Snowfall at Willow Lake: Lakeshore Chronicles Book 4 by Susan Wiggs Page A

dignitaries passed.
    I’m a dignitary, thought Sophie. What do you know, I’m a dignitary.
    When she was presented, she responded with a poise she’d been practicing for days, dipping slightly into a curtsy, addressing the queen as Uwe Majesteit. It was all very solemn and ritualized, no surprises. No one would ever know that deep down, her Inner Girl was exulting. She was meeting a queen, a real live queen.
    Queen Beatrix was a lawyer like Sophie. Maybe the two of them would have talked, compared shoe-shopping experiences, swapped gossip like girlfriends.
    She imagined the conversation. “Have you seen the new George Clooney movie? I like your earrings. Which museum did they come from? What’s it like having an airport named after you? And tell me about your family. How do you make it work?”
    Yes, that was the burning question. The thing Sophie wanted to ask other working women. Here they were watching the rebirth of a nation, and she was fixated on domestic troubles. All she wanted to know was how Beatrix managed to run a country and still keep her marriage intact, her family together.
    Some things, said a quiet inner voice, you sacrifice.
    The queen was a widow now, her children grown. Sophie wondered if she had regrets, if she wished she’d done something differently, spent more time with them, had more parent-teacher conferences, restricted their TV, read them more good-night stories.
    Color guards presented the flags of the UN and the court of the Netherlands and finally, with grave ceremony, the flag of Umoja, planting it like a tree behind the dais. The newly appointed ambassador, Mr. Bensouda, took his place at the microphone. Behind him stood six attendants, each holding a ceremonial medal of honor. By the end of the night, one of them would belong to Sophie.
    â€œMesdames et messieurs,” the ambassador said, “bienvenue, les visiteurs distingues….” He launched into the saga of his country.
    The medals were bestowed and praises sung. Her black dress perfectly showed off the token of thanks from a grateful people. Interesting notion for a line of clothing, she thought, her mind wandering. Garments for dignitaries, with hidden credential pockets and necklines fashioned to display medals to advantage. Then she realized what she was doing—trying to detach herself from this huge moment. She couldn’t help it. Something was missing from her life and she could not pretend otherwise. How could she have a triumph like this without her family to witness it? The thought brought about a flash of resentment toward Greg. This was a big day for him, as well, though she wished she could stop dwelling on that. Still, it wasn’t every day the man who had once been your husband married someone else.
    A podium and microphone transformed normal people into long-winded bombasts, and Sophie was trapped on stage with the crowd of dignitaries. Tonight, she’d foolishly, recklessly had two and a half glasses of champagne. As a result, she listened to speeches about the historic event in a state of supreme discomfort, with a bladder so full that her back teeth were floating.
    No one seemed to be in a hurry to leave the dais. She couldn’t wait another moment. She had to decide which was the bigger diplomatic faux pas—leaving the dais before she was dismissed, or wetting herself in front of the queen.
    Sophie made her move. She took a step back, slipping behind the line of people as she followed the black snakes of electrical cables that connected the lighting and sound. At the back of the dais, she stepped down and slipped out through a side door to an empty corridor.
    She rounded a corner and encountered a pair of men in dark clothing, their shoulders dampened by melting snow. They stiffened and whirled on her, and Sophie froze, holding her hands with the palms facing out. Security agents, she thought. They were suspicious of everything. “Sorry,” she