the betterment of his company…as he always had in the past.
As an indication of how desperate he was, P.T. finally went to Elmer for advice. He was performing a gig in Jersey City at the Colonel’s Lounge—the opening act for Francine, The Double-Jointed Stripper.
Between sets, P.T. tried to talk to Elmer over the sound of the loud bump ’n’ grind music and raucous male catcalls. “What should I do, Elmer? You should have some answers. I love her. She loves me…I think. I just don’t understand.”
“Ah, laddie, did ye not know there are three kinds of men who fail to understand women: young men, old men and middle-aged men.”
“You’re a lot of help.”
“What is got badly, goes badly. Your remorse is worth cuckoo spit without action.”
“Would you stop talking in those damn riddles?”
“The effects of an evil act are long felt, boy, so don’t be expecting easy solutions.”
“Should I get rid of the company? Wear sackcloth? Beg her on hands and knees?”
“Words will not free the friars, nor a heartsick maid. Think with your heart, not your mind. What is it that the lassie wants, deep in her heart of hearts?”
P.T. had no idea. Well, yes, he did. “A prince?”
“You’ve crushed her dream. Now give it back to her.”
P.T. wasn’t sure if he was up to the task, but he was determined to try. He was going to be the best damn prince that rode down the New Jersey Turnpike. He was going to be so courageous, she’d fear for his life. He was going to be so chivalrous, she would swoon. He was going to be so knock-your-socks-off charming, she wouldn’t be able to resist him. He was going to put every prince before him to shame.
But first, he was going to pray.
Cynthia had been back at work for a month…a different person than she’d been a few short weeks before. Harder. Coarser in her language. Driven by ambition. Colder with her friends and acquaintances.
Except for the one day a week she volunteered at the Blue Bird Day-Care Center in the projects.
Thanks to her hard-nosed experience in sales, Cynthia had managed to coax ten thousand dollars in contributions from her bosses, business associates, clients, anyone who listened to her or failed to escape her path in time. As a result, the Blue Bird now had a complete library of children’s books, including every fairy tale ever written. Stereo and video equipment. A children’s computer system. The walls of the drab center had been painted in bright shades of blue and yellow and green. Playground equipment was on order. Volunteers had come out of the woodwork.
Little Princess Diana, wearing a twenty-five-year-old tarnished tiara that had belonged to another little girl in another ghetto long ago, was half-reclining now on a huge beanbag chair with Cynthia. The hard-as-tacks stock trader was reading Cinderella to her for the fifth time that day when the blare of trumpets resounded throughout the building. Everyone sat up straight and glanced at each other with puzzlement—the three dozen children, the half dozen adults, including volunteers, even the janitor.
The director, Penny Wilkins, stepped up behind Cynthia and asked, “Did you plan this as a treat for the children, Cynthia?”
The trumpets blared again, sounding almost like the ones she’d heard outside Buckingham Palace one time on an A & E special, announcing the arrival of a royal party. In fact, she’d watched a rerun of it with her husband one night during their short honeymoon in her Dakota apartment. They’d been in bed at the time, and…
Every fine hair stood out on her body in sudden suspicion.
He wouldn’t.
Would he?
This time the blare of trumpets was accompanied by the stern-faced arrival of two lines of imperial guards, attired in what resembled uniforms that might have been worn by palace courtiers in days of old. The contingent stopped and raised swords to form an arch. The loud monotone voice of one of the men announced, “Prince Perico Tomas de la Ferrama.”
Penny twittered behind her, and Diana sighed.
Through the saber canopy strolled the most outrageous sight Cynthia had ever witnessed in all her days. The Frog Prince…the Prince of Trolls…the Prince of Broken Dreams. Her husband.
Diana let out a wistful “ooooh” of delight. People started to clap. And Cynthia put her face in her hands. When she looked up again, he was still there, and approaching her with the regal grace of a born-to-the-manor nobleman.
He was wearing some kind of velveteen suit with tight leggings tucked in low leather boots, a hip-length, long-sleeved tunic, belted at the waist and over it all a floor-length fur robe that trailed behind him. A huge gilt crown sat on his head, tilted slightly askew.
He looked ridiculous.
So, why is my heart thundering? Why are tears welling in my eyes? Why do I care that there are tears in his eyes?
Cynthia tried to sit up, but Penny put firm hands on her shoulders. “Don’t spoil this for the children,” she pleaded.
Cynthia swallowed hard over the lump in her throat and hissed at her husband, who had dropped to one knee before her. “You look like an idiot.”
“Yes, m’lady wife,” he agreed. Under his breath, he remarked, “Good thing I ditched the codpiece.”
“He’s your husband?” Penny whispered. “Holy cow!”
“Holy Cow” just about sums it up. “What kind of pathetic stunt is this, P.T.? Are there TV cameras outside? Will this boost your stock sales?”
P.T. raised his chin haughtily and pulled a scroll from his belt. “I have come to read you a proclamation, oh shrewish lady.” He whipped open the scroll, undaunted when it failed to flourish the first time, “Cheap scroll makers,” he mumbled.
Cynthia put a palm to her mouth to hide a grin. I am not going to be amused by him. I’m not.
“Let it be known by one and all…Prince Perico Tomas de la Ferrama loves his wife, Princess Cynthia Kathleen Sullivan Ferrama, with all his heart and soul.”
Cynthia made a snickering sound.
He flashed her a dark look and continued. “Throughout time, men have been known to transgress, but women have forgiven them.”
“Not this woman!”
“This I do pledge…never for the rest of my days will I lie to my beloved wife.”
“How about anyone else?”
“Don’t push it, babe,” he muttered, and pushed up his unruly crown, which kept slipping down on his forehead. It must belong to someone with a really big head, though P.T.’s was plenty big enough. “This, too, do I pledge…to give up all my worldly assets into her hands.”
“So, you want me to handle your portfolio, huh? Too late, bozo. I handle only a select clientele.”
“And verily do I promise to take her to my royal principality, where she may view our holdings.” Under his breath, he added, “Volcanoes, snakes and all.”
Cynthia did giggle then. She couldn’t help herself.
His face relaxed like magic at what he must consider a sign of her softening. She tried to glare at him but failed.
“Let it be written in all the annals,
whenever Princess Ferrama so deems it, she may order her husband to don absurd royal garb…though subjects from far and wide may laugh at him, though women no longer find him irresistible, though men smirk and TV comedians rule him fair game, though pigeons drop—”
“Enough ‘though’s’ already. I get the point.”
“Petitions have I here signed by myriad subjects, attesting to the pain one Prince Ferrama hath suffered these many weeks. Long is his sorrow and deep the hole left in his life by the absence of his soulmate.”
Cynthia’s mouth dropped open. “I’m impressed. Who wrote this drivel? Elmer?” She didn’t really consider it drivel, but if she acknowledged how deeply touched she was, he’d take advantage; she knew he would.
He tossed back his head, affronted…and almost lost his crown. “I did, and many a nub did I break on my quill seeking the perfect words.”
“Well, then, I suppose they’re satisfactory.”
He flashed her a smoldering glance. “This final pledge do I make to my lady wife. Let all hear it said…I, Prince Perico Tomas de la Ferrama, do love thee, Princess Cynthia Katherine Ferrama, with all my heart and soul. If thou wouldst give this cur another chance, I wouldst make thee the happiest woman in all the kingdoms of the world. And I wouldst make a home for thee…thou…whatever…in the Dakota or the Poconos or the suburbs or Camelot, whate’er be thy whim. And we wouldst drive pickup trucks or BMW’s or limos or horses if thou choose. We will dance Irish jigs, or flamingoes”—he grinned at that misspeak—“or line dances. Yea, we may listen to Elvis music till the cows come home, or the record player breaks. Just know”—his voice cracked—“just know that I cannot live without my fairy princess.”
Cynthia couldn’t speak.
He stared at her, silence resounding in the air like cymbals, fear and vulnerability apparent in his dark eyes, despite his absurd, touching words. When she didn’t react, he jerked his head for one of his guards to approach. “Bring forth the coup de grâce.” Under his breath, he added, “I hope.”
He handed her a silk-wrapped gift. “For you, my lady love, the latest creation of Ferrama.”