to the extra cookie in her hands. “I wish Mommy could have a cookie, too.”
Her soft words broke Daniel’s heart. The loss of her mother had hit Annabelle hard, and every so often, that pain slipped into the simplest of moments. He searched for the right words to say, and once again, came up empty. How could he begin to fill that yawning hole in Annabelle’s heart when he was still trying to figure this out himself?
“I don’t want my cookie anymore.” The little girl’s blue eyes filled with tears. The dessert tumbled from her hand onto the table.
“I have an idea,” Greta said, bending down to her granddaughter’s level. “Why don’t we put this cookie next to your mommy’s picture? Then when she looks down on us from heaven, she can see that you made her one, too.”
“Will that make her happy?”
“I think so, sweetie.” She took Annabelle’s hand and they crossed to the long shelf that ran along the back wall of the kitchen. In the center, Annabelle’s favorite picture of her mother sat, smiling down at them. Greta had placed it there the first day he and Annabelle had arrived, telling Belle it was so her mommy could watch over her every day. That time, and this one, his mother had stepped in with just the right touch, the one Daniel was still struggling to find.
Greta hoisted Belle into her arms, then let her put the cookie down just so. Then she hugged her tight, and when Belle’s little arms wrapped around Greta’s neck, Daniel’s resolve to get close to his daughter again doubled. Somehow, he would find a way back for them.
Her mission accomplished, Annabelle ran off to play with her toys in the living room, leaving Daniel alone with his mother. Once she was sure Annabelle was out of earshot, Greta gestured toward the kitchen table. Daniel took a seat while his mother checked something simmering on the stove. “How’s your first week at the new job going?”
“Well, it’s a trial run. They want to see what I can bring in for stories, and if they like what they see, I’ll get a permanent position on the show. I hate this limbo. I just want to settle down again and know that tomorrow will be just like today. Not just for me, but for Belle, too.”
“You will,” Greta said. “You’re a great reporter. Just like your father.”
There were days—more of them in the past year—when that comparison grated. His father had been a legendary reporter, with a Pulitzer Prize to prove it. Before that, Daniel’s grandfather had been a reporter, and probably in some distant caveman days, there was a Reynolds who had etched information onto a cave wall. “I was a great reporter, Mom. Then my life fell apart and I went from great to awful.” He thought of the awards that had once hung proudly over his desk, then began to collect dust, then finally seemed to mock him and he’d put them in the bottom of a drawer.
“Nobody can blame you. You went through a terrible year—”
“Ratings don’t care about personal problems, Mom. And once your ratings tank, so does your career.” How many times had his father drummed that into his head? It’s all about ratings, son. Do what it takes to stay at the top.
His mother bit her lower lip, as if she was holding back what she truly wanted to say. “So, tell me, what stories are you working on now?”
“I’ve got a couple who’ve been married sixty-three years and still go dancing together every Friday night, a dog who took care of a litter of kittens when the mother cat died.” He ticked off the subjects on his fingers.
“Oh. Well, those are interesting.” But everything in her voice said otherwise.
“And—” he grinned, saving his best prospect for last “—a real-life princess. Or at least, that’s what she’s claiming she is.”
“A princess? Wait, you don’t mean that one in Boston, do you? I don’t remember her name, but I remember seeing her on the national news.”
“Not her. Her sister. She’s working at a wine shop downtown. She claims to be the youngest sister of the Uccelli princesses.”
“And you think she’s lying?”
“Well, it seems convenient that she’s saying that when the other princess is halfway across the country. Not to mention this Carrie woman is working in some little shop in a tiny town in the Midwest. During tourist season.” He thought of the woman he’d met today, how un-royal she seemed. Her long, dark hair, pulled back into a ponytail, the simple T-shirt, the near-perfect English. The way she’d laughed, so unreserved, so free. And she could talk wine well—as if she’d worked in a vineyard or a wine shop for years. Definitely not a job he’d ever heard a princess holding. Dignitary, lawyer, humanitarian, yes. Grape picker? No.
“Maybe she likes a quiet life. You don’t get much quieter than this town.” His mother laughed.
Carrie had been beautiful, in an understated, natural way. The kind of woman who looked even prettier without makeup than with. She’d intrigued him, but he wasn’t sure if that was just professional curiosity or something more.
Either way, he had enough on his plate without adding something more.
“Uccelli … Uccelli.” Greta thought a second. “You know, there was a rumor around here years ago. Must be more than twenty years now. There was a woman—I don’t remember her name now—who came here and stayed in one of the lake cottages for the summer. After she left, someone saw her on TV and said she looked just like the queen of Uccelli. For a while, that was all the gossip buzz around here. That the queen had taken a secret vacation in Winter Haven.” Greta shrugged. “Could be a fairy tale. You know how people like to think they can see Mickey Mouse in their morning toast.”
Daniel chuckled. “I do.”
“If the queen story is true, then maybe her daughter is just following in her footsteps.”
“Maybe. I don’t know much about princesses,” he said, “but she seemed as far removed from being one as you could get.”
“Well, maybe it is a marketing gimmick. Or maybe—” his mother laid a hand on his shoulder “—you’re too jaded to see the truth.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Daniel said. Maybe yes, he was jaded. But it was easier to be that way than to let every emotion he saw into his heart. Much easier to be steel than putty. “Either way, I’m going to ferret out the truth. I have a feeling this story is the one that can launch my career at Inside Scoop, and one way or another, I’m running with it.”
Carrie rubbed her neck, then stretched her back and shoulders. The shop had been impossibly busy today, and every muscle in her body ached. But it was a good ache, the kind that came from a job well done. She could hardly wait to see the week’s end numbers. It all boded well for the future of Uccelli’s wines in America. And that, in turn, boded well for her future as a vineyard owner.
She flipped the sign to Closed and breathed a sigh of relief that the TV reporter from the other day hadn’t been back. She didn’t need that distraction interfering with her plans. She had a limited window of time and a lot to learn and accomplish during that period. She wanted to get more involved on the retail end, taking the time to study the bookkeeping, the ordering process, the sales trends. The last thing she needed was a member of the paparazzi looking for a scandal to exploit.
“I think we’re going to need to hire more
