The Christmas Princess (26 page)

“Besides,” Beatrice Craig added, “I have now met the young man, and I approve of him.”

“You— You’ve met him? How? Where?”

“He came to call on me, of course.”

“Came to—? He was at your house? I don’t … Please, Grandma Beatrice, just tell me what happened.”

Leslie listened closely, trying to sort through the coloring that her grandmother’s strong personality cast over most facts. It sounded as if Hunter Pierce had been conducting a background interview.

But, why? If the King of Bariavak truly thought April might be his granddaughter wouldn’t he have his own people conducting such interviews? For heaven’s sake, wouldn’t he have DNA tests done?

And the points about April’s difficult upbringing… Didn’t they sound like someone looking at how she’d become the adult she was now, rather than if she could possibly have been a princess at birth?

“Now, this has taken quite enough of my day,” her grandmother started.

“Grandma Beatrice, tell me one more thing. This man. This Hunter Pierce, is he…”

“What?”

“Do you think he’s one of April’s lame ducks?”

Beatrice Craig was still chuckling when they ended the call.

Hunter rubbed his forehead.

He’d hoped to return to D.C. to deal with the next interviews.

The office relayed a message from Sharon that, instead, his next stop was going to be Chicago.

But not until tomorrow, because the East Coast was socked in by weather.

This got better and better.

“Leslie.”

“
April
. It’s wonderful to hear from you, but we’re actually on the airplane, about to take off for Chicago.”

“Sorry. I won’t keep you—”

“Damn. I so want to talk to you.”

April heard Leslie’s son Jake crow in the background, “Mom said a bad word,” his sister Sandy say, “You are so obnoxious,” and Grady trying to restore order.

“I can’t really talk, Leslie. Not for a while yet.”

“For a while yet?”

“I’m sorry. I’ve promised… But I did want to tell you — and I can, because it’s part of my personal life, not– Reese and I aren’t engaged any more. We’re not anything anymore. I gave back the ring, moved out. It’s over.”

Again, Leslie repeated part of what she’d said, “Moved out?”

“Yes, but I’m fine. Truly. I’m with some, uh, friends. You can reach me on my cell. And I’ll try to be better about calling.”

“April—”

The flight attendant’s robotic announcement overrode whatever Leslie had been about to say.

“I’ve got to go now, Leslie. Give Sandy and Jake and Grady hugs from me. Give my love to everyone. I promise, we’ll talk after the holidays.”

The days seemed quieter with Hunter gone. Less full. Less fun.

Which was nonsense, of course, considering what a Grinch he was about the holidays.

Derek was much more likely to tap his foot along when carolers came to the door. And he hadn’t objected at all to another shopping trip. He’d even joined her in a wrapping session. And when Sharon spelled him, as she was doing this afternoon, it should be even more festive.

Except festive wasn’t exactly the mood at the moment.

Sharon had brought her two younger children to join them in baking cookies in the embassy kitchen.

Madame watched their every move from a stool she’d set against the far wall, having a dampening effect on the mood of all the bakers, except for three-year-old Ben, who was enchanted by Rufus. It was a good thing he ignored the cookies as well as Madame, because his hands were soon coated with dog hair.

Five-year-old Kyana kept shooting wary looks toward Madame.

To distract her, April quickly mixed dough for another cookie while Sharon finished up a batch of chocolate chip cookies.

“Now, you’re going to do the most important part, Kyana,” April said, placing a cookie sheet in front of her, along with a spoon and the bowl of batter. “You’re going to make these into the shape of an acorn. You press it gently to the cookie sheet, then pinch here so it will look like the top of an acorn. There, now you try. Yes — exactly like that.”

The girl had completed the first row when Madame came and looked over her work. Kyana looked up at her with wide eyes.

Madame said in her usual stern tone, “Very good, Kyana. The last one is particularly good.”

Then she moved to where April had made the dough, picking up the recipe card.

“My grandmother made a very similar cookie,” she said. “Though, when they are cooled, she dipped them in caramel rather than chocolate before the coating of nuts.”

“I like chocolate,” Ben announced.

“I like caramel,” Kyana said immediately.

“Chocolate!”

“Maybe we can try some in each when we’re ready to dip,” April said.

“Caramel!”

“Or neither,” Sharon said. The dispute ended.

“That is not your handwriting,” Madame said to April.

“No. That’s my grandmother’s handwriting. My father’s mother. Mom had the recipe from her. It’s one of the few things I have from that side of my family, because my father’s parents died before I was born. I had copies made several years ago so we could put the original away for safekeeping. The story is my grandmother had the recipe from her mother.”

“Indeed.”

“I never knew my grandmother. Do you remember yours?”

“Very clearly.” Her voice softened.

“I used to make cookies with my grandmother at Christmastime,” Sharon said softly. “I remember the smells, and the warmth …”

There was a pause. April held her breath, waiting to see if Madame would pick up the fragile thread.

She said, “The fineness of the flour through my fingers. And her hand over mine, guiding it, shaping these cookies.”

“Like this?” Kyana asked. “Is this a good one?”

Madame stepped over to the little girl, considered the cookie gravely. “Exactly like that. That is excellent.”

LAKE FOREST, ILL.

The older woman who answered the door looked at him with warm, interested eyes.

“Yes?”

“Leslie Craig Roberts, please?”

“Who shall I say is here to see her?”

“If you’d ask her to come to the do—?”

“I’m Leslie Craig Roberts, may I help you?”

Still outside, he held up his opened ID as he watched her come down the last steps of a substantial staircase. “Ms. Roberts, my name is Hunter Pierce. I’d like to speak with you.”

“State?” she said, resting a hand on Mrs. Monroe’s shoulder. She must have good eyes to have read that on the ID from that distance.

“Why don’t you take him into the living room, dear? I’ll help them settle in upstairs,” the older woman said, opening the door to him.

“We’ve just arrived from the airport for a visit,” Leslie Craig Roberts explained, leading him to a large, comfortable, well-furnished room. The scent of the real Christmas tree greeted him as she gestured for him to sit on the couch. She took a chair nearby. She and April didn’t look like each other exactly, but there was a way of walk, of holding themselves … a connection that came through. “It will be marvelous chaos from now through New Year’s. Now, what on earth has driven you from Washington to here simply to talk to me?”

“I am doing background at the behest of the United States government—”

“What’s this about April?”

A tall, good-looking man strode into the room. His tone was both protective and confident of having his question answered.

Interesting. Grady Roberts’ source of information must have been Mrs. Monroe. Yet April’s name had not been mentioned.

Without taking her gaze from him, Leslie said to her husband, “It’s all right, Grady. He’s been to see Grandma Beatrice.”

“Has he? Ah.” The older man smiled. Hunter saw satisfaction in the smile. Was that also sympathy? “Then she set him straight.”

“I would imagine so,” Leslie said lightly. To him she continued, “Yet you have come all this way to discover more, Hunter? Do you mind my calling you Hunter? I feel as if I know you.”

“April—”

“No, April has not told us anything about you.”

Grady’s frown returned. He seemed about to say something, but Leslie reached up and took his hand, causing him to look at her. He moved behind her chair without speaking.

Leslie turned to him again. “We have gathered from news reports that she appears to be spending time in the company of the King of Bariavak. I can only assume that is how you and she have come to know each other.”

He tried to recapture the lead. “Your grandmother said that April is definitely the daughter of her granddaughter, Melly Gareaux.”

She looked at him for a long moment, head slightly tipped as she studied him. These Craig women were going to be the death of him.

“Leslie?” Grady said, a note of concern in his voice.

She stared a beat longer, then smiled. Hunter thought the stare had been easier to stand up under than that smile. “Yes.”

As much as he wanted to retreat, he knew his duty. “Yes? You’re confirming that she is the biological daughter of your late cousin?”

“I am definitely confirming that Melly brought her home after one of her more peripatetic spells, which, if I recall correctly, had lasted more than two years, and presented April as her fourteen-month-old baby.”

As a definitive statement, that made great Swiss cheese.

“I’d like to pin this down.”

She touched his arm and smiled again. “I know you would, Hunter.”

“Ms. Craig — Mrs. Roberts—”

“Please, call me Leslie.”

“Ma’am. But—”

Another four people came into the room.

“Oh, good. Hunter, this is Bette Monroe and her husband Paul. This is Mr. Monroe, Paul’s dad, and you’ve met Mrs. M. Everyone, this is Hunter Pierce. He’s here about April.”

“What about April?” Mr. Monroe asked.

“Does this have to do with that jerk fian—” Paul started. His wife stepped on his foot, possibly accidentally as she helped her father-in-law, who had a stiff leg, to settle on the couch cushion beside Hunter.

“Hunter’s with the Department of State’s Bureau of Diplomatic Security. He’s in from Washington to talk to us. I’m a shade unclear exactly what it has to do with,” Leslie said. She turned toward him, and so did all the others. Clearly inviting — more accurately, demanding — an explanation.

“I am not at liberty to disclose more than I have.”

“Oh, aren’t you?” This time it was Grady who was stopped by his wife. Though Leslie Craig Roberts simply placed a hand on his arm.

She then faced him.

“Hunter, we would not consider asking you to jeopardize your career as an employee of the United States government. We thank you for serving it and our country. We hope you’ll stay and have some cookies and egg nog with us. Do you prefer it with or without nutmeg? Since you are driving, it is without any, shall we say, other embellishments.”

“Leslie?” Paul Monroe said. “You sure?”

His mother said, “Leslie’s absolutely right to offer Mr. Pierce some holiday cheer.”

“Do get comfortable, Hunter. If you want to know about April, this is going to take a while.” Leslie exchanged a look with Nancy Monroe, then added, “It’s a shame our friends Tris and Michael Dickinson and their family aren’t here yet. They’re coming in from Washington, too, as a matter of fact. Perhaps you’ve met them already? No? Ah, but Washington’s such a small town in so many ways, I’m confident you will meet them before long.”

Was he paranoid for thinking that had a thread of threat to it?

“You could meet them if you could return tomorrow evening,” Bette Monroe said.

“I have a flight overseas tomorrow evening.”

“What a shame,” Nancy Monroe said.

From the corner of his eye, Hunter caught her daughter-in-law, son, and husband looking at her quickly. Grady Roberts was watching his wife.

The older woman went on, “But how lovely that you can stay with us until tomorrow afternoon, so we can help you truly get to know April.”

He stood. “That’s not—”

“Plenty of room for you, and we insist, don’t we, everyone? We can take you to the airport when we go to pick up Michael and Tris and everyone. Now, nutmeg or no nutmeg on your egg nog? Never mind, we’ll bring some of each. You sit back down there, though I think you’d better move to the other side of Mr. M— you’ll thank me. I do believe I hear the children coming. Step over James’ leg. Careful now.”

“That won’t—”

He could swear the woman pushed him into the seat. “Yes, his cast is off at last, but his poor leg is still quite stiff. Tell him all about it, dear. And Paul, if you’ll move up a chair for Bette. Excellent. I’ll get the egg nog.”

He was neatly penned in.

O’Hare Airport’s rushing crowds felt like a respite to Hunter.

At least none of them stared at him and asked if he was the mean man who wasn’t letting April have Christmas.

The first kid who asked him that it had taken an extra half beat to realize they meant Reese Warrington. Because the description fit him, too, didn’t it?

And, damned if he didn’t catch Leslie Craig Roberts giving him a knowing look after that hesitation.

That first questioner had been the youngest of Paul and Bette Monroe’s three. Cassie, he thought they’d said. But he hadn’t been any too popular with Sandy or Jake Roberts, either.

By the end, he would have preferred another couple go-rounds with the candy cane screecher to the reproachful stares. Guess he should consider himself lucky the Dickinson kids hadn’t been around yet.

But he had learned more about April. A lot more. Including that she was loved by people who didn’t need to be related to be a clan.

What he hadn’t learned was anything that applied to her parentage.

Now he had another trip to make. The longest. The hardest.

King Jozef put the report he had been reading on the cushion beside him and removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes.

Hunter was on an airplane, returning from Bariavak to Washington. It had been, he knew, Hunter’s first trip there since he had left as a boy. A boy with a different name, a different life.