I beam, typing out a quick reply.
Nora: I don’t plan on it. No more obstacles.
I look up from my phone to see how close we are. There are still a few blocks to go, but with Midtown traffic what it is, it’ll probably be quicker if I just run.
“I’ll get out here.” I reach into my purse and toss a $20 his way, then hastily push open the door, skirting through three lanes of traffic. People fill the sidewalk like ants, Rockefeller Plaza feeling so close but still so out of reach. Like it gets farther away with every step I take.
Now I know how Terry McKay felt in An Affair to Remember when she was on her way to the Empire State Building to see Nicki Ferrante after their agreed upon six-month separation. Nothing else mattered except getting to Nicki. Just like right now. Nothing matters except getting to Anderson.
When I’m two blocks away, I break into a jog, looking down at my phone every few seconds to see the interview still going. A few people look my way, seeming to recognize me. Some whisper and point, others begin chanting my name as I run past.
By the time I reach the Plaza and can see the open windows of the studio on 49th Street, more and more people have joined in the chant. But I tune out most of them, all my attention focused on the large screens outside broadcasting the interview. Anderson’s voice fills the area as he confesses how he didn’t fight hard enough for me. How the reason wasn’t because of my mother’s interview but because he thought he was saving me from a lifetime of living with a cripple.
I stop dead in my tracks, his words hitting me hard, knocking the air from my lungs.
“My god, you are such a bloody wanker,” I muse, to which a few people around me laugh.
“Men usually are, sweetie,” a woman says, encouraging me forward.
I jog the last block to the studio, the growing crowd stopping to watch, their cell phones pointing in my direction, all of them cheering me on. It invigorates me, an infectious smile tugging on my lips. Days ago, I assumed I was hated. Maybe I never was. Maybe that was all in my head.
Maybe I’d allowed my mother to manipulate me yet again.
Shaking it off, I approach the windows of the studio. My pulse increases when I peek through them and see Anderson under the lights, his hair a bit more wayward than normal, a dusting of scruff on his face.
Now that I’m here, I realize I haven’t thought this through. He’s on national television right now. What are the chances he’ll see me out here? Do I try to find the stage door? I doubt they make it easily accessible.
Instead, all I can do is send him a text message, then watch. And wait.
And hope.
“Are you really her?” a woman asks me, eyes wide in excitement. “Are you really the American princess?”
I smile. “I am.”
The woman turns toward her friends. “It really is her!”
The crowd cheers, several people asking me to sign their posterboards, some of which were obviously made with Anderson in mind. I can only assume these women are big royal watchers.
While I’m more than aware that signing autographs is frowned upon, I no longer have to live by those rules. So I happily agree to sign their posters, taking their marker and scrawling my name on each. In the background, I hear Carly ask Anderson what he hopes to achieve by finally coming forward with the truth.
“Nothing,” his voice booms in the Plaza. “But I couldn’t sit aside and let the world think the worst of Nora. She doesn’t deserve that. Her mother painted her in a horrible light. But that’s not Nora. Maybe that’s the Nora her mother wishes she were, but nothing could be further from the truth.”
“Why don’t you share who Nora Tremblay is then,” Carly suggests.
“She’s the love of my life,” he answers without hesitation, his voice wavering slightly.
Hunter’s mother reaches for his hand and grabs it, giving him a reassuring smile. It melts my heart to see these people on the same stage together. Connected by tragedy but united for a bigger purpose… Love.
The frenzied sounds of the city seem to disappear as everyone’s eyes remain glued to the giant screens overhead. It’s as if the world has stopped spinning to listen to the elusive Crown Prince Gabriel give an interview and speak from the heart, something no royal has ever done.
“Nora Tremblay doesn’t have a vindictive or manipulative bone in her body. She’s one of the most honest and real people I’ve ever met. She doesn’t pretend to be something she isn’t, which I think was one of the hardest things for her about acclimating to life as a royal. Everyone tried to tell her how to act, how to think, how to dress. But Nora isn’t the type of woman you can fit into a mold. She’s warm, caring.” He laughs to himself, his brilliant, blue eyes sparkling. “This is a woman who saw a dog get hit by a car and made me pull over so we could take it to a vet, then paid for all the medical care he needed.”
With each word he speaks, the more impassioned he becomes, his determination unwavering. Whereas my mother could barely look Carly in the eyes as she spouted her lies, Anderson’s gaze remains resolute.
“This is a woman who has spent the past month taking the time to respond to each and every one of the hundreds upon hundreds of letters she’s received from across the globe, not wanting anyone to think she doesn’t care. I’ve never met any other royal who’s done that, who’s taken the time to interact with people.”
“That’s Nora,” Mary says from beside him. “Always giving. Never taking.”
Anderson gives her a small smile before returning his attention to Carly as tears fall down my cheeks.
“This is a woman who spent nearly four hours in a pediatric oncology unit playing dress-up with a few of the young girls who are longtime patients there. She had other engagements that day, but that didn’t matter to Nora. She didn’t care about going to dinner with whatever celebrity we were supposed to be seeing that evening. All that mattered was staying with those kids as long as possible, making them happy.”
“I remember seeing that on the news,” Carly says. “She certainly won over quite a few hearts with how she interacted with all those kids.”
His expression falls slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in a hard swallow, his facial muscles pinching. “And this is a woman who’s suffered an immeasurable loss. Who watched as the car holding the man she hoped to spend the rest of her life with went up in flames. Who was then told their baby no longer had a heartbeat. Who had to give birth knowing there would be no baby’s cries greeting her. There would be nothing but silence.”
I feel an arm wrap around me and glance at one of the women through my tears. She squeezes me, offering an empathetic look, making me think she’s no stranger to the pain of child loss.
“Despite all that,” Anderson continues through his own emotions, “despite enduring something I couldn’t even begin to fathom, she never lost hope. Never gave up. Which is why I’m not going to give up on her. I’m not—” He stops abruptly, lips parting as he stares at something over Carly’s shoulder.
I look away from the large screens and through the studio windows, wondering what caught his attention, our gazes locking.