§ § § - October 13, 2006
After lunch, with Christian's final promise to speak with his siblings and in-laws, she accompanied Roarke to the race track that had been built many years before for a previous fantasy, one for which she herself hadn't yet been on the island—a former driver haunted by the nightmares of his last race which had ended in a fiery crash he'd been fortunate to survive. Once in a while the track saw use by men—and even a few women—of assorted ages who wanted to emulate one or another professional driver they idolized and know the thrill and danger of auto racing. Other than that, it usually lay silent, seeing little more than packs of bike-riding kids looking for someplace to ride unimpeded.
This weekend it was gaily decked out for the Fantasy Island Drivers' Invitational, with banners and pennants flapping in the breeze, rows of brightly painted bleachers surrounding the perimeter, and an announcer's tower that had been cleaned out and refurbished for the race. Roarke had found the opportunity to grant a radio DJ's fantasy to announce a race, and they could hear the man's voice now, testing the sound system.
Race cars were scattered around the track; one circuit constituted just half a mile, so there was room for only twenty drivers altogether. Most of the cars were in the pits being serviced and readied for the race the next day; a few were circling the track, occasionally shooting forward in a burst of speed before slowing and coasting around the curves. Leslie had little, if any, knowledge of what cars belonged to which drivers, and had never heard of most of the names participating in the race; but Roarke seemed to know most, if not all, of them, and greeted many by name as they called out hellos to him. He knew exactly where he was going, of course, so Leslie simply trailed him along, taking in the busy scene and beginning to think it was possible that Christian and his family might be interested in coming to watch the competition.
Beside a car sporting a gaudy number 94 and advertisements for a well-known brand of snack chips stood Johnny Farquharson, studying the sleek machine with delighted pride. He looked up when he sensed their approach and brightened even more. "Hey, Mr. Roarke! Mrs. Enstad! This looks sensational!"
"I'm glad you are so pleased, Mr. Farquharson," Roarke replied, smiling broadly. "You seem very excited."
"I am. Can't wait for my heat. Say, listen, I want you to meet Glory." He turned to the redhead, who was listening intently to something one of the pit mechanics was telling her. "Hey, hon, come on over here, Mr. Roarke and Mrs. Enstad just got here."
The redhead straightened up and sauntered over to them, with a sashaying walk that made her hips sway and caused almost every pair of male eyes in the area to fasten on her backside. Roarke seemed immune, which didn't much surprise Leslie, devoted as he still was to the memory of Helena Marsh. "Good afternoon, Miss McConnell."
Glory McConnell smiled widely, flashing teeth too perfect to be natural, and offered, "Hi there, Mr. Roarke…Mrs. Enstad." Her gaze, in spite of her apparent artificiality, was genuinely friendly, and Leslie felt herself thawing despite her earlier opinions. "This is a real nice setup you've got yourselves here. Just small enough to be exclusive—which is perfect. Now Johnny'll get his name up there with the big dogs."
Roarke nodded; Leslie simply waited, trying to get the young woman's measure. "You should be aware, Miss McConnell, that Mr. Farquharson's results are contingent upon his performance in this race, as in any other. Fantasy or no, there are no guarantees."
Glory's face lost its radiance. "What? Now wait a minute, that's not fair! I—" She shot Johnny a glance, then impatiently signaled at Roarke and Leslie, bidding them follow her several paces away where she had relative privacy. "I paid three thousand dollars for this fantasy, you know. Cleaned out my life savings to do it, too. You're the man who grants fantasies, right? My fantasy is to see Johnny win this race. It's bought 'n' paid for, and that means you're contractually bound to give me what I want!"
Roarke regarded her in silence till her belligerence had begun to dissolve into a series of squirms; then he smiled, just a little. "Miss McConnell, you misunderstand my position. I have the power to set up the fantasy you want; but any fantasy must operate with a basis of reality. I must use reality to make the fantasy come to life. And it is reality—uncontrollable, unpredictable—that renders any and all fantasies out of my control once they have begun. I am not a god, Miss McConnell. I may have my undue share of power to make certain things happen; but there are forces that are beyond even my ability to manipulate."
Glory looked crushed. "Then what's the use of asking and paying for a fantasy?"
"It provides the opportunity for you to see it come true," Leslie said then, "especially in the case of a fantasy that under normal circumstances would be impossible."
"Precisely," Roarke said. "I have given you the opportunity; that's what you have paid me to do. But, because of that aforementioned necessary basis in reality, the outcome of this fantasy is therefore up to Mr. Farquharson. I am sorry, but you must accept that; I can do nothing to alter it." He took in Glory's flabbergasted look for a moment, then nodded once. "Please excuse us. Leslie?"
When she was sure they were well out of Glory's earshot, Leslie aimed a sidelong look at Roarke. "You know what I think? I think we should have tape-recorded that speech you gave her, so we could put it in the travel brochures. There'd be a lot less carrying on if prospective fantasizers understood that up-front."
Roarke grinned. "If we did, it just might cut down on our business." He laid a hand between her shoulder blades as she laughed, and said, "Why don't we check in on Mr. Waters before we settle down to watch the first qualifying heat."
A couple of hours later, Leslie was a little startled when her cell phone sounded off. She hastily muted the instrumental version of her favorite 80s tune before checking the readout on the front, while Roarke watched curiously. "Oh, it's Christian." She flipped the phone open, keeping her voice low, since she and Roarke were in the announcer's tower watching the initial heat and listening to Dunstan Waters providing excited, if occasionally choppy, commentary. "Hi, my love, what's going on?"
"Hello, my Rose, I'm here with the family in the bungalow, and I've explained to them what your guest wants. Carl Johan, Esbjörn and Rudolf are all for it. Kristina and Amalia think it's a bad idea, and Anna-Laura isn't sure. Carl Johan wanted to know your opinion."
"Oh." Startled, Leslie realized she had never considered it. "To tell you the truth, I haven't thought about it. I mean…I was so caught up in the worry about talking to him, and then telling you, that that was taking up all the space in my brain." She heard Christian laugh and smiled in response.
"Hmm, I see. Well, are you in the middle of something Mr. Roarke requires you to be in on? If you're not, do you think you could come and join the family? As Carl Johan said, you're one of us, and you deserve a say in the matter."
"I'm kind of in the middle of something, yeah. I'm at the racetrack watching our other guest competing in his heat, and listening in on yet another fantasy here in the announcers' tower. When it's over, I'll ask Father if he minds if I leave. Will that work?"
"The racetrack? I don't think we even mentioned your other guests at lunch, we were so caught up in Douglas Grunewald's request. Sounds interesting. All right, why don't you ask him right now and let me know."
Leslie took the phone from her ear and returned Roarke's gaze. "Christian's at the bungalow where Carl Johan and Amalia and Kristina are staying. He says he's just spoken with the family about Mr. Grunewald's book idea, and their reactions are mixed. He said since I'm an Enstad too, I should be in on it. Do you think I can go over there after this heat ends and talk with them?"
Roarke nodded. "Very well. It isn't really necessary for you to be here, so when this first qualifying race has ended, you may go. Apparently the family has discussed this at some length, if they're beginning to make decisions on it."
"Seems so," Leslie said, "but so far there's no agreement, and they'll all have to be in favor of the thing before we can give Mr. Grunewald his fantasy."
"Not necessarily," Roarke said, in that mysterious tone of his that still had the habit of mildly frustrating her. "But by all means, go. Perhaps you can provide some insight, with your individual point of view."
She nodded and got back on the phone. "Okay, my love, I'll be on my way once this race ends. It's not far from the finish line anyway, so give me about half an hour or so."
"Good enough. Thank you, my Rose, see you soon." They both hung up, and Leslie let her eyes stray back to the track, where there were two more laps to go before the heat was over. She found car number 94 third from the front, struggling to gain on the two leaders. "He's running out of time if he wants first spot."
Roarke was quiet for a moment, observing the race below them, then smiled a little. "Pole position does not necessarily determine the winner of the race, Leslie. Keep that in mind. And while you're with the family, perhaps you'd extend an invitation to watch the race tomorrow, for those who are interested."
"I'll do that," she agreed, just as number 94 edged past the second-place car. "Hey, he's looking pretty respectable out there. He's run a good race. Why on earth is Glory McConnell so obsessed with the win? It's not as if Mr. Farquharson's always come in last or something like that."
Roarke spoke without taking his eyes off the track. "For some people, unfortunately, anything other than first place is no place at all."
Johnny Farquharson maintained his second-place position through the end of the heat; Roarke and Leslie went down to congratulate him, but they both noticed Glory McConnell standing a few feet away, a scowl on her pretty face and her lower lip sticking out, very much like a small child denied a candy bar. Leslie found herself feeling sorry for Johnny, facing what was sure to be a round scolding from his girlfriend.
Johnny seemed pretty confident, apparently realizing that his performance here was essentially a rehearsal for the race itself. "It's just the heat," he said. "C'mon, second place is damn good no matter what!"
"I wanted pole position for you," Glory sulked.
"Patience, Miss McConnell," Roarke counseled gently. "All in due time. You drove a very good race, Mr. Farquharson—congratulations on your second-position placement. If you'd like to take time to have refreshments, there are concession stands near the bleachers."
"Tell the truth, I am pretty hungry," Johnny said cheerfully. "Thanks, Mr. Roarke and Mrs. Enstad. Well, Glory, let's go, I'll get you a sandwich."
"I don't want a sandwich," Glory snapped as they struck off across the track toward the bleachers. "You know what I want, Johnny…" Her voice blended into the general noise as they walked away.
Leslie shook her head. "She seems to be impossible to please. I don't envy him, having her on his back like that all the time."
"She believes she is encouraging him," Roarke noted in a neutral tone, extracting his gold pocket watch and checking the time before snapping it shut and replacing it. "I'll keep you apprised of further events. Why don't you go and join Christian and his family."
They had arrived in one of the red SUVs that Roarke had bought earlier in the year and had modified to run almost entirely on electricity and solar energy. It needed gasoline only for cross-island trips, and came in handy for transporting guests and their luggage to the hotel or bungalows. Leslie climbed behind the wheel and turned east on the Ring Road, letting her thoughts settle on the subject of Douglas Grunewald's planned book and what the Enstad family thought of the whole idea. By the time she reached the bungalow, she was in something of a quandary and wanted at that moment only to talk to Christian alone.
She was relieved for some reason when Christian answered her knock. He smiled at her, turned and said something quickly to those inside, then stepped out on the little porch and pulled the door shut behind him. "I'm glad you're here."
"Don't tell me," she said, suddenly nervous again. "You've had enough time to discuss this thing that now it's started creating a big gulf in the family."
Christian chuckled, sounding just a little weary. "Not quite, but I have a sense it might be heading in that direction. Tell me something, my Leslie Rose, how do you feel? I'm sure you've had a chance to do plenty of your own thinking by now."
She nodded. "Yeah, but I haven't made a decision one way or the other." She peered at him in confusion. "Why does my opinion matter? You and I didn't know each other when all this happened. I was just a teenager at the time. It seems kind of absurd to have me in on this thing when I wasn't even there."
"No, you weren't, but you're in a unique position among all of us in this family. You've already spoken with Grunewald, and you work with your father, who's giving the man his fantasy to have access to us for his book. And, due to that earlier meeting with Grunewald, you now stand as the only one of us who's met him and has any idea what he's like. I think if you come in and talk to us, and tell us your impressions of him, it may help Anna-Laura to make a decision, and it might change Kristina's and Amalia's minds."
Leslie considered that while he watched her; she felt a little better when he pulled her into a loose embrace, and looked up at him. "Well, that's a good point, I guess. Not that I can be that much help. I've talked to him only the once, and not for very long." For some reason she abruptly remembered something. "His wife is dead against this whole thing. She thinks it's a gross invasion of the family's privacy."
Christian laughed. "Does she? It would be interesting to speak with her as well. But for right now, come on in, and let's put your ideas into the mix. It can't make this any more muddled than it already is, and maybe it will help clear up some things." He tightened his hold on her and kissed her. "Don't worry about reprisals, no one's going to bite."
His grin and wink made her laugh, albeit a touch reluctantly. "Well, okay. But I'll hold you to that." Chuckling together, they entered the bungalow, and Christian made some room for her in the chair where he'd earlier been sitting. She squeezed in beside him, returning greetings and smiling at her in-laws.
"Christian says you've talked to this Douglas Grunewald," Carl Johan said. "What is your impression of him? Do you think we can trust him to do as he says he will?"
Leslie shifted uncomfortably and felt Christian slip an arm over her shoulders. "I'm not sure I can really say with any authority," she admitted, braving quick glances at the others. "I wasn't with him very long, and I was already scared to death about approaching Christian with the whole idea in the first place." This earned her a collective laugh from the rest of the family, and she found herself relaxing, to her surprise. "Anyway, I guess I could say that he's very…enthusiastic. He really wants to do this project, and I got the sense he intends to do right by you."
"By necessity he must be unbiased," Anna-Laura pointed out. "That means he has to tell the Vikslunds' side of the story with the same objectivity and thoroughness he tells ours. He has to refrain from showing favor to one side or the other."
Leslie nodded. "Did Christian tell you he's won a Pulitzer? As I said to Father, they don't just hand those out to any old hack writer. He must do good work if he earned one of those. I'm sure, if you need more information, Mr. Grunewald would be more than happy to provide samples of his earlier work and answer any questions you have. He and his wife are here for the weekend, but I'm sure if necessary, they can extend their stay, depending on what everyone decides to do. I can have him over here in no time at all and you can give him the third degree, or whatever you want."
The family members looked at one another, and Rudolf shifted restlessly in his seat and snorted loudly enough to turn all heads his way. "Herregud," he complained, "I see no reason to delay. I say we have him over here and we can ask those questions. He's the one who wants to write the book, not Aunt Leslie, so why are we grilling her?"
The others murmured agreement, though Leslie saw Amalia and Kristina exchange doubtful looks. Anna-Laura looked none too sanguine herself, but she raised no objection to having Douglas Grunewald come to the bungalow. Christian took in the consensus and smiled at his wife. "You might as well go and get him now while everyone's still in a mood to accommodate the man, in whatever small way."
Leslie excused herself and got up to go; Christian arose after a few seconds' hesitation and followed her. "I thought you were going to wait with the others," she said, surprised.
"No, I thought I'd like to meet the man myself, before the rest of the family gets their hooks into him," he said with a grin. "Not to mention finding out for myself what his wife has to say, if she's that much against this. If you ask me, she should come too."
"Maybe so," Leslie said, heading for the Grunewalds' bungalow some paces down the lane from the one the royals were occupying. Christian fell into step beside her; they went silently till Leslie knocked on the door and was greeted by Karen Grunewald. The woman's eyes widened at sight of Christian, and before either he or Leslie could say anything, she dipped an awkward curtsy.
"Your Highness, it's nice to meet you," she blurted.
Christian grinned resignedly. "It's good to meet you too—Mrs. Grunewald, is it? I hope you and your husband aren't doing anything at the moment. My family and I would like very much to speak with him. With both of you, if you'd like to come with him."
"Both of us?" Karen blinked, looked a little panicky for just a moment, then managed to gather herself and gave a nod better described as a shudder. "Sure…of course, I'll get Doug and we'll be right with you, if you'd like to wait here, inside."
"We won't impose, Mrs. Grunewald," Leslie said, hoping she sounded soothing. "We don't mind waiting right out here."
Karen looked dubious, but Christian nodded, so she smiled weakly and closed the door. Christian peered at Leslie. "Why in the world is she so terrified? I mean, I'm used to seeing people become nervous around me as royalty, no matter how much it bothers me. But I think there's something else on her mind."
"I don't know," Leslie said helplessly. "I can't read her at all. I'm not really all that great at that kind of thing anyway. But she made it plain that she doesn't like her husband's intentions, and I have to wonder how she'll handle being on display in front of the family."
Christian eyed the door, as if he could see Karen Grunewald through it. "Well, all I know is that there's more to it than just being jittery around a royal. I'm beginning to wonder how clear she's made her opinion to her husband."
Leslie shrugged. "I think he knows, but I don't know if he's aware of how adamant she is—" She snapped her mouth shut as the door opened on her last word, and quickly smiled at the Grunewalds. Karen looked as though she were on her way to a firing squad; Doug's face was radiant with anticipation.
He reached out immediately upon stepping out the door and shook hands with Christian. "I just can't overstate how grateful I am to you and your family for agreeing to talk to me, Your Highness. I'll answer any and all questions you have."
Christian smiled, but Leslie could see a certain amount of reserve in his eyes. "You're quite welcome, Mr. Grunewald. My brother and two sisters-in-law are staying in a bungalow just down the lane, so we can merely walk from here." Doug nodded, and the two couples stepped off the porch and headed back along the narrow dirt lane, with the Grunewalds behind the Enstads. Nobody said anything, not even Doug.
A few minutes later Christian was ushering the Grunewalds in ahead of himself and Leslie, then pulling the door closed behind his wife and stepping forward to announce, "Here are Douglas and Karen Grunewald. You may already know my family, but let me introduce them anyway—my sister-in-law Kristina, my brother Carl Johan, my sister-in-law Amalia, my nephew Rudolf, my sister Anna-Laura and my brother-in-law Esbjörn."
"It's a real pleasure to meet all of you," Doug said cheerfully, while Karen performed another awkward curtsy, this one visibly shaky. He got a round of nods, except from Kristina who regarded him with an icy, suspicious stare, and hefted up the briefcase he had brought along with him. "I have everything you might be interested in right here."
"We might be interested in…?" Anna-Laura repeated. "Such as?"
"Anna-Laura," Christian admonished in jordiska, "don't be rude; we don't want to be known for being off-putting, even if the final decision goes against his wishes." He switched back to English. "Mr. and Mrs. Grunewald, why don't you come in and sit down." He spoke low to Carl Johan and Amalia, who made room for Christian and Leslie on the sofa so that the Grunewalds could sit together.
"Ask me anything you'd like," Doug invited eagerly. "Anything at all."
He's really asking for it, Leslie thought, but felt less worried about Grunewald's chances for some reason now that the family was aware of his hopes and she had Christian at her side. She sneaked a glance at her husband as the thought slid through her mind and was amused to see his features carefully blank and focused on Grunewald. She imagined he was thinking up some questions for the journalist, and looked forward to hearing them.
It took a little while, during which Doug was kept busy pulling out clippings of past newspaper and magazine articles and explaining what they were about and how he had gone about writing them. He passed a couple of them around for the others to peruse; one was the article that had won him the Pulitzer Prize, and Leslie could see subtle reactions in the various family members as they looked it over and were, mostly unwillingly, impressed. Even Christian was affected when his turn came; both brows went skyward and a tiny smile creased his face. After a moment he whispered to her, "This is excellent, my Rose. If anyone is going to write this book, I think this may be the man to do it."
She gave him a knowing look in response. "You still haven't asked him anything, and I seem to remember you implied he was going to have to pass really tough muster with you."
Christian grinned. "Just watch me." He passed the clipping on to Rudolf and waited for a break in the conversation; then he cleared his throat to get attention. "Mr. Grunewald, have you written any books before, or is this to be your first one? And if it's the latter, tell me, are you planning to stick to the facts, or put your own slant on them, as a number of celebrity biographers have done?"
Doug cleared his throat and admitted, "This is my first attempt at a book. But I didn't want to do something frivolous, and I wanted to be sure I built up enough credibility to be able to pull this off. As you'll know if you've really read any of my work, Your Highness, I strive to stick to the facts and only the facts. If I draw conclusions, they're taken solely from the factual information I've gathered. I've been doing this my entire career, and I'll go so far as to say that I think I have enough credentials and have built up enough honesty and trustworthiness that I really believe it would be a shame if you turned to somebody else to write this, or decided not to allow it to be done at all."
Christian regarded him. "You think quite highly of yourself, it seems. Are you willing to back up that rather bold statement?"
Grunewald looked a bit wary, but he nodded all the same. "Yes, I am, Your Highness."
"Good. Then I want a copy of every magazine article you've written, and every major newspaper article you've turned out, from the beginning of your career. I have ways of finding out whether events happened as reported, or if the facts are different from statements made by people calling themselves reputable journalists." Christian leaned forward and speared the startled Grunewald with a piercing stare. "Regardless of my own views on the advisability of this project, I won't let it go forward without being absolutely certain I can trust the person who proposes to write it. I won't tolerate slander, innuendo, sly implications or anything of the sort. We get far more than enough of that in the world's gossip rags. What I want—what we all want—is straightforward, factual reporting. When you make a statement, you'd better be able to prove every word of it. If we catch you in a lie or even a misstatement, you'll sorely regret it."
Dead silence fell in the room; Karen Grunewald's mouth hung open, and Carl Johan and Rudolf eyed each other with knowing looks and slight, wry smiles. Kristina looked a bit confused; since Christian had spoken in English, she had missed the better part of what he'd said. Anna-Laura leaned over and quietly translated Christian's words into jordiska, while Amalia dropped her gaze to her lap and Esbjörn stared in amazement at Christian. Leslie saw him and smiled; apparently he had lost familiarity with the way Christian tended to handle the media.
"Well," said Esbjörn, so surprised he spoke in jordiska. "I daresay that should put the man in his place, don't you think, Christian?"
Christian blinked once, shot him a look and then grinned briefly. "You should know I have my reasons, or did you forget?" Esbjörn's slightly sheepish smile gave him his answer, and he chuckled softly before returning his attention to Grunewald.
The break had given the journalist enough time to regroup and put together a reply. "Your Highness, I have to warn you, I've been a journalist for twenty-six years, and for the last twenty of those years I've been with the Post. That's a long time, and a hell of a lot of articles. Even I haven't kept copies of every single thing I ever wrote."
"I wasn't expecting literally every word you've ever published," Christian riposted smoothly. "I merely want the more significant items—magazine articles, as I said, and any major newspaper reporting. If it helps, I'll narrow it down to anything that deals with someone in the limelight, for whatever reason—politics, show business, sports, I don't care. I just want copies of all of those. I don't expect to be overwhelmed with reading material. I want the in-depth things, and I want them to be about people I've probably heard of in some capacity. Is that fair enough for you?"
At that Grunewald had to give in. "Yeah, that's fair, I guess. I have some things in my briefcase right here. I took care to keep copies of the magazines I've been published in, and if you give me a day or two, I can have copies of the major newspaper articles expressed here for you. I don't have all the magazines with me at the moment—"
"Then get them," Christian said. "If I sound blunt to you, I apologize, but I'm sure you realize this is a very sensitive issue with us. We certainly aren't going to trust some neophyte with visions of treasure chests dancing in his eyes, thinking he'll reap enormous rewards for providing all the inside information on a very juicy and timely scandal. If we let anyone do this, then he has to be reliable and well-informed, and determined to tell the story properly—not as a…a vehicle for titillation."
Grunewald sat up, his eyes sparking. Stiffly he said, "Your Highness, I hope you'll pardon me if I take offense at the idea. I'll get you what you want, but I'm sure you'll see that I can be trusted."
Christian raised an eyebrow. "It's my experience that when I suggest someone wants to write something about us merely for titillation, they'll deny it and act offended by the suggestion—and then write it that way anyway."
Grunewald opened his mouth, but his frightened wife intervened. "Doug, don't push it!" she urged, flicking scared glances at Christian without quite letting her eyes actually rest on him. "Let it be enough that they're even considering this stupid idea of yours!"
Her words got the attention of the rest of the Enstads, and they all looked at Leslie. "You didn't say anything about Mrs. Grunewald," Kristina accused her, using jordiska as was her habit.
"She told me," Christian put in before Leslie could answer, also speaking jordiska. "I could have said something, but it didn't seem relevant." He returned to English to address Karen. "I understand you're against your husband's project, Mrs. Grunewald."
Karen's face grew crimson with mortification. "Pretty much from the beginning. He's been writing the usual articles on it for the paper, for regular reporting purposes, you know, but now that he's had that story from the time it first broke, he's become obsessed with it. At least, I see it as an obsession. He's been determined to get through to one side or the other, and he keeps saying it doesn't matter who he gets to first, he'll tell both sides with the same lack of bias. He kept saying all he needed was to get through to one side, and the other would cave in to assure balanced storytelling."
Christian's eyebrow, along with several others, went up again. "Hm," he commented. "But what do you think of it, you personally?"
"I just think it's a gross invasion of privacy," Karen said, fidgeting madly. "It seems to me the media have covered the whole thing long enough, and in enough depth, to satisfy the curious ones. Why Doug thinks he has to write a book about it is beyond me. I hear that the kings' names are pretty much mud in your country already, as it is. There's no reason to make it any worse."
"Thank you," Amalia suddenly said, with emphasis. Kristina, for whom Anna-Laura had continued to translate, nodded vigorously. "That's our view on this."
Carl Johan sighed gently. "I think we'll have to discuss this later," he said to her, low-voiced and in their own tongue.
"Oh, we will," Amalia retorted, with a slight threat in her own voice.
Karen moaned loudly enough to stop their argument, but her attention was on Doug. "Do you see what you're doing? You're driving wedges between these people! Why don't you just give it up before you permanently ruin their family?" Without another word, she leaped from her chair and fled the bungalow. Leslie watched her go, feeling sorry for her; even without being able to understand what Carl Johan and Amalia were saying, it had been clear to Karen that Doug's proposed project was already causing disagreements.
The Enstad family was left sitting in silent astonishment, glancing uneasily at one another. Then Grunewald cleared his throat. "I think my wife's a little hysterical," he said, essaying a bright smile that didn't quite reach believability. "I don't want to start any family feuds, though, so I'll leave the decision up to you, Your Highnesses. And Prince Christian, I'll get the material you wanted right away. I'll call around and see to it." He got up, then hesitated as if he thought they expected him to make some sort of gesture. Finally he offered a weak military salute before excusing himself and hurrying out after his wife.
Rudolf was the first to arise. "Well, I think I'd better let Louisa know what's been happening," he said. "Aunt Leslie, can you and Uncle Christian drop me off at the bed-and-breakfast inn?"
"Sure," Leslie agreed, though she waited for Christian to stand before she got up as well. "Esbjörn, Anna-Laura, are you ready?"
"I suppose we are," Anna-Laura said, arising along with her husband. Esbjörn pushed his hands into his pockets, cast Carl Johan a sympathetic glance and joined Christian, Leslie and Rudolf at the door.
"You'll have two of them to convince," Esbjörn told Carl Johan. "I don't envy you."
Carl Johan smiled sardonically. "I'm sure I'm not the only one who'll be arguing his point of view this night," he remarked. "Good luck to all of you. Rudolf, you may find yourself the lucky one in this mess."
"I just might," Rudolf agreed, a sympathetic grin on his face. "Hmm, far, maybe you'd like me to work on Aunt Kristina for you, since you have mor to talk around?" He blithely ignored the disgusted scowl Kristina favored him with.
"To 'talk around'," Amalia snapped, "as if I were in the wrong for holding the opinion I do. I daresay we have an ally, with Mrs. Grunewald on our side. You'd better hope to be the most persuasive you've ever been in our entire marriage, Carl Johan Lukas Erik Enstad." She swept away to one of the two bedrooms with a ruffled dignity about her.
Christian stared, then winced at the stunned expression on his brother's face. "Må sanktarna hålla plass till dej, äldrebror," he offered softly. It was a slight variation on a jordisk aphorism that meant, "May the saints hold a place for me."
"For me?" Carl Johan said, blowing out a weary sigh. "I'll deserve it after this, I think. Anyway, we'll talk later, Christian, and thank you."
