Royal Wedding (32 page)

“Not
all
of it,” Olivia admitted. “You guys talk pretty fast. But I understood a lot of it. Definitely the part about the guy and the cruise ships. And that's when I started thinking, why don't you let the refugees live on the cruise ships until you can find them some better place to stay? That's what they did for refugees of Hurricane Julio. We saw a documentary about it in school.”

I stared at her some more. I've heard the expression
out of the mouths of babes
hundreds of times, but I'd never really understood it until that moment.

“Oh, Olivia,” I cried, joyously throwing my arms around her to hug her. “Where have you been all my life?”

“Um,” she said, a bit startled, but hugging me back. “New Jersey?”

I don't think I've laughed quite that hard in a long time. It felt good. Almost good enough to make me forget the throbbing pain in my foot, where her aunt had smashed it with a door.

After I released her, Olivia reached up to push her glasses back into place.

“What was
that
for?” she wanted to know, meaning the hug.

“You just solved a big royal headache,” I told her.

“I did?” she asked. A pleased smile crept across her face. “That's great. How?”

“Thinking outside the box,” Lilly told her, since I'd gotten back on the phone, this time to text Madame Dupris. “Finish your homework.”

“I wasn't thinking outside any box,” Olivia said. “Sometimes I color outside the lines, though.”

“Keep doing it, kid,” Lilly advised. “You'll go places.”

HRH Mia Thermopolis “FtLouie” to Deputy Prime Minister Madame Cécile Dupris “Le Grand Fromage”

Madame, you're going to hear some news from Monsieur le Directeur José de la Rive (about which I cannot go into detail at this time) that will be quite startling, but welcome. When you hear it, the proposal I'm about to write will make perfect sense:

When the time is right (you will know when), ask Ivan Renaldo to donate three cruise ships for the use of the Genovian government so that they may house the Qalifi refugees for a time period of no less than six months.

If he refuses, tell him that everything the Renaldo family knows about him will be made public.

This should, I trust, alleviate the refugee crisis for the present time, until we can come up with a more permanent solution.

XOXO

M

Deputy Prime Minister Madame Cécile Dupris “Le Grand Fromage,” to HRH Mia Thermopolis “FtLouie”

!!!

I am, as the Americans say, very gung ho about this and dying to know what it's all about, but for now will proceed as requested.

I was quite startled, Princess, to hear the news about your sister, but am quite gung ho about this as well. Any addition to the family is always pleasant, is it not?

XOXO

C

I'm not entirely sure Madame Dupris knows what
gung ho
means, but it's reassuring that we have one normal, intelligent person on the team, anyway, and might possibly pull this whole thing off, after all.

CHAPTER 55

7:05 p.m., Wednesday, May 6

The Plaza Hotel

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I don't know how I could have been so stupid. All the signs were there. I suppose I was ignoring them because I didn't want to have to face the truth.

But I can't ignore them anymore, especially after I hobbled into Grandmère's condo a little while ago and there stood
J. P. Reynolds-Abernathy IV
.

Well, he did say that after his latest movie was a flop, he'd had to take a job working for his uncle.

It's my own fault for not asking
what kind of job,
or recognizing that the
Reynolds
in Lazarres-Reynolds is the same Reynolds as in Reynolds-Abernathy IV.

Isn't this another kind of conflict of interest, though, not unlike Cousin Ivan's? J.P. really should have turned down this assignment when it was offered to him.
“Oh, no, she's my ex-girlfriend from high school. I couldn't possibly work for her family.”

But no. To do that, J.P. would have to have developed some empathy, and why would that have happened? All the signs point to him having only gotten
more
manipulative since high school. He's already cornered me once in Grandmère's kitchen (where I hobbled to get some ice for my foot. I didn't want to bother anyone by asking for some), where he said in this completely sincere (fake) voice:

“Mia, I hope it doesn't bother you that I'm here. I thought about messaging you to let you know, but then I realized how insulting that would be, since we're both mature adults and what we had was so long ago—I mean, it was high school, after all. And you're engaged to Michael now, so it seemed hardly worth mentioning.”

“Ha ha!” I said breezily. “Of course! Exactly.”

“So no worries, then,” J.P. said. “Water under the bridge.”

Meanwhile, I'm not even sure his uncle's firm is competent at crisis managing. When François pulled up to the hotel, the entrance was a madhouse. Press was
everywhere,
trying to elbow their way to a prime spot in front of the red carpet (there really is a red carpet leading up the steps to the front doors of the Plaza Hotel, I guess to make guests feel like celebrities, which is all a lot of people want anymore).

“Ready?” Lars asked us, as François opened the door to the side of the limo. “One, two,
three
.”

For Olivia's first time walking a red carpet, she did pretty well—much better than I would have at her age. She had her own cocky grace despite the flashes—which do blind you a bit—and the deafening noise, smiling and waving.

“Olivia, how does it feel to find out you were abandoned at birth by your rich white father?”

“Olivia, are you going to be in your sister's royal wedding?”

“Olivia, look over here!”

“Olivia, do you think they didn't acknowledge you before now because you're black?”

“Olivia, could you sign my cast?”

“Olivia, what's the first thing you're going to buy with all the money you're going to have?”

“Olivia, over here, honey!”

But I kept her hand in mine so she wouldn't be scared . . .

Although I don't think she actually was. When she reached the top of the stairs, she did the last thing any of us were expecting, which was to turn to take a quick photo (with the cell phone that Tina had given her) of all the press that was photographing her.

“Well,” Olivia explained, when we got inside and I looked at her questioningly, “I want to remember this.”

I don't think she quite realizes that this isn't all going to vanish tomorrow. It's going to go on and on, forever. Of
course
she wants to remember it . . .

. . . unlike me, who'd give anything to forget it. In fact, I'd be drinking right now to numb the pain (and my memory), except that my foot hurts too much to get up and go to the liquor cabinet, and I'm certainly not going to ask J.P. to get me a drink, even though he's asked three times if he can “get me anything.”

Yes, you can, J.P. You can get away from me.

I haven't had the nerve to tell Michael that J.P. is here (Michael texted to say he's on his way. His HELV is stuck in all the traffic outside, and the RGG won't allow him to get out and walk due to “safety” concerns).

J.P. has never been one of Michael's favorite people. Michael even threatened to punch him once, but managed to restrain himself. I don't know if he'll have that kind of self-control now, seeing as how J.P. has grown a mustache (though not as nice as the one my dad used to have) and wears skinny jeans.

Shudder.

Of course there's one part of all this I
do
want to remember, and that's the look on Grandmère's face when she first opened the door to her condo and saw her only other grandchild (besides me).

I could tell she was touched, though she was trying hard not to show it. Her mouth was squeezed into a tiny frown (some of the muscles in her face are permanently frozen from all the Botox she's had shot into them, but she's still able to move most of her mouth to varying degrees).

“So this is she?” Grandmère asked grammatically correctly, if not exactly warmly.

“This is she, Grandmère,” I said, poking Olivia in the back. I'd coached her in the car on what to do and say when she met her grandmother, and she pulled it off perfectly . . . almost.

“It's so nice to meet you, Grandmoth—is that a miniature
poodle
?”

Olivia's curtsy wasn't very graceful to begin with, but she practically fell over herself when she saw the little white powder puff peeking around Grandmère's still shapely ankle (Grandmère is inordinately proud of the fact that her legs haven't gone).

“I love poodles!” Olivia cried. “They're the most intelligent breed of dog. And they're also very excellent swimmers.”

I hadn't coached her to say
that
.

The tiny frown on Grandmère's face curled ever so slightly into a smile.

“Yes,” she said, trying but failing to sound cold. It's very difficult to speak coldly to a child expounding on the virtues of your favorite breed of dog. “Poodles
are
very intelligent, aren't they?”

Then the two of them stood there going on about poodles. I'm not even kidding. It was like watching a couple of announcers at the Westminster Kennel Dog show, only one was a nine-hundred-year-old dowager princess from the Riviera, and the other was a twelve-year-old from New Jersey.

“My
other
granddaughter only likes cats,” Grandmère said, finally remembering I was standing there, and giving me the evil eye.

“I don't only like cats,” I protested. “I've only ever had a cat. Grandmère, could we come in now? I hurt my foot earlier and it's very uncomfortable and I'd really like to sit down—”

Grandmère opened the door to her condo to allow Olivia to enter, which she did, hurrying after the dog, who had evidently taken a liking to her since it turned around and began to romp alongside her, its tongue lolling out excitedly . . . not surprising, since its only other companions were my grandmother, who doesn't do much romping, and of course Rommel, who only humps, not romps.

“Well?” I asked Grandmère as I hobbled past. “Does she pass muster?” Like I even needed to ask. The two of them were clearly madly in love.

“She has a certain gamine charm,” Grandmère said, pretending not to care. “Your hair was much worse at her age. It still is. I suppose you inherited it from your father. He's lucky his all fell out. Perhaps yours will, too. Then you could simply start wearing wigs.”

“Thank you so much. Speaking of Dad, is he here?”

“Yes, he's in the—”

She was cut off by a scream. Olivia's scream, to be exact.

But not because the girl had injured herself on any of the admittedly odd collectibles Grandmère keeps around her New York apartment, such as a complete fifteenth-century suit of armor and a mounted narwhal tusk.

It turned out to be because she'd found Dad standing in the library and recognized him instantly (apparently she'd done a little research on Tina's phone, since he'd never sent her any photos during the course of their written correspondence). Not a shy child, she'd shrieked and thrown herself into his arms. By the time Grandmère and I got there to see what was going on, they were hugging as if they never wanted to let each other go.

I don't think it was just a trick of the non-energy-saving lightbulbs Grandmère insists on using that there was a glimmer of tears in all of our eyes.

Now Dad and Olivia and Grandmère are chatting in the library—they appear to have ordered everything on the evening room-service menu, since it's spread in front of them on the coffee table—while J.P.'s uncle and Dad's lawyers are in the study making calls to see what they can do to win full custody.

Oh, Lord, now someone's pounding on the door. Who on earth would they even let up here? It can't be Michael. The hotel staff let him right up, and all the agents on the RGG staff know him . . .

CHAPTER 56

7:20 p.m., Wednesday, May 6

The Plaza Hotel

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OMG. It's my mother.

And she is not happy.

CHAPTER 57

7:45 p.m., Wednesday, May 6

The Plaza Hotel

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Grandmère's staff didn't recognize my mom because she never comes here, so that's why they wouldn't let her up at first.

I can't really blame them, since she doesn't look anything like her normal self (even herself in her ID photos). She's still wearing her clothes from the studio—paint-spattered overalls and a man's T-shirt—and she'd piled her hair on top of her head with a bungee cord.

I was the first one to reach the door, despite my limp, and the crazed look in her eye startled even me.

“Do you know this woman?” the Royal Genovian Guards who had her by the arms asked.

“Mia,” Mom said acidly. “Tell them you know me.”

“Of course I know her,” I said, shocked. “She's my mother.”

Beside her, Rocky said, “Hi, Mia. Mom's really mad.”

“Mom,” I said, opening the door wider to allow them both to come in, “what's wrong?”

I should have known, of course.

“Oh, nothing,” she said. There were tears sparkling at the corners of her large dark eyes. “I just heard on the
radio
that you have a half sister, that's all. God forbid I should have heard this news from your father himself. Or you. You went to New Jersey to look at bridesmaid dresses today, Mia? Really?”