Princess Izzy and the E Street Shuffle by Beverly Bartlett

bejeweled belt, a series of miniature bows down the back, some fine needlework
     on the bodice. “Her fashion staff reports that she calls this ‘detailing,’” he said. “But photographers call it dazzling.”
    And speaking of photographers, he noted that she never frowned at them even when (he admitted!) they were quite beastly. On
     St. Teresa of Calcutta Day, Isabella gave blood.
    He could not fault her for not being generous. She was generous with her time, her money, and her smiles. He could not fault
     her for not being glamorous. She was glamorous. And while it was undoubtedly true that she spent more on her clothes than
     the average woman in the kingdom, she routinely wore the same clothes several times over—just in stunning new combinations.
     Consider, he said, the sleeveless cloud-colored shift dress she wore to a children’s ward on Valentine’s Day. Posed with the
     nurses in modern blue scrubs that day, Isabella in her white dress looked like a sweet, old-fashioned angel of mercy. Florence
     Nightingale herself could not have been easier on the eyes.
    Then, a couple of months later, when Rafie was speaking to war veterans on the National Day of Remembering, she wore the same
     dress, this time set off by a tailored jacket with subtle military styling and just enough crimson trim to bring to mind the
     nation’s naval uniform.
    No matter what Isabella’s clothing allowance actually was, Ethelbald said, the princess had proved herself a fine example
     to frugal women everywhere who wanted to find sensible but stylish and fresh ways to liven up an old dress. Besides, he noted,
     the average woman would spend more, too, if she were photographed so often. And if she looked so beautiful in everything she
     wore.
    In a final flourish, Ethelbald, with no apparent shame, praised Isabella’s good humor and self-deferential quality, applauding
     her decision to give to an eBay charity auction the goblet she had carried to the Russian baby shower.
    “I thought I’d spend the rest of my career writing about Dizzy Izzy,” he famously concluded. “But the joke is on me, because
     now ‘I’m Dizzy for Izzy.’”

Chapter 6
    N o one else knows this. But Isabella told me once. She got a faraway look in her eyes, and her voice took on a distant, dreamy—some
     would even say goofy—quality.
    She told me that, on the night before she was to leave Yale and return home, the buzzer in her room went off. When she heard
     his voice on the intercom, she realized that she had, in some way, been waiting for that buzz for three years. She didn’t
     know why he had waited so long.
    They talked for hours, under the stars. She invited him up, but he declined. So they stood there, leaning against his truck,
     listening to music that drifted down from a fourth-floor dorm room. It seemed to Isabella that the sky was higher that night
     than it had ever been. She looked up once and felt faint. It seemed, also, like all her thoughts and feelings and insights
     had never been so fresh and original and profound.
    That is what she said. And since she is not generally inclined to speak about events in such a silly, gushing (dare I say?),
     romantic way, I can only suppose that is truly the way she felt.
    She said she had always admired Geoffrey’s muscles and laughed at his jokes and appreciated his kindness, but she had never,
     until that night, noticed—not consciously, at least—that he was this tiny thing. In the garage, he seemed to loom large as
     he moved about, the master of his environment. But here, she could see that there was, all around him, this huge world: big
     stone buildings, ancient tall trees. Geoffrey did not seem in control here. He was small and vulnerable. In that moment, he
     seemed not like someone who kept her car safe and thus her life secure, but like someone who was small and alone and who might
     need a hug.
    So she hugged him. They hugged for a long time.
    Then they kissed.
    It was not, quite