Princess Ever After (Royal Wedding Series) Read online

  Reggie fingered over the documents, separating them one from another, willing herself to find nothing interesting among the state and legal documents.

  She’d shuffle through the papers one last time and call it a night.

  Near the bottom of the pile, however, she discovered a chart with names and dates. Lifting the page, her hands trembled with a surge of adrenaline.

  Compiled by Lieberman Investigators LLC.

  Reggie spied Gram’s name. Alice. Married Harry Pierce, Captain, Royal Air Force, England. Her first husband, a flyer killed in action.

  Gram immigrated to America in July 1946 with daughter Eloise, Reggie’s grandmother. Attached was a photocopy of their entrance through Ellis Island. Alice Pierce. Eloise Pierce.

  Gram married William Edmunds in October 1947. He died before Reggie was born but she remembered Gram telling stories about him.

  Eloise married Charles Hiebert in June 1948, giving birth to Mama two years later in 1950.

  Reggie’s memories of her grandparents, Eloise and Charles, were short and sweet since both of them died when she was young. Seeing their names stirred a certain longing for them.

  Grandma Eloise was a Pierce, not an Edmunds, who became a Hiebert. Did Reggie know this family tree had so many short branches? Did anyone ever tell her?

  She tossed the chart to the table, familiar with the rest of the details. Mama married Daddy, Noble Beswick, in January 1979.

  Reggie’s older brother was born in 1981. But he died six months later. Then, in March 1985, she came silently into the world. Actually, that was a fact she did remember. Mama said Reggie came into the world so peacefully, without one sound, as if to say . . . How’d Mama put it?

  Hello, world, aren’t you happy I’m here?

  Tears of missing Mama burned in her eyes. Back to the chart, Reggie regarded the names, trying to see the people, trying to remember a history she never knew.

  Scanning the death dates, the short life spans, a tightness formed in her chest. All except Gram and, of course, Daddy died before the age of seventy. Reggie smiled. Gram, you defied death more than once, didn’t you?

  Yet what did this prove? None of this information specifically declared Gram to be Princess Alice. Certainly it didn’t name Reggie as heir. The contents of the attaché case only confused Reggie more. Why didn’t Gram ever speak of this life?

  Tanner seemed to think there was something in this case that would convince her she was the long-lost princess. But so far, all Reggie found was a well-documented family tree.

  With a sigh, Reggie sifted through the last few documents, spying the edge of a photocopied letter. Pulling it free, she recognized Gram’s sprawling handwriting.

  May 1946

  London

  Dear Otto,

  It’s been so long since we’ve corresponded. But this war has taken it out of me. Eloise and I lost Harry in ’45, and we cannot seem to get away from the pain of missing him.

  Esmé, my dear sister, invited us to stay with her in America, and we are setting sail tomorrow. I pray there is a new life, a new joy for us there. London is so ravaged from the war. I fear we will never laugh again. I so desire to put this all behind me. Hessenberg. Brighton. The wars. Death. I must begin again if I wish to survive this life.

  Uncle has died, as you may know, in Sweden, in early ’44. Mamá will remain in London. She is happy and comfortable in the king’s circle. George VI has embraced her as a sister more than a cousin.

  So much death in life, dear Otto.

  I hope this letter finds you well. I’ll write when I arrive in America and get settled.

  Lovingly yours,

  Alice Pierce

  Reggie read the letter a few more times, then set it aside. Her tired mind couldn’t comprehend any more. She shoved away from the table, desperate to think, desperate for a shower. The oil would adhere permanently to her pores if she didn’t wash soon.

  Standing, stretching, she’d taken one step toward her room when her cell buzzed from her purse. When she saw it was Mark, she let the call go to voice mail.

  Then, as she passed the back door, a soft tap-tap resounded.

  Daddy.

  “Isn’t it past your bedtime?” she said, opening the door wide, letting him pass. He looked dressed for bed, wearing his FSU sweatshirt, sleeping pants, and worn-out old slippers. He’d tried to train the dog to retrieve them about fifteen years ago, but Buster misunderstood and used them as chew toys.

  “Yes, and I got a big job starting in the morning up in Thomasville. But this business with Hessenberg and your gram got me all worked up.” He shoved a square, nondescript box at her. “I brought you something.”

  A box? “This couldn’t have waited until morning?”

  “Maybe.” He stared at the box, hands on his hips. “I’m not sure. But when Sadie reminded me about the box after you left, I couldn’t shake the notion. Someone was nudging me to bring it to you tonight.”

  Reggie set it on the table by Tanner’s leather case. “What is it?”

  “Besides a box? I’ve no idea. Gram left it to you.” Daddy walked toward the dark front of the house. “I put it away, figuring I’d give it to you when you were older, when you could appreciate it. I stuck it in the attic and time got away from me. Next thing I know you’re rounding the bases to thirty and I’d forgotten all about the box. Then this Hessenberg dude shows up . . .” Daddy paused along the farthest reach of the kitchen light and peered toward the unlit, unused living room. “Reg, you still only living in three rooms?”

  “I’ve been busy.” She cut through the kitchen and leaned against the doorway facing the un-living room.

  “Doing what?” Daddy flipped a light switch, powering up an austere ceiling lamp that made the white walls and white brick fireplace feel like a cold waiting room.

  “Working. Starting a new business.” The only color in the room was on a Tiffany lamp shade by the front window.

  “How long you lived here?” Daddy stooped, picking up the Tiffany cord. “It ain’t even plugged in, Reg.” He snooped under the shade. “And there’s no bulb.”

  “I meant to get a bulb.” She’d bought the house two years ago with the money Daddy set aside from Mama’s insurance policy. “And I’m going to use the lamp. I just need to find a good place for it.”

  “How many barbecues have you had?” He walked to the darkened bedroom hallway. “Those rooms empty too?”

  “Is there a point to all of this?” She snatched up the Tiffany lamp and carried it to the family room.

  “The point is . . .” Daddy’s voice clouded with emotion. “I never saw it until now. Reg, you’re not living. You’re existing.”

  “You been watching Dr. Phil on YouTube again, haven’t you?” Reggie set the lamp by a chair. “What do you think Al & Reg’s Classic Car Restore is about? It’s about me living, as you say. When I worked for Backlund, I was existing. But now I’m doing what I want to do. My passion.”

  “How long have you had that old Datsun?”

  She shrugged. “About a year, I guess.” A bit of fast math and she nailed the exact month. “I got it last July. Right after I sold the ’70 Nova.” Which she’d intended to fix up but never found the time. That’s why she went all in with Al.

  And where was Daddy going with his questions? She didn’t remember him being so lawyer-like.

  “That yellow Corvair still in the garage?”

  “Well, I didn’t sell it.” After all, it had once belonged to Great Gram.

  “But you’ve not worked on it either.”

  “In case you missed the news, I’ve spent the last six months restoring a ’71 Challenger to Slant-6 perfection. We have a very happy customer in Danny Hayes. Before that, I was working sixty-five hours a week at Backlund. I was lucky to fix me up once in a while, let alone a car.”

  “Know what I think?”

  “I’m sure you’ll tell me.” She leaned against the front wall and shoved her toe into the plush frieze carpe
t.

  “I did you wrong, Reg.”

  She glanced up. “What? Daddy, no way. How did you do me wrong? You raised me. Gave up your nights and weekends to be both father and mother. You took care of Gram too.” A sentiment of truth whispered across her heart and tapped on the locked doors of her dark, inner rooms. “We’d go out back and toss the football, talking. You’d set up Gram on the porch with a blanket around her legs.” Reggie shook her head. “You saved both of us, Daddy.”

  “You and Gram saved me. But I let you down. I closed off parts of the house,” he said as he motioned to the dark rooms. “Closed off a bit of myself.”

  “You were grieving.”

  “Yeah, but I had a job to do in raising you right.”

  “Raising me right? Daddy, you were there for me. Every day. Every night. You’d lost your wife. I’d lost my mama. And you were the one who circled the wagons.”

  “I taught you that when things get painful, you just shut yourself down. I didn’t let you in your mama’s sewing and craft room because I was afraid your fragrance would replace hers. Remember that? You wanted to study in there, listen to her music.”

  “But I understood.” Even at the tender age of twelve. Death caused a girl to grow up fast.

  “We stopped having holiday dinners and barbecues. Bettin wanted that big ole house on three acres so we could have parties. Invite the world. Instead, we lived just like you do here, Reg, in two rooms and a bedroom. Shoot, half the time we slept in the recliners or on the sofa.”

  “Getting up and going to bed felt so lonely.” Even now she still slept on the sofa half the time.

  “Me too.” Daddy sighed, running his hand over his face. “Like father, like daughter. Reg, I’m proud of you, but I taught you to cordon off part of your heart and I’m sorry. I think it’s kept you from really living.”

  His words sliced. Offended. “I am living. Doing what I want to do. So don’t go feeling all sorry for yourself with the woe-is-me parent routine. Are you saying if I open up the whole house, buy some furniture, hold a party or two, you’ll consider me living?”

  He shook his head. “It took Sadie for me to realize how shut down I was, Reg. When we got married, it took some time, but I started to move on.” Daddy squinted at Reggie, looking as if he was weighing his next thought. “But it never occurred to me that I might have left you behind.”

  “I’m not cordoned off. I’m not left behind.”

  “Still, it won’t hurt to hop on over and give Hessenberg a look-see, Reg. Sadie called her friend who’s got a contact in the FBI. We’re looking up Tanner Burkhardt, but I think he’s all right.”

  “Dad, I’m not going to Hessenberg—to be a princess, by the way—because two bedrooms and a living room aren’t furnished. That’s crazy logic.”

  “It’s not about logic, Reg. It’s about—”

  “Or because the Corvair and Datsun haven’t been restored yet.” She was really convincing herself, not Daddy.

  If Mr. Burkhardt’s, er, Tanner’s, news made her topsy-turvy, this conversation with Daddy turned her on her head, inside out and spinning around.

  “It’s that you haven’t met your Sadie yet. The one thing, that makes you long to open up your whole heart.”

  “Isn’t Jesus that one? That thing?” She’d walked the aisle of Community Christian when she was eight. Gave her heart to Jesus. She meant it then and she meant it now. Even when Mama died, she believed he was good. And she often felt his presence like a hand on her head, walking beside her.

  “He is, but I’ve a feeling this is all part of his plan.”

  “Then why didn’t he tell me or have Gram say something? All those times we played princess and she never once coughed up the truth?” Daddy followed her back to the kitchen and Reggie shuffled the official papers into a pile. “Neither did you, for that matter. I’m in the car business now.”

  “Yet you’ve never ventured farther than Georgia for a car show, and I don’t recall you flying up to the Detroit car museum to see the Starfire #89.”

  “You are really starting to grate on my nerves.”

  “Sorry, sweet pea, but I need you to see the truth before you shut the door to what this Tanner fella is saying.”

  “You know what really bugs me in all of this?” She jammed the documents into the attaché case, taking extra care with the copy of Gram’s letter. “That I was settled, knew who I was and wanted to be. Then this bubba Tanner comes along and tells me I am someone else.”

  “No.” Daddy twisted the knob on the back door and eased it open. “He’s telling you who you really are.”

  In the shower, hot, cleansing water slicked down Reggie’s head and back, then swirled at her feet before slipping down the drain.

  Lord, what are you calling me to do?

  The first tears were gentle, but they opened her soul’s cellar door and the deep sobs came rolling out. Pressing her forehead against the shower wall, she released every buried missing-Mama emotion, then spoke to God in a short, cauterized dialog asking “why” and “what am I supposed to do now?”

  Peace came about the time the hot water ran cold, so she toweled off, inspected her face and hair for greasy remains, and slipped into her pajamas.

  If Tanner’s appearance was merely a challenge to start really living, then yeah, his surprise visit was worth it. But in her heart of hearts, she couldn’t shake the weight of his words, “You’re heir to Hessenberg’s throne.”

  Was he telling the truth? After examining the items in the attaché case and reading the letter, how could she continue to doubt? Yet how could she believe?

  Walking the house, turning off the kitchen lights, Reggie noticed the box. Daddy’s box. She reached for it, then drew back. Tomorrow. She’d deal with it tomorrow.

  Shoot, she wouldn’t be able to sleep wondering what was in that box. So she snatched it up and carried it to her bedroom.

  And, mental note, put a lightbulb in the Tiffany. And . . . and . . . throw a party. Get with Carrie and plan the largest, most whoppingest Oktoberfest ever.

  She’d start living. Right now. By looking inside this box.

  Sitting on her bed against a plump of pillows, Reggie examined the plain, ordinary box before unlocking the brass clasp and raising the lid.

  The perfume of history—a thick, spicy, and floral oil under-girded by the scent of ancient paper—changed the aura of the room.

  Changed the texture of Reggie’s heart.

  The contents of the box were few. Reggie’s gaze fell on an old black-and-white photo, torn in two. A young man with trimmed, pale hair, dressed in an everyday suit, smiled at her, his expression brash and jaunty, his chin raised with pride. Reggie studied his posture. He seemed quite pleased with himself. With life. And he was in Gram’s box.

  She leaned toward the end table light. Was that the tip of a woman’s sleeve on his arm? Reggie flipped the picture over, hoping to see a name. Sure enough, someone had written on the back, but the ink had faded with time. And what she could read was cut off by the tear line.

  Rein Fri—

  Spring 19—

  Meadowbluff P—

  And who was Rein F-r-i, Gram?

  A friend? A boyfriend? Maybe a cousin or something? Did Gram have brothers she never told her about?

  Questions with no answers made Reggie regret the permanent silence of death.

  But there was more to explore. Maybe some of the answers were among the fragrances and personal items in the box. Setting Rein aside, Reggie took out a small jewel box and discovered a stunning sapphire ring mounted in a filigree shank with sparkling, clear diamonds resting on a bed of blue velvet.

  “Oh my word.” Reggie rose to her knees, holding up the ring. The diamonds captured the lamplight, then splashed it against the wall in a glorious prism. The beauty of its design made her a bit giddy. Like the first time she saw a classic car. Like the first time she saw a Starfire #89.

  But this ring . . .

  It was specta
cular. A work of art. Reggie slipped the shank down her finger, surprised and delighted to find it fit perfectly.

  What else was in this mystery box? Another jewel case contained a pendant on a gold chain. It was delicate and beautiful, but cut in half, and engraved with something Reggie couldn’t make out.

  That was it, except for a small artist notepad that barely fit the bottom of the box. And Reggie recognized it instantly.

  The fairy tale. Her fairy tale, penned and illustrated by Gram for Reggie’s sixth birthday. With trembling fingers, she worked the book out of the box, careful not to bend the sides more than necessary.

  She’d all but forgotten about the fairy tale. Thought it’d been lost along life’s way or ruined during the great rains of ’00 when the attic leaked.

  Reggie smoothed her hand over the first page. Regina’s Fairy Tale. The words leaned a bit too much and the press of a calligrapher’s pen spread the ink outside the bounds of the letters. But it was Gram’s writing. And a good job too, at ninety-four, painting a story for Reggie. Turning the page, she read out loud.

  Once upon a time, you see, there was a princess, a duchess-in-waiting, because her uncle was the Grand Duke.

  Reggie stopped, her pulse fluttering in her throat. This fairy tale was about Gram.

  The thin watercolor image was of the duke and the young princess. She was dressed in royal array, her mass of red hair piled high on her head.

  The princess lived in a beautiful land surrounded by the sea. Her palace of gleaming floors and flickering lamps sat on the meadow of Braelon Bay and the Cliffs of White. When the spring winds came, the salty breeze moved through the peaks and into the palace’s open windows, bringing the music of the waves.

  The painting depicted a turreted stone palace with high gabled peaks and multiple smoking chimneys across two pages. Gram added a paving stone walkway and a carpet of green grass dotted with yellow daffodils.

  In the background were the tall, rather ominous-looking white-tipped cliffs and a hint of the blue-green North Sea.