"𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒂 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒍..."
Beatrice "Birdie" Isley Kane is many things: a trust fund baby, a child star turned teen icon, and, in an unexpected twist, a British Royal.
But just months into her marriage to Prince Edwa...
"Why won't somebody send a tender blue boy to cheer up little girl blue?"
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August 06, 1988 Palos Verdes Estates, CA
—BIRDIE'S EYES—
PALOS VERDES ESTATES, California was not an ordinary place to raise a family but, then again, my family had always been anything but.
Located at the most southern end of Los Angeles County, and known to be exclusive, lush with greenery and its oceanfront views, it was there that my mother's 1920s Spanish Revival villa resided, on top of the hills, its surrounding landscape offering a fantastic view of the beach and the Pacific Ocean.
She owned a few acres of land, a pool and two tennis courts further back. The lot was private enough where one wouldn't be bothered by visitors and secluded enough to be hidden.
Most people who came over to the parties she threw there were fascinated and complimented her ten times over, to which she'd always make a joke about how it was the best thing she got out of 'the divorce'; but to me, it was just home. Or something like that.
It took four inhalations for me to ring the bell, Bertrand's stoic existence looming right beside me with my bags as the driver brought them from the driveway to the steps. As soon as I heard the shuffle of feet, my breath was held. I tapped my foot slightly in anticipation, but didn't dare move to grab the knob. I waited, just as I was taught, as the sound became closer and closer. When it finally swung open, the quick thudding of my heart was expected. My mouth began to twitch at the corners.
There my mother stood, before me in all her glory. In a peach silk robe that reached her ankles and her big, perfectly coiffed mass of hairsprayed curls atop her head, she was just as radiant as she always looked. I tried to search for a line in her brown skin, a wrinkle, or at least a single strand of silver in her hair, and couldn't. Truly, Lula Laurent would never age. She was everything I wanted to be.
She stood before us, eyeing me from head to toe with a quiet judgment, like a cat eyeing a mouse and smirked, before raising her perfectly plucked brow at me.
"Child, it's nine o'clock," she chastised, ignoring Bertie's presence all together. "You made dear Jane wait nearly all evening for you."
"Hello mama," I smiled, nodding to Bertie. "Jane?"
"Ma'am," he bowed.
My mother nodded with a smile and 'hello' while she eyed Bertie slowly, rolling her lips as her tongue ran across the inside, trying to discern his worth before finally turning her gaze back to me. "Fonda, dear, she wanted to stop by and say hello. She left now, I told her not to reward your tardiness. She's got lots to do, you know?"
"Oh," I whispered, blinking a few times, positive she hadn't told me anything about our dear friend, Jane Fonda, coming over to see me. "Well, I'll have to call her first thing tomorrow then. And apologize. And catch up." I shifted uncomfortably in my high heeled sandals, eyeing my bags. "May we come in?"
