Princess Ever After

A Royal Wedding Novel


By Rachel Hayes Hauck

ZONDERVAN

Copyright © 2014 Rachel Hayes Hauck
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-310-31550-6


CHAPTER 1

She'd found bliss. Perhaps even true love. Behind the wheelof a '71 Dodge Challenger restored to Slant-6 perfection.

Fishtailing into turn two of a west side Tallahasseedirt track, Reggie shifted into fourth gear and pushed the car toits max, the thrill of the race electrifying her entire being.

The engine rumbled with authority as the tires hummedover the track, churning up dust as if to truly bury yesterday.Firing down the straightaway toward pinkish-gold remains oftwilight leaking through the tall pines, the last thread of Reggie'slingering doubt flitted away on the cool September breeze.

This was what she'd been born to do—restore junked-up, forgottenold cars to their original, classic beauty. And it only tookher twenty-nine years to figure that out.

Ha-ha. Come on, baby. Show me what you can do.

The boys at the finish line—Al, Rafe, and Wally—flaggedher home with their hats in hand.

This was amazing. Simply amazing. She should've done thisyears ago. Jump from the corporate CPA ship onto the barelyfloating life raft of "pipe dreams."

In the last six months, she'd endured more than her share ofsleepless nights since she traded her business suits for coverallsand entered into the car restoration business with Al, who waslike a second father to her.

Restoring the Challenger was their first big job. And theirfirst test.

Reggie checked the speedometer. The needle shimmied rightat one hundred.

"Wahoo!"

She sped past the finish line. An air horn sounded. Malevoices rose with hoots and hollers. She'd done it. They'd done it.And without leaving a trail of car parts littering the racetrack.

Downshifting, Reggie aimed for center field, whipping thecar in a series of donuts, mashing on the horn, gunning theengine, letting the 440 breathe and have its say.

Oh mercy, building and installing this engine had giventhem fits. Those days were the ones most filled with doubt, whenReggie considered dialing her old firm, Backlund & Backlund,and begging for her job back.

One last spin around the infield and Reggie stopped the carand hopped out, letting the engine idle. Rafe swooped her up,whirling her around. "We did it!"

When he set her down, Al embraced her in his dark, teddybear arms. "I'm so stinking proud of you, girl."

"No, you, Al. It was your idea."

"But you were willing to take the leap." Al, a retired Marinemaster sergeant, and her daddy's best friend all the way back inthe '60s at Sullivan Elementary School, was the brains and brawnbehind opening the shop.

When Al had approached Reggie with the idea six monthsago, she had nothing to say but "Where do I sign?"

Then he hired Rafe, a Marine who served with Al right beforehe retired. Rafe left the Marines after three tours in Afghanistanand hitchhiked from North Carolina to Tallahassee in search of"Sergeant Al."

Ole Wally arrived at the idling car last. "I do believe she'splum beautiful. Reg, you drive better than Danica."

She threw her arms around the wizened old redneck withthin wisps of white hair sticking out from under his Jeff Gordon24 cap.

"Wally, your engine work is the best in the business, and I'dbet my firstborn on it."

"Reg,"—Wally spit, an old habit left over from his Red Manchew days—"don't go banking money on an account you don'thave. Got to find a man, go on a date, get married so's you canhave a firstborn." Wally sauntered around the car. "Rafe, did youhear something pinging with the engine? Thought I heard it longabout the eight cylinder."

Wally—the car whisperer.

"Let's listen for it on the ride back to the shop," Rafe said,leaning over the hood, listening for the ping.

The shop was an old red barn Al had found way outBlountstown Highway. It worked because it was big and airywith a solid roof. But mostly, because it was cheap.

"Say! Reg,"—a loud bass voice boomed across the infield withirritation—"what happened to seven o'clock?"

Reggie squinted through the long angles of light and shadowas Mark, her date for the evening, made his way toward her.

"Mark ... hey ..." Reggie tugged her phone from the pocketin her coveralls. Was it seven already? No, it wasn't seven. It wasseven thirty. Seven thirty-one, to be exact. She was late. "I'm sosorry." She met Mark on the other side of the car, glancing back atWally and shooting him a goofy look. "We had to run the car onelast time. Wally heard a ping in the engine." Well, he did. "DannyHayes is picking her up in the morning, and we have to be sureshe's running at one hundred percent."

"Wally and Al can manage a ping, Reg." Mark swiped his fingeracross the dusty hood and made a grand gesture of checkinghis watch. "Because you and I are late." He stared at her coveralls."Is that what you're wearing?"

"Yes, it's all the rage in women's fashion this season in NewYork, Mark. Grease-stained coveralls." Reggie raised her foot. "ButI am changing into a pair of fancy boots. Won't that look smart?"

"That-a-way to give it to him, Reg." Rafe nudged her in solidarityas he came around to slip into the driver's seat.

"Drive careful, Rafe. Get the car back to the barn andcleaned up, okay?" She unzipped her coveralls and stepped out.Underneath she wore jeans and a black, pleated V-neck top—perfectattire for a Wakulla County fish fry. Even if the guyhosting it was crazy rich.

Handing her wadded-up coveralls to Rafe through the window,she winced at the worrisome sound of "over bearing mother"in her words. Nevertheless ... "White-glove the interior, the exterior,even the wheel wells."

"Gotcha, boss." Rafe grinned and gunned the gas while Wallyhovered over the engine, ear cocked to the sound of the mysteriousping.

Al motioned for Reggie to step aside with him. "Reg—" Hisvoice broke, and when he looked up, a dewy sheen slipped acrosshis brown eyes. He sniffed, raised his chin, and drew a deepbreath. "We done good, girl."

"Yeah, we did." A well of tears filled her own eyes. "I owe you,Al. Big. Now we just have to figure out where our next job is comingfrom. I was thinking—"

"Have a good night, Reg." Al grabbed her shoulders andturned her around. "I just wanted to tell you I was proud of you.Now, go. Have fun. Laugh. Enjoy your success."

"We are a success, aren't we?" She smiled.

"A one-car success, but yes, so far, so good."

"Al, say, what if we—"

"Girl, go have fun with your beau."

"He's not my beau."

"Fine. Just go. Enjoy. Miriam is waiting for me at home withthe grandkids. It's popcorn and Disney movie night for me." Al'sbold laugh rang out. He was having the time of his life.

"Well, okay." She patted her hands against her legs. "Off I go."

"Good. Off you go," Al echoed her intent.

"Look, now, if you need anything, call me."

"Reg, what could we need at seven thirty on a Tuesday evening?"Al grabbed her shoulders and turned her toward Mark."Have fun. That's an order."

"Yes, Master Sergeant Love."

Walking with Mark toward his car, she exhaled, pressing herhand over her middle. She'd done it. They'd done it. Restored awhole car.

"We were down to the chassis when we started working onthat Challenger," she said to herself more than to Mark.

"Old Mr. McCandless is going to wonder where I've been."Mark aimed his remote at the late-model Porsche sitting at theentrance of the track. "What about seven was so hard to do, Reg?"

"I was working." She ran ahead of him, waving and cheering,chasing the Challenger as Rafe, Wally, and Al exited the trackand headed for the shop.

"Let's go," Mark called.

Reggie met him at the Porsche and slipped into the passengerseat with confidence in her belly that she'd finally found herdestiny.


* * *

A mellow Hunter Hayes melody played over Mark's speakers, hisPorsche buzzing toward the Gulf Coast.

Reggie nestled against the Italian leather and followedthe brilliant red plume streaking the western horizon. Was itpossible for life to be perfect? Or almost? For the first time sinceMama died when she was just a kid, life made sense. Didn't it?Sure it did.

Working on the Challenger, going into business with Al,steadied her, harnessed her restlessness. Her heart stopped wondering,"Is there something more?"

"I played golf with Eric Backlund yesterday." At thirty, Markwas one of the top real estate developers in Florida. He ate lunchwith congressmen and played golf with CEOs, moving fartherand farther away from the skinny, sad-eyed, latchkey kid livingin a rusted-out trailer.

"Does he still have a seven handicap?" she asked. Her formerboss took every occasion to let the office know how well he couldhit a little white ball with a thin wooden club.

"He asked about you. Wants to know when you're coming back."

"When a blizzard buries Tallahassee." She powered down herwindow. The dewy air swept past her face and cooled the heat risingfrom the conversation.

"Reg, come on. You've got to be smart, think ahead. So, bravo,you restored a classic car." He raised his hands from the wheel for ashort round of applause. "Proved to yourself and everyone else youcould run with the big dogs. Now it's time to consider your future."

"Not quite with the big dogs yet. We restored one car, and Idon't care for your sarcasm." Did he mean to exhort and deflateher in one single breath?

Reggie ignored the knock-knock of guilt, of wanting toplease, to acquiesce. But doing what others expected and askedof her was what got her into the CPA business in the first place.Daddy thought it would be a good career for her. He was right.For a season. But she'd learned her lesson. Now was her time. Todo what she wanted.

"A little sarcasm goes a long way in opening blind eyes,"Mark said.

"Gee, it's a wonder Jesus never used it as he went about doinggood and healing. Look, Mark,"—she turned to him—"I'mnot going back to Backlund & Backlund, even if restoring carsdoesn't work out. So get that out of your head. Or anyone else's. I'drather sling groceries at Publix." She sat back and faced forward,her gaze fixed on how the headlights were cutting through thedarkness, her comfort and sense of well-being evaporating.

"Fine, forget accounting," Mark said, his voice gearing upfor Plan B. She'd known Mark for almost twenty years, and healways had a Plan A and a Plan B, C, D, and E.

"But, Reg, for crying out loud, cars? Old cars at that? You'retoo intelligent and talented, too gorgeous to be wearing coverallsall day and sticking your head in a smelly engine." He slowed thecar, leaning to see a blue rural street sign hidden behind a tree.

"You're good with people," he went on. "They walk right up toyou and tell you their stories. Remember that woman at my officeChristmas party last year? She downloaded her whole life storyto you in the buffet line. She still talks about you." He shook hishead and hit the gas, craning for the next street marker. "Whatabout being a politician?"

"Ha! Politics? I'd rather work for Backlund & Backlund,Criminal Public Accountants."

"Har-har. Backlund is reputable and you know it."

"Even if they weren't, I'd rather work for them than be in politics."She turned to Mark. "Do you not know me? After all theseyears?"

"I do know you. Maybe better than you know yourself. Reg,you'd be a good politician. You'd care more about people than yourown power or wealth." He slowed at the next street sign, thenjerked the car left, leaving the road and hitting a soft, sandy driveway.He downshifted with a low growl. "McCandless developsmillion-dollar complexes. You'd think he'd pave his own drive."

But he spoke too soon. The car broke into a clearing, easingonto a curved, pebble drive that circled under a high portico tothe front door.

Reggie peered out the windshield toward the second floorand the high-pitched eaves. "A palace out here in the middle ofWakulla County." She laughed. "I think I've seen it all."

"McCandless is a bit of an eccentric, but he knows real estatedevelopment."

"Let me guess. You want him to back you in something you'redoing."

"A development over on St. George." Mark put the car in neutralas a red-vested valet scurried down the front steps. A secondvalet opened Reggie's door. Her stomach rumbled as she steppedinto the potent aroma of frying fish.

"Valets," she said as Mark came around to her side, watchingthe man drive off with his car. "Hoity-toity. That's definitely notWakulla County."

Wakulla County was rednecks, good ole boys and girls, herkind of folks. Not valets running down carved stone steps fromthe doorway of a ... palace.

"All this?" Mark slipped his arm around her waist. "This isgoing to be me one day, babe."

Babe?

"Well, not me." Reggie shrugged out of his embrace andmoved ahead of him up an illuminated path. Maybe she wasbeing paranoid, but more and more it seemed Mark was paintingher into his rich landscape. One in which she didn't belong.What was up with him? When did the air between them change?They'd been friends forever. Just friends.

Though they did have a "date" pact. If one or the other neededan escort to a wedding, Christmas party, work or family event,and couldn't scrounge up anyone else, the other would go. ButMark had a slew of girlfriends. The dating trail behind him waslittered with gorgeous women.

"Ever hear from Monica?" Reggie said with a casual air whenhe caught up to her. Mark had met the dark-skinned beauty ata congressional luncheon, and Reggie didn't see him for fourmonths. "I thought maybe she was the one."

"She went home and got engaged to her college boyfriend."

"Already? That was fast."

"I was her rebound and, frankly, I didn't see a future with us."Mark touched her elbow, lightly steering her down the path towarda white-haired, Colonel-Sanders-looking character—McCandless.

Reggie, on the other hand, had never been in love. Not thatshe didn't want to be, but, well, she'd not met him. The one. Thelove of her life.

Besides, she didn't feel she needed a man to carry on a happylife. She rather liked going to parties or weddings alone, meetingup with friends and family. If she really needed a date, shedrafted her best friend, Carrie Mitchell, instead of Mark, becauseit always gave Carrie an excuse to buy a new pair of shoes.

"Before we get too deep into this party ..." Mark slipped hishand into hers and suddenly tugged her off the path. A wash ofdread caused her to shiver.

Mark, don't ...

"We've been—"

Reggie's phone jingled from her jeans hip pocket. Thankgoodness. She jerked her hand from his, reaching back for herphone. Saved by the ringtone. She never loved the Florida StateUniversity fight song more.

"It's Al," she said, turning the screen for him to see. "Hey, iseverything all right?" Reggie laughed low, relieved to be awayfrom Mark, shaking the heat of his hand from hers. "Please don'ttell me you wrecked the Challenger."

"Reg, please ... The Challenger is fine. Rafe has it spit polishedand gleaming. I'm calling 'cause I thought you'd like to know wejust might have our next job."

"What? Who?" Her heart pummeled her ribs. This is great! "AStarfire #89?" She laughed. "I'll walk on air all the way home ifyou say yes."

"A Starfire #89? Girl, are you out of sound mind?" Al's laughboomed. "Now, how do you suppose the rarest car on planet Earthwould make its way to Dixie? And to our little shop no less?"

"A girl can dream, can't she?" Why not? Dreaming, with someunction, was what freed her from Backlund & Backlund.

Dreaming inspired her first car restoration. Al might havedreamed up the shop, but Reggie was the one who talked DannyHayes into giving them a chance with his Challenger.

So there was nothing wrong with a little dreaming. She'd gether a Starfire #89 one of these days. Okay, maybe not, but she'd atleast sit behind the wheel of one. Someday.

"There's dreaming and then there's ridiculous, Reg. If evera Starfire #89 comes across my path, I won't call you but walkon air to tell you in person. And you'll know what I have to saybefore I open my mouth because my beautiful black face will beas white as a ghost."

She laughed. "I'll look forward to it. So what car do we have?"

Al was right. Best be realistic if they were going to be inthe restoration business. Only seven Starfire #89s—one of theworld's first race cars commissioned by the Grand Duke ofHessenberg in 1904—had ever been made. Six were known toexist. Four were in museums. Two were owned by billionaires.One, the original, was lost in time. Perhaps destroyed by wars,or rain and snow, or someone looking for scrap metal. Whoknew? Or maybe the car was waiting somewhere for someoneto rescue it.

"I got the next best thing to a Starfire, Reg. A Duesenberg."

She exhaled every ounce of breath. "Al, no ... come on ... youcan't be ... a Duesy?" The air around her swirled, swift and cool,scented with fried fish, and for a moment Reggie thought she wasfloating. "You're kidding. No, you're not. You wouldn't kid abouta Duesenberg!" She trembled. "H-how? Wh-who? When?"

"A Marine buddy—"

"God bless the Marines."

"—retired sometime back, went on to make good with asecond career, and bought himself a 1933 Duesenberg TouringCar. He called to ask if I knew anyone who might be qualified torestore it."

"We. Me. You. Us." Reggie slapped her hand to her chest. "Didyou tell him we could, Al?"

Mark tugged on her sleeve. "Reg, you're on my time. Call Allater. McCandless is on the move and I want to introduce you."

She shushed him, waving him off.

"Yeah, but this is a pretty special car. Our credentials mightbe a bit shallow, but we're friends and he trusts me. He's going tothink about it."

Reggie snapped her shoulders back. "What? You call me witha think-about-it Duesy? Get on the phone. Tell him we are theones for the job."


(Continues...)

Excerpted from Princess Ever After by Rachel Hayes Hauck. Copyright © 2014 Rachel Hayes Hauck. Excerpted by permission of ZONDERVAN.
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