A Princess for Christmas

by Jenny Holiday

  Leo deflected Marie from talk of “institutions of higher learning” by pointing out a few landmarks along the way to her first appointment.

  “I wish I had time to do all the New York things,” she said with a hint of wistfulness. “Eat all the New York food.”

  When he pulled up in front of the watch shop, and the backseat passengers unbuckled their seat belts, the princess’s battle with the butler resumed. “I’m going in alone.”

  “But Your Royal Highness—”

  “If you come in with me, it looks like I need a babysitter.” Mr. Benz started to say something—Leo was pretty sure he was poised to argue that she did, in fact, need a babysitter—but she held up a hand. “Is that the message we want to send about me in my role as the business representative of the Morneau brand? And do I have to remind you that right now, that’s what I am?”

  “Why don’t you text me five minutes before you want us to pick you up?” Leo said, suddenly wanting to help her cause. He leaned over her lap to open her door for her. He would have gone around to help her out as a proper chauffeur should—he was probably scandalizing her butler—but he reasoned that would just give Tweedledum and Tweedledee time to get out, too. He made a little “hurry up” motion only Marie could see.

  The dimples came out, and she was out of the car before the butler could issue another objection.

  So was the bodyguard, though. Damn. But he could hear him assuring Marie that he was going to stand outside the store.

  Well. Leo had done his best. He hit the gas.

  “Where on earth are we going?” Mr. Benz asked.

  “We’re going to get the princess a bagel.”

  The morning started well enough, despite the fact that Marie hadn’t managed to elude Torkel and Mr. Benz. In retrospect, she’d won their early-morning argument regarding her chaperonage way too easily. She’d been naïve to think they would simply let her drive away with Leo.

  Still, once she had Mr. Benz settled down, she’d enjoyed talking with Leo. And she was on familiar ground today. Work was a lot more comfortable for her than parties. When she called on a store owner as a representative of the Morneau line, they had an automatic topic of conversation. There was a social aspect to these calls, of course, but their primary purpose was business. It was important, her father believed, for the family to make occasional appearances in the shops of their retailers. He used to do it himself. Before he became the sad king and stopped doing anything besides peevishly issuing orders.

  Marie was also happy to be alone in the shops. While it was true she’d never done these kinds of calls before—her father had still been doing his job last time there’d been a New York trip—she knew the Morneau line inside and out. Literally: she could pop one of those suckers open and talk crowns and mainsprings. Or if the retailer wanted to discuss marketing, or demand forecasting, she was well versed in those areas, too.

  Having Mr. Benz, or worse, Torkel, hovering called attention to the princess part of her role—the unearned part, in other words. She truly believed she was serving the mission better by presenting herself as a knowledgeable businesswoman who happened to be a princess and not vice versa.

  After their fraught first stop, they got into a routine, one that Mr. Benz begrudgingly accepted. She’d go in, Torkel would stand sentry outside, and Leo and Mr. Benz would drive off—to get her a treat! That was the astonishing part.

  It had been a cup of coffee and a bagel after the first one, and after the second one, a big biscuit Leo called a black-and-white cookie, which was apparently a signature New York treat. He, it seemed, had taken to heart her wish to “eat all the New York food.”

  In addition to doing good work, Marie was having fun. Leo was charming and easy to talk to. He had a kind of . . . not optimism—he was too grumpy for that—but a good-humored stoicism that was contagious. She was even letting herself forget the ugly confrontation with Philip Gregory from last night. Letting herself believe that perhaps there was a solution they hadn’t thought of yet. Or at least allowing herself to ignore the problem for a while.

  And driving between appointments, Leo had been a wonderful tour guide, pointing out iconic buildings but also dispensing interesting anecdotes about their history. With some extra time before her final appointment of the morning, he took her to nearby Madison Square Park. They strolled with Torkel and Mr. Benz following a good distance behind them. It was almost like being alone.

  “Is Madison Square Garden around here?” she asked as they passed a large Christmas tree set up in an empty fountain. “It’s one of those iconic American buildings you always hear about.”

  “It used to be, but the modern incarnation of Madison Square Garden—which, incidentally, is its fourth—is in Midtown. I can drive you by it if you like, but it’s not much to see.”

  “It’s funny how sometimes the most famous places aren’t.”

  “But if you’re into iconic New York City architecture, this is a good spot.” He pointed over her shoulder. “That’s the Flatiron Building.”

  “Oh, I know the Flatiron Building!” She turned.

  “Most people do, even if not by name.”

  “No, I mean I studied it. My degree specialization was in solid materials and mechanics, but I took a course in the history of civil engineering. Apparently wind load was a challenge for this building, because it’s so narrow.”

  “It was one of the early steel-frame skyscrapers,” Leo said. “Apparently there was a lot of interest from the public as it went up. It’s also kind of unique in that it’s limestone on the bottom and terra-cotta on the top.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  He shrugged and stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Architectural history is kind of a hobby of mine.” He pivoted ninety degrees. “Check out this one—the MetLife Tower. It was built in 1909. It was originally clad in marble but was refaced in limestone in the sixties.”

  “It would have been something to see them getting the marble up there in 1909.”

  “It would, wouldn’t it?” He spoke to her but he was still looking at the building. “Supposedly the architect was inspired by the bell tower on the Piazza San Marco.”

  She considered that. “I don’t see it. Yes, they’re both towers, but isn’t the St. Mark’s tower made of brick?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Have you been? You’re Italian, yes?”

  “I am—well, Italian-American. My grandparents on both sides were the first generation. So my parents spoke Italian, but Gabby and I just know slang and swear words, mostly. But, nope, I’ve never been to Italy.” He looked almost wistful as he gazed at the tower. Was he thinking about his parents? Or about the ancestral homeland he’d never been to? “The light from this tower is on all the time,” he went on. “The old MetLife advertising used to say it was ‘the light that never fails.’”

  What a delightful little fact. “Mr. Ricci, I’m not sure I believe you when you say that architectural history is a hobby of yours.” That dislodged his attention from the building. He shot her a bewildered look. She grinned. “I think the situation is better characterized by saying that you are complete architecture nerd.”

  He barked a startled laugh. “Guilty as charged. But what about you, Your Royal Watch Engineering Highness?”

  She smiled. The titles he made up for her were highly amusing.

  “Anyway, the reason I brought you here is that the MetLife Tower was one of the only buildings with a clock face on each side. It still is. Even watch nerds don’t see that every day.”

  What a treat—and more evidence of Leo’s thoughtfulness. “I imagine those clocks are digital now, but given the era of construction, I suspect they would originally have been powered by an electric motor that would have been mounted near the clockworks. There was a New York–based clock company, in fact, that was . . .” Leo was smirking at her as she was ramping up her self-winding clock lecture. She tried not to smile as she pretended to be offended. “I for
one think enthusiasm over topics one cares about is an attractive trait.”

  “I agree.”

  “You might call it nerdiness, but people with passion are much more interesting than those without it.” She was still teasing him, but she actually believed that.

  “Still not arguing.” He held up his hands and grinned. “And you’re the one who called me a nerd, remember?” He bumped his shoulder against hers, and she ignored the little noise of disapproval Mr. Benz made from behind them. “I think maybe it takes one to know one.”

  She gave up her mock outrage and smiled at him. When was the last time she’d teased someone and been teased in return? Certainly not since before Maman died. It was rather wonderful.

  And so it was on a cloud of satisfaction that she strode into her last appointment of the day—at Marx on Madison.

  And experienced the karmic correction to all that good cheer.

  She could tell right away it wasn’t going to go well. She introduced herself to a clerk who disappeared into the back. When the woman returned, she announced that Bernard Marx, the owner, would be a few minutes. That itself was a red flag. Although Marie had said earlier that she preferred to be seen in this context as a businesswoman and not a princess, people usually deferred to the princess part. She was typically ushered immediately into a private office and, well, fawned over, to be honest.

  Here, she was left to drift around looking at watches under glass—for quite a bit longer than “a few minutes.” She found the Morneau section. It was . . . small. She’d thought this store stocked four models, but she saw only two. Hmm.

  “Your Royal Highness.” Mr. Marx finally emerged from the back, his face unreadable.

  She extended her hand for him to shake. “Please call me Marie.” She had no idea how her father handled this bit of protocol, and Mr. Benz would be having a heart attack if he could see her, but the Americans, despite their obsession with fame, had thrown off the monarchy, and she wanted this man to see her as a colleague.

  “I’m afraid something has come up, so I only have a few minutes to speak with you.”

  “That’s quite all right. I’m here primarily to see if you have any questions, to discover if everything about the Morneau product line is proving satisfactory.”

  “I have seventy percent of my stock available online. I’d like it to be one hundred.”

  She blinked. He was going to get right into it, was he? Many of the luxury brands didn’t allow third-party retailers to sell their products online, Morneau included. It was impossible to guarantee the authenticity of the product unless they were sold through licensed dealers. There were probably ways around that—like selling direct-to-consumer themselves, but her father wouldn’t budge on the matter.

  “Rolex will never allow it,” she deflected.

  Marx shrugged. “I never thought Rolex would make a smart watch, either. We’re trying to make some room for luxury smart watches, so we’re trimming our traditional inventory.”

  She sighed. She couldn’t give him the things he wanted. Only the sad king could make those kinds of promises, and he never would.

  Marie tried to smooth things over, to be diplomatic, but soon the uncomfortable appointment was cut short when Marx announced they would only be ordering two models, not the usual four, next year.

  She had been foolish to think she could shrug off the Philip Gregory debacle. Gregory had been a major blow, but this was part of the same trend—a real trend, not a blip. And one her father, with his blind insistence on tradition, refused to acknowledge.

  Which would make it her fault. She hadn’t tried hard enough. She hadn’t made them see reason.

  She emerged from the store blinking back tears. It was a beautiful day, cold and sunny. She forced herself to take a deep breath of the chilled air and tilted her head back. A little bit of blue sky was visible between the buildings. The same sky as at home, even if you could only see a thin slice of it here.

  Torkel was by her side in an instant. “Is everything all right, Your Royal Highness?”

  She didn’t want him. She wanted—

  “What’s wrong?”

  Leo. Who was here. “You were supposed to text me,” he said as he jogged up. He looked annoyed. “You were supposed to give me a five-minute warning so I could drive around.”

  Yes. They had agreed on that protocol because he couldn’t always find a place to park nearby.

  When she didn’t answer right away—she was too busy forcing back those tears that were threatening—he jogged around to stand in front of her. She tried to look away, but he kept moving, tracking her gaze with his body, and eventually crouching down so he could get right in her face. In the bright sunlight, his eyes were the color of American pennies. “Hey,” he said quietly, low enough so that Torkel and Mr. Benz, who was hurrying down the sidewalk toward them, couldn’t hear. “What’s wrong?”

  She cleared her throat. “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Marie sucked in a startled breath. No one spoke to her like that. She laughed a little. Because how absurd was it that no one ever said anything negative in front of her? But then, to her mortification, a rogue tear escaped, and then another, because she was going to have to tell Mr. Benz, and ultimately her father, that not only had she not gotten the Gregory account back, but Bernard Marx was planning to halve his order.

  And those things were probably just the beginning.

  What was she going to do? It was one thing to be facing these problems, quite another to be facing them alone.

  And she was alone, in this, and in . . . everything. Her father was happy to issue directives, but since her mother had died, he’d simply stopped working. He spent most of every day in his library, but Marie had no idea what he did there. He talked a lot at meetings of his advisory council, but he didn’t actually do anything. She had been trying to pick up the slack, since she’d come home from university, but she constantly felt as though success was slipping through her fingers.

  “You know what? I suck at this emotional shit,” Leo said, arresting her rising panic. He pulled her away from Torkel and Mr. Benz, waving them off when they tried to follow. He steered her under the awning of a restaurant next to Marx’s and lowered his voice to a whisper. “But I do know there’s a fantastic deli not too far from here that serves pastrami on rye.”

  She smiled and swiped at those mortifying tears. She begged to differ on his claim that he wasn’t good at “this emotional shit.” He seemed very good at it, in fact, judging by how he had read her face, and by the way he’d treated his sister yesterday. But she didn’t want to embarrass him. And . . . “I’m still dying to try pastrami on rye.”

  “Any chance you can get rid of these guys?” Leo jerked his thumb at Torkel and Mr. Benz. “Frankly, they’re making me nervous. Have you ever tried to buy cookies at Dean & DeLuca with a butler?”

  She stifled a laugh, even though she didn’t know what Dean & DeLuca was. “He would hate to be called a butler. He’s my father’s equerry.”

  “I have no idea what that means.”

  She pondered his question: Could she get rid of her handlers? Technically, of course she could. She’d done it last night by channeling her mother. It was just that last night, she hadn’t really thought about it. In her panic to get to the boat, she’d just done it.

  This morning, she was back to her usual self: the girl who tried to do her duty in all things. And perhaps also the girl who didn’t want to anger her father. Mr. Benz would obey her, when it came down to it, but he was loyal to her father above all. Everything she did here was being reported back to him, of that she had no doubt.

  But how much worse could Mr. Benz’s report get? She’d already failed with Philip Gregory, hired a stranger to drive her around, and failed to talk Marx out of reducing his order. By comparison, a little lunch seemed like nothing.

  And she really wanted to have pastrami on rye with Leo Ricci. So she lifted her chin and answered his earlier que
stion. “Yes. I will dismiss my associates.”

  He grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

  What followed was an entirely predictable argument she could have had in her sleep.

  “It’s merely lunch,” she said when they—even the usually silent Torkel didn’t like the idea of her going off without them—began to object. “It’s no different from walking down the hill to eat at Angela’s.” Which was something she hadn’t done in ages, come to think of it.

  “Begging your pardon, Your Royal Highness, but it’s not like that at all,” Mr. Benz said. “You can’t expect the freedom you have at home to be available to you here.”

  “But no one knows me here,” she countered. “Most people here have never even heard of Eldovia.”

  “It’s not ‘most people’ I’m worried about,” Mr. Benz said, and he and Torkel swung their attention to Leo, who was watching the face-off from a few feet away.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. If Mr. Ricci wanted to kidnap me or murder me and throw my body in the river, don’t you think he would have done so in the middle of the night last night?” She turned to Leo and called to him, “Are you planning to kidnap me or murder me and throw my body in the river?”

  He smirked. “Well, now that you mention it, I could do with some ransom money.”

  That set Mr. Benz off again.

  All right. Enough. She shouldn’t have allowed herself to get drawn into arguing, as if she were a teenager begging for a curfew extension. She raised a hand to halt Mr. Benz’s monologue and notched her chin a little higher. “Gentlemen. Given that my schedule is clear for the rest of the day, I will be having lunch with Mr. Ricci. He will escort me back to the hotel, and I will see you there later. Good afternoon.”

  She turned and hitched her head slightly to Leo to signal that they should start walking. He was trying—though not very hard—to suppress a grin.

  He waited until they were a little ways down the block to say, “I didn’t want to mess up your dramatic exit, but the car is actually in the other direction.”