days and the massive state funeral that followed.
Somehow, they had. Now all four children were grown and thriving in their royal roles. Federico and Antony had children of their own. He suspected Isabella and Marco, each recently married, also planned to start families soon.
His children’s lives had changed drastically in nine years. Yet he’d remained the same. Working to improve his country’s economy, promoting charitable causes, attending events late into the night, and then rising again at dawn to go for a run—or to work out with Greta the taskmaster—so he could be back in his office right after breakfast to begin again.
Or…perhaps he wasn’t the same.
He couldn’t look at the picture of Aletta in Spain without feeling as if she’d been frozen at that age. The shining, beautiful woman who smiled at the caterpillar no longer looked like someone he could banter with at the end of a long day, someone with the wisdom and maturity to understand the complexities of his life. Close, but not quite. They’d married young, and for many years they had grown and learned together.
Then they hadn’t.
A pang of guilt grabbed his gut at the stunning thought that, in the last decade, he’d outgrown his own wife.
Deep down, he’d known it for some time, but today it hit him with more clarity. He shoved the thought aside and replaced the photo. “You’d be proud of them all,” he told her image. “You’d love their spouses, Isabella's most of all. Nick’s an expert in medieval history, a man after your own heart.”
He let his mind wander for a few minutes, remembering Aletta telling him at length about the museums she’d visited on her royal tour and how much she’d enjoyed the country’s art. She’d hit Madrid’s shops afterward, picking up fashions she hadn't seen in San Rimini. At the memory of her showing him a pink dress she thought would suit her complexion, he laughed aloud.
“You’d probably tell me to color my hair if you were here. You wouldn’t like the gray at all. You’d say it made you look like you were married to an old man.”
Though these days, despite the confidence he knew age and experience gave him, he felt younger than ever. Now that his children were happily married and he’d recovered from heart surgery, he had more energy and looked better than he had in years. He’d heard his staff comment on it when they thought he wasn’t listening, and he’d read as much in the tabloids when he knew no one was looking over his shoulder at his reading material.
And for the first time in years, he’d looked twice at another woman. Why Claire Peyton, and why now, he couldn't guess. Maybe it was her backbone. Or the way she told a story. When she’d mentioned the scene in Out of Africa and the history of the ambassador’s house, he’d been riveted. Though others might’ve found the topics boring, she’d seemed to sense his interest. Then again, perhaps there was nothing to it. Just his mind playing tricks, given the anniversary of Aletta’s death and his annual visit to the royal family’s crypt at the Duomo.
He’d come to dread visiting Aletta the last three or four years. Not because of her, but because the entire day felt staged. The media stationed themselves across the street, their array of cameras aimed at the Duomo steps with the goal of capturing a momentary look of anguish to show the world that the king still mourned his beautiful queen. But Eduardo no longer felt the anguish when he thought of her, only a dull, leaden ache. And that, only when he shared a moment of joy with one of his children—such as at the birth of a grandchild—and regretted that Aletta wasn't able to experience it herself.
Somehow, over the years, Aletta had transformed in his mind almost as much as she had in the mind of the public. She’d become an image to rally around, someone to hold out to the world as a symbol of the romance and beauty of San Rimini, just as the late Princess Grace had become a symbol of Monaco.
She’d become someone—something—different than the woman who’d entered his life so long ago.
The phone on his desk rang, startling him. He leaned forward and hit the speaker.
“Your Highness,” Luisa's clear voice came across the line, “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but the florist would like to know if you have any particular arrangement in mind.”
He frowned to himself. “Plain