The Princess Test

by Shirley Jump

  And, to be perfectly honest, she’d wanted to know what the appeal had been for her mother. Whenever Mama talked about Winter Haven, her features softened, and she got this dreamy look. Carrie had to wonder what had made this place so unforgettable.

  The morning passed quickly, with several customers coming into the little shop. Every bottle of Uccelli wine that left By the Glass gave Carrie a little thrill. It was like handing over a part of her heritage, herself, and she was delighted to share the beautiful bounty of her country with others. She belonged in this field, she just knew it.

  By eleven, business had slowed. “You certainly have the magic touch,” Faith said. “I don’t think we’ve ever sold that much wine in the first two hours of being open.”

  “People must be in a wine buying mood.”

  “Or they’re so dazzled by meeting a real-life princess that they buy every bottle they can.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Carrie had mentioned her royal heritage when people asked her about her accent, which wasn’t all that pronounced, given the years she’d spent in British boarding schools—one of many attempts by her parents to curb their wild child. And even then, she’d released the information reluctantly, and only when pressed.

  “I’m telling you, we should capitalize on the princess angle. Put up a sign and everything.”

  “Put up a sign?”

  “Something small. No billboards or anything. This is a tourist town, and a little brush with a royal, that’s the kind of thing tourists love.”

  She hesitated. “I don’t know.”

  “Might as well flaunt it if you got it, sister.” Faith grinned.

  Advertise her royal heritage? Use it as a marketing tool? The idea grated. Her princess status had always been a chokehold on her freedom. “I just think it’d be better not to advertise that whole thing.”

  “It could sell a whole lot of wine,” Faith said. “And isn’t that your goal? To make this store a success?”

  Confronted with that truth, Carrie really didn’t have grounds to refuse. And wouldn’t it be ironic if the thing she hated most about her life became the thing that helped her get what she wanted? Plus, if she handled it right, she could show her parents that Carlita Santaro was the perfect representative for the kingdom’s wines.

  Carrie glanced down at her faded jeans and the store logo T-shirt she was wearing. “I know one thing for sure.”

  “What’s that?” Faith asked.

  “I won’t be the princess they’re expecting.”

  Faith smiled. “And that’s part of your charm.”

  Carrie reached over and plucked the chalkboard advertising today’s specials out of the window. “So…where’s the chalk?”

  The sign worked wonders. As word spread about Carrie’s presence in the shop, business began to triple, then quadruple. Carrie’s naturally outgoing personality was a perfect fit for the curious tourists. Faith was over-the-moon ecstatic about the uptick in business, and started talking about bringing in some temps to help with the additional influx of customers. Every day, Carrie went home to her rented cottage by the lake, feeling satisfied and proud of the job she was doing.

  Maybe now, after seeing how she had helped spur sales of Uccelli’s prizewinning wines in America, her father would see that she was made for this business. That her heart was there, not in the palace or in some stuffy office.

  “Hey, do you mind if I run out for lunch today?” Faith asked when business had ebbed a bit mid-Thursday morning. “I know we’ve been crazy busy, and I hate even asking, but my mom and sister are in town today and they want my input on planning my youngest sister’s baby shower.”

  “Go right ahead,” Carrie said. “I’ve got this under control.” She cast a glance at the cash register that had been the bane of her existence ever since she’d started working here. She’d been able to do everything in the shop, except get the recalcitrant machine to do what she wanted. It seemed no matter which button she pushed, it was the wrong choice. “More or less.”

  Faith laughed. “Well, if it gets too crazy, just write down the sales and we’ll run them through later. And remember, this button here—” she pushed a big green one “—will open the cash drawer.”

  Carrie nodded. “Okay. Got it.”

  After Faith left, Carrie got to work dusting the shelves and giving the display bottles an extra bit of polish while a few customers milled about the shop. On the center shelf, she picked up the signature wine from Uccelli—a graceful pinot grigio with notes of citrus and almond. Carrie knew it had a crisp, dry taste, one that seemed to dance on your tongue. Of all the wines manufactured on the castle grounds, this one was her favorite.

  A sense of ownership and pride filled Carrie. She had tended these vines. She had picked these grapes. She had worked the machinery that took the grapes from fruit to liquid. For years, she’d been the rebel—the girl skidding in late to dinner, the one who’d ducked ribbon cuttings, the one who’d done whatever she could to avoid her identity and its expectations.

  Funny how all that bucking tradition could result in something so sweet, so beautiful.

  The label was decorated with an artist’s rendering of the castle, its elaborate stone facade a dramatic contrast to the rustic landscape and the rocky shoreline. She traced the outline of the castle, ran her finger along the images of the four turrets, the bright purple-and-gold pennants.

  The bell over the door tinkled. Carrie put the bottle back, then turned toward the door. A tall man stood just inside the entrance, his athletic frame nearly filling the doorway. The slight wave in his short dark hair accented the strong angles of his jaw. Sunglasses hid the rest of his features, yet gave him an edge of mystery. He had on jeans and a lightly rumpled button-down shirt, which made him look sexy and messy all at once.

  Oh, my. Something in Carrie’s chest tightened and she had to force herself to focus on her job, not on him. “Welcome to By the Glass,” she said. “What can I help you find?”

  He pointed toward the chalked sign in the window. “I’m looking for the princess.”

  Carrie smiled. She put out her arms and figured if this guy was disappointed to find out she wasn’t a diamond-clad diva, that wasn’t her problem. “That would be me.”

  He arched a brow. “You?”

  “Yes.” She put out a hand. She’d gotten used to introducing herself as a princess in the past few days, but this time, she hesitated for a second before speaking the words. Because she wondered what this handsome man’s reaction would be? “I’m Carlita Santaro, third daughter of the king and queen of Uccelli. Which is where the grapes are harvested and the wines are bottled.”

  He removed the sunglasses, revealing eyes so blue, they reminded her of the ocean edging her home country. When he shook her hand with a strong, firm grip, Carrie thought about what Faith had said about having a fling. This guy was everything a woman looking for a little adventure could want. Tall, dark, handsome and with a deep voice that seemed to tingle inside her. And best of all, no wedding ring on his left hand.

  “I’m sorry, but I was expecting someone more…formal.”

  She glanced down at the dark wash jeans and T-shirt she was wearing, her bright pink shirt sporting a logo for the store, and laughed. “Princesses don’t go around in long dresses and tiaras every day, you know.”

  “True.” He released her hand, then fished in his breast pocket for a business card and handed it to her. “Daniel Reynolds. I work as a producer/reporter for Inside Scoop. I’d like to do a story on you and the shop.”

  “A…” She stared at the card, then at the man. “A story? For the news?”

  “Well, the show I produce isn’t news. Exactly.” He let out a little cough. “We like to call it ‘infotainment.’”

  She shook her head. And here she’d actually been thinking of asking this man out. Clearly, her jerk radar was down, because this was just another vulture. “Paparazzi. Why am I not surprised?” She turned away from him, ignoring the
business card. “Thanks, but no thanks.” She crossed to a short, older woman who had entered the shop while they were talking, and started telling her about the shop’s special on whites.

  “I’m not a member of the paparazzi,” he said, coming up behind her.

  “This Riesling is one of our top sellers,” Carrie said to the woman, ignoring him. He could spin it however he wanted, but she’d seen his type before. All they wanted was the scoop, another headline to blast across the airwaves. “If you like a sweeter wine, it’s a great choice.”

  The woman tapped her lip, thinking. “I don’t know. My tastes run in the middle, between dry and sweet.”

  “Then let me suggest—”

  “This is the kind of story that could really put your shop on the map.”

  “—this pinot grigio. A little drier than the Riesling but not as dry as the chardonnay you were considering.” She reached for the bottle, but before she could make contact, Daniel had inserted his business card into her hand. She wheeled around to face him. “I’m trying to do my job here.”

  “And I’m trying to do mine.” He pressed the card against her palm. “Please at least consider my offer.”

  “I don’t think so.” She took the card, tore it in half and let the pieces flutter to the floor. “I have no interest in anything you have to say to me. Not now, not ever. Go find someone else to torment.” Then she turned back to her customer, exhaling only when she heard the shop’s door close again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A PINK blur came hurtling across the room and straight into Daniel’s arms. “Daddy!”

  He laughed and picked up his daughter, cradling her to his chest. Deep, fierce love bloomed inside him and he tightened his embrace, inhaling the strawberry scent of Annabelle’s shampoo. There were days when he couldn’t believe this four-year-old miracle was actually his.

  A sharp pain ran through him as he thought of Sarah, and all she was missing. In the year since Sarah had died, it seemed like Annabelle had grown and changed in a hundred different ways. And his wife, the woman who had taken to motherhood as if she’d been made only for that single purpose, hadn’t been here to see a single moment. Damn. Tears stung his eyes, but he blinked them back before Annabelle saw.

  “Glad you’re here. That girl about wore me out. She’s a ball of energy. A cute ball.” Greta Reynolds, Daniel’s mother, reached out a hand and ruffled Annabelle’s hair. “We played hide-and-seek, built an entire city with Barbie dolls, baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies and wore the colors off the Candy Land board.”

  Daniel hoisted Annabelle up a little higher. “Is that so?”

  Annabelle nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  “Sounds like a fun day.”

  “It was. Now I have to get some dinner in the oven.” Greta gave Daniel’s shoulder a pat, then crossed to the kitchen counter where some chicken and a selection of vegetables waited to be assembled into something edible.

  “Here, Daddy,” Annabelle said, grabbing her father’s hand and dragging him toward the kitchen table. “Come to my tea party.”

  He bit back a groan. Another tea party. A plastic tea set had been set up on the round maple surface, and two of the four chairs were occupied by Boo-Boo, her stuffed bear and a large pink rabbit whose name Daniel couldn’t remember. Before he could say no, Annabelle had tugged him into a chair and climbed into the opposite one. He reached for a plastic cup, but Annabelle stopped him. “No, Daddy. You have to wear this.” She flung a fluffy bright pink scarf at him.

  He gave it a dubious look. “I have to wear this?”

  Annabelle thrust out her lower lip. “Daddy, it’s a tea party.” As if that explained everything.

  He’d done business lunches in five-star restaurants. Interviewed visiting dignitaries. Attended fancy black-tie dinners. One would think he could sit through a tea party with his daughter without wanting to run for the hills. But every time it came to pretending, or being silly, Daniel’s sensible, logical side prevailed, and he became this stiff robot. He pushed the pink scarf to the side. “Uh, why don’t you just pour the tea, Belle?”

  She feigned pouring liquid into the tiny cup. “Here, Daddy.”

  He picked his up and tipped it to the side. “There’s no tea in it.”

  “Daddy, you’re s’posed to pretend.” Annabelle let out another frustrated sigh. She picked up her cup, extended her pinkie and sipped at the invisible tea. “See?”

  Annabelle’s disappointment in him as a tea party attendee was clear in her tone and her face. He’d let his daughter down, the one thing he didn’t want to do. But he felt out of his depth, as lost as a man in the desert without a compass, and every time he tried to correct his course, he seemed to make it worse. Hadn’t that been a constant refrain from Sarah? He was never there, never around to bond, and now his absences were biting him back. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m just not very good at tea parties.”

  “No, you’re not,” Annabelle mumbled, and turned to her bear, tipping the cup toward his sewn-on mouth.

  It had been easier interviewing the president of the United States than sitting here, pretending to drink tea. When it became clear that Annabelle wasn’t going to invite him back to the party, Daniel got to his feet. A sense of defeat filled him. “Uh, I think Grandma needs me.”

  Daniel crossed to the counter, picked up a loaf of bread and began slicing it. A second later, he felt his mother’s hand on his shoulder.

  Greta turned toward Annabelle. “Honey, I think you forgot to invite Whitney to the tea party. You should go get her. I bet she’s feeling lonely in your room.”

  “Oh, Whitney! You’re right, Grandma!” Annabelle scrambled to her feet and dashed off down the hall.

  Daniel chided himself. He hadn’t even noticed Annabelle’s favorite stuffed animal wasn’t in attendance. He was missing the details once again. For a man whose job had depended on details, he couldn’t believe he could be so bad at it in his personal life.

  “It’ll get easier,” Greta said, as if she’d read his mind.

  He sighed. “I hope so.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” He glanced at his mother, who looked about ready to collapse with exhaustion. But he saw the indulgent smiles she gave her only grandchild and knew Greta enjoyed every minute with energetic Annabelle. “For everything.”

  “Anytime.”

  He put the bread knife in the sink, then stood back while his mother bustled between stove and counter, assembling some kind of casserole. “How’s she doing?”

  “Okay.” Greta paused in her mixing. “I don’t think she quite understands that you’ve moved. To her, this has just been one long visit with Grandma.”

  “Eventually, I’m sure she’ll settle in. It’s been hard on her.” Daniel thought of all the changes his daughter had been through in the past year. He hoped this was the last one. He needed to give her some stability, a proper house, a yard, heck, a puppy. Every child deserved that, and thus far, he hadn’t done a very good job of delivering on any of the above. But here, in Winter Haven, he hoped he would find all of that. And he hoped he could make his career work here as well as he had in New York. Or at least work, period.

  That was the only option possible. If he didn’t, he’d have to take a job like the one he’d left—and that meant travel and long hours, two things a single father didn’t need. His daughter needed him here as much as possible. If he’d learned anything at all in the past year, it was that.

  His mother, sensing his thoughts, laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’re doing fine, Daniel. She’ll be okay.”

  He sighed, watching Annabelle bound across the kitchen, her pink dress swirling around her like a cloud. She looked so innocent, so carefree. So happy. Something he hadn’t seen in a long time. Being here, with her indulgent grandmother, had been good for her. But still, he knew, there was a long road ahead of them. Whenever it was just him and Belle, things got tough again as both of them tried to dance around a subject neither wanted to tackle. And as he learned how
to become a single dad to a girly daughter he barely understood. “I hope so.”

  “I know so.” Greta patted his shoulder again. “I’ve raised a couple kids. So I get to claim expert status.”

  He reached up and squeezed his mother’s hand. Greta had been a huge support over the past year. Flying up to New York and staying in those first difficult weeks while Daniel scrambled to bury his wife, figure out his life and figure out how he was going to raise Annabelle and keep his job. At first, he’d thought he could make it all work, but then the long hours and frequent trips his job as a newscaster demanded started to take their toll, and he realized it was time to make a change. The words Sarah had thrown at him, over and over again as their marriage disintegrated in the months before her death, finally took root.

  He might not have been able to make his marriage work, but he would make this fatherhood thing work. That meant taking a position with nine-to-five hours, one that didn’t leave Annabelle in day care from sunup to sundown, or leave her with the nanny while he jetted off to another country for an interview.

  Which was what had brought him to the last thing he wanted to do—produce “infotainment” shows that had about as much worth as frosting. His father was probably rolling over in his grave knowing Daniel was working for that show. Still, it was for his daughter. He kept that in mind with every step he took. With Greta’s guiding hand, he hoped the transition would be easy on Annabelle. And him.

  Beyond that—marrying again, having a life of his own—he couldn’t think. Later, he told himself. Later.