A Lady in Waiting. Janice De Jesus

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 bathing her, her mind flashed back to the time she first met Arlen. Sara, who had accompanied Princess Chantalise to Arlen’s countryside manor, was bringing Her Highness’ luggage in from the car when a tall man dressed in a sky blue long-sleeved buttoned shirt and gray slacks looking like he just stepped out of a Giorgio Armani ad, scooped up the valise. Surprised, her eyes locked with the bluest pair she’d ever set her own eyes on.

      “I’ve got that for you, Miss,” the handsome stranger said in a British accent.

      She thanked him as they shared a smile, and even now, she remembered how his charm caused her heart to flutter.

      “First time visiting England?” he asked, wheeling the valise behind him as they strode together side by side on their walk up to the manor entrance.

      “I’ve actually been to London only,” Sara said, stealing a glance at him. “But I look forward to seeing the countryside.” In a move she never dared before, she flashed him a smile with a coquettish sideways glance. “Perhaps you can you show me around sometime.” To this day, she had no idea why she, normally shy, boldly even asked.

      And she would never forget the high-wattage grin that he rewarded her, eyes twinkling. “I would love to.”

      Suddenly, hurried footsteps sped their way. “Allow me to take that for you, my Lord,” said another young man Sara realized was the actual footman and not the handsome blue-eyed demi-god she’d been conversing with all along.

      Immediately then, Sara felt her cheeks flush, imagining her face turning a beet red. Her cheeks, neck and ears heated up. As a new lady-in-waiting, she should have known, should have done her research and inquired about his appearance. She silently cursed herself. “I—I apologize.” As she bowed, she couldn’t face him.

      He shook his head. “There’s no need for apologies or formalities.” He held out his hand by way of introduction. “Arlen Cromwell.”

      Even as she lay in bed now, she recalled her embarrassment from that first meeting. Indeed, he was none other than the Arlen Spencer-Cromwell, Viscount Rydelthorpe. Fiancé of her mistress, Princess Chantalise. For the rest of their stay there, Arlen kept his word and showed Chantalise and her entourage around the village and countryside, but Sara, so embarrassed by her earlier show of bravado, appropriately stayed clear of Arlen so that he could proceed with his courtship of the princess.

      Blushing at the memory now, she realized the reason she blocked out that embarrassing introduction and Arlen altogether. Until now.

      Alas, months after the visit, the engagement was broken and nearly two years later, here he was, back in her life.

      Sara thought that it was possible this evening of her sister’s wedding had all been but a dream. Chatting with Arlen in the vineyards amid the backdrop of a Moradonian purple sunset, holding hands as they passed through the vineyards toward the reception, slow dancing for God only knows how many dances, and the pregnant albeit tranquil silence shared by the two of them as he walked her home beneath the incandescent moon and glittering stars. A wonderful dream Sara wanted to lose herself in forever.

      Chapter Three

      Amid a sea of bright round orange in the local pumpkin patch, Arlen stooped down and, with knees bent, attempted