Royal Wedding (29 page)

“That's Annabelle,” Olivia said with a world-weary sigh.

“My father is her uncle's lawyer,” Annabelle explained in a snotty tone, as if I were a moron for not knowing it. Apparently everyone in Cranbrook, New Jersey, knew that Annabelle's father was Olivia's uncle's lawyer, and I should have, too. “He's the highest-ranked personal-injury lawyer in Cranbrook. My father says Olivia is related to you. I didn't believe it at first, of course, but now that you're here . . .”

Her voice trailed off suggestively.

Now that I was there, whatever Annabelle had been told had been confirmed.

And despite the confidentiality agreement Lilly had just had Olivia's aunt sign, the news would soon be spread all over the little town of Cranbrook, New Jersey, and a short time after that, the world. Every cell-phone camera in the entire drop-off area of the school was trained on Olivia and me, including ones belonging to the bus drivers. Even the mean lady with the whistle had stopped blowing it and was now pointing her iPhone at us.

That's when I knew. I should have stayed in the car instead of performing a wonderfully selfless act of sisterly charity by saving Olivia myself. I should have done what my dad had been doing all these years, and “followed the map.”

Why hadn't I been a good little princess bride and gone to lunch with the crisis management team like it had said to on the itinerary? I was only creating a
bigger
crisis for them to clean up, and ruining my sister's life. Nothing was ever going to be the same for her, just as nothing had ever been the same for me after that day my father had taken me to lunch at the Plaza Hotel and told me I was the heir to the throne of Genovia, and a short time later the news had become public and I'd been required to be followed by a security team everywhere I went.

On the other hand, things haven't exactly turned out that terribly for me either.

Three things I'm grateful for:

1.   I get to do what I love—make the world a better place by drawing attention to causes that matter to me (well, on a good day. Today would not be an example of that).

2.   I have wonderful friends, who are always there to support and help me when I need them.

3.   I'm marrying the man I love.

Oh, I've thought of a fourth one! I've already stopped my sister from getting punched in the face (I think. She hasn't
quite
explained exactly what was going on there. I'm hoping we'll get to that soon).

Hopefully, I might be able to continue to make other things better for her, too.

“I'm sorry, Annabelle,” I said to Olivia's little nemesis in my most princessy tone. “But this is a private family matter. I'm afraid I don't have time to chat today. Good-bye.”

Then I squeezed my sister's hand and tried to quicken our pace, though it was difficult, given my probably broken (but most likely only sprained) foot.

I have to say, it was quite satisfying to see Annabelle's stunned expression at my reply, but much more so to see Olivia's triumphant one.

But I didn't get to enjoy it long, since Lars was soon tapping the Bluetooth headset he keeps in his ear at all times, and saying, “Er, Princess,” over the top of Olivia's head so she couldn't hear. “Police.”

“Someone called the
police
?” My eye began twitching even more than usual. “But why? We haven't done anything wrong.”

“Well,” Lars said as Halim hurried forward to open the passenger door for us. “That would be a matter of opinion. Inciting a riot. Making a public nuisance. The uncle might feel differently than his wife about us taking the girl, who has been a significant source of income for some time . . .”

I hadn't thought of that.

Olivia must have overheard—or felt the compulsive tightening of my grip on her hand—since she looked up with concern and asked, “Is everything all right?”

“Everything is fine!” I practically yelled. “We just need to go now.” Then I began pulling her with renewed energy toward the limo, which must have been humiliating for her since she is, in fact, twelve and even Rocky objects to having his hand held, and he's nine.

“Back, please,” Lars was barking at everyone who was trying to crowd too close to us, attempting to snap selfies with themselves and either me or Olivia. “Please give the princess room. No, no photos, sorry—no selfies—”

It was terrifying, and not just because I recently read online that the leading cause of lice transmission is selfies, from kids leaning their heads against other kids' heads, providing a perfect highway of hair on which the lice can transport themselves.

I imagined it was even more terrifying for poor Olivia, who isn't used to it. Even the lady with the whistle lowered it long enough to lift her cell phone to say, in a nasal voice, “Can I have a photo with the two of you?”

Lars flung out a rock-solid arm.

“No,” he said, nearly knocking the phone from her hands.

“Well!” the woman cried, offended. “See if
I
ever come to visit Genovia!”

“No one wants you there,” Lars informed her (I thought this a bit harsh).

Once we were all safely inside the limo, though, and Lars had pulled the door closed behind him, Olivia looked more thrilled than upset. She bounced around on the seats, looking out at the children who were plastering themselves against the tinted windows (we could see out, but they could not see in). It was a bit like something out of a boy-band documentary.

François gunned the engine and tried to pull out, but a roar of protest erupted from the children (not unlike the sound I once heard several years ago while visiting Iceland, and a volcano there exploded). Olivia's classmates still had their hands and faces pressed against all the windows, flattening themselves against the limo in an effort to keep us from leaving.

“What are they doing?” I cried, horrified.

Olivia shrugged. “Nothing. They're just excited. Not many celebrities visit Cranbrook Middle School. Actually, you're the first.”

“Oh. I see.”

If the enormity of what I'd just done had not sunk in before, it did then.

Fortunately, we were able to escape without further incident by François applying a special horn Grandmère had had installed against the wishes and advice of everyone—it plays the first chords of the Genovian anthem at near-deafening decibels. It caused the children to unpeel themselves from the limo and scamper away in alarm.

But Lord only knows what the police found in the school yard when they arrived after we'd gone (we heard the sirens, but in the distance, after we'd already made our escape to the exit ramp to the highway, thank God).

“Olivia,” I said, after we'd had a chance to catch our breath. “I'm very, very sorry about this. I did not mean for you to find out this way that you're—that we're—”

“It's okay,” Olivia said. She didn't look the least bit upset. Her gaze had been roving around the interior of the car, lighting up as it landed on the minibar, where there were full cans of soda on display as mixers for Grandmère's alcohol, not to mention bags of chips and other assorted favorite snacks of my grandmother's. “I already knew. Annabelle told me.”

“Yes, I realize that. But that's what I mean. It shouldn't have happened that way. I'm
very
sorry about that.”

“That's okay,” Olivia said. “This is fun.”

“Fun?”
I glanced uneasily at my adult companions. What had been fun about any of what just happened? “Really?”

“Yes,” Olivia said. “This is my first time in a limo. Do those go on?” She pointed at the fiber-optic lighting in the limousine's ceiling, which Grandmère had had installed because she enjoyed being bathed in the most flattering colors at all times.

“Yes,” I said. “Those do go on.”

Like magic, we were all suddenly bathed in a rosy hue from both the sides and roof of the car.

“Cool!” Olivia cried, smiling broadly, especially as François, who'd overheard us, had chosen the “twinkle” effect, so the rose color began to turn to purple, then to blue.

When you ride in limos all the time, it's hard to remember that to some people—especially a twelve-year-old—​it's a new, exciting experience. That's the great thing about being twelve.

“So,” I said to Olivia, “I'm sure you must have a lot of questions—”

“Yes, I do.” She looked at me very intently. “Is it really true?”

“That we're sisters? Yes, it's really true. I'm so sorry you found out this way, but it's very, very true—”

“No, is it true what that paper you showed me said? That you have my aunt's permission to take me to any destination of my choosing?”

I threw Lilly a startled look. The truth was, I hadn't read the agreement Olivia's aunt had signed.

“Er, yes,” I said, when I saw that Lilly was nodding. “Yes, it's really true. Why? Is there somewhere you'd like to go?”

“Yes,” she said, her dark eyes sparkling. “To meet my dad.”

I'm not sure what I'd expected her to say, but not that. I don't know why, since it should have been obvious.

Those four little words, however, momentarily robbed me of breath with their sweet simplicity.

Of course.
Of course
she wanted to meet her dad. How could I have been so stupid? What else was a little girl who'd never known her father—never really had a parent at all—going to want?

“Oh. Right,” I said, my heart rolling over in my chest. Up until that second, I hadn't even thought about where we were going.
Away,
was all I'd said to François. Just take us away . . . away from that awful school and that terrible Annabelle and all those kids throwing themselves against the car and Aunt Catherine and Cranbrook.

But clearly I needed to take her to meet her father, and right that second, before I did another thing.

I wasn't sure Dad was going to agree, but I didn't care.

“Of
course
. François? New York City, please.”

He nodded. “Yes, Your Highness.”

Olivia looked a little nervous at this development. “Wait . . . my dad is in New York City?”

“He is,” Lilly said, leaning forward to thrust her right hand toward Olivia. “Only sixty-four miles away, and you never even knew it, did you? Lilly Moscovitz, by the way, but you can call me Aunt Lilly. I'm your sister's cool friend.”

“Hey!” Tina protested.

“Lilly's teasing you,” I explained to Olivia as she politely shook Lilly's hand. “All my friends are cool.”

“Not true,” Lilly said as she continued to pump Olivia's hand. “I'm the one you're going to want to come to with all your questions about boys—”

“No.” I reached out and disengaged their hands, laying Olivia's back in her lap. “Do
not
go to her.”

“Come to
me,
” Tina said firmly. “I'm your aunt Tina. I'm in medical school.”

“Okay,” Olivia said faintly. “But I'm only twelve.”

Hoping to distract her—and myself, since I'd been feeling a little teary-eyed since she'd asked about meeting her father—I asked Olivia, “Would you like a soda?” It was the only thing I could think of to say. Who wouldn't be thirsty after an ordeal like the one we'd just gone through in the parking lot?

“Yes, please,” Olivia said, looking bewildered by her exchange with my friends . . . and no wonder, since they're psychotic. “So we're going to New York City
right
now
?”

“Yes,” I said as I was pouring her soda. “That's not a problem, is it?”

She shook her head, her braids flying.

“I guess not. Dad always said we would meet someday, but not until I was much older.”

I nearly spilled the soda. “He did? When did he say that?”

“In his letters,” she informed me matter-of-factly. “We've been writing letters to each other for a long time.”

I couldn't believe it. My dad, who'd been so freaked out the night before about being Olivia's sole parent, had been in communication with her this entire time? Well, written communication, but communication just the same. He'd led me to think horrible things about him—that he'd allowed this child to live in total ignorance of his existence—that weren't even true!

“He gives me all kinds of advice,” Olivia prattled on, accepting the soda I passed her. She certainly isn't shy, which is definitely a positive if you're going to be thrust into the international spotlight. “Like he said it was good to keep a diary. He told me it really helps to write down your feelings when you get overwhelmed.”

“Gee, I wonder where he got that idea,” I murmured.

“What do you mean?” she asked curiously.

I hadn't meant for her to overhear me.

“Oh, nothing. My mom told me to do the same thing—write down my feelings in a diary when I thought I was getting overwhelmed—when I was about your age.”

“Really? Your mom is still alive?”

“Yes. She lives in New York City, too.”

“With our dad?”

My heart, which had been on the verge of melting all afternoon, turned liquid, especially when I glanced at her face and saw that her expression had suddenly become guarded. I had no idea what Dad had told her in his letters, but obviously nothing about me, and clearly very little about himself.

“No, Olivia,” I said. “Our dad and my mom split up a long time ago—right after I was born. Dad is single. He doesn't live with anyone.”

“Except his mother,” Lilly added darkly.

Olivia didn't seem to hear her, however. She said, staring out the window at the trees whizzing by along I-95, “It makes sense that he doesn't live with anyone. Probably the death of my mother, who was very beautiful, still haunts him to this day. That's most likely why he never wanted to see me before, because I look so much like her, and the sight of me would be too painful a reminder of his lost love.”