That’s when I heard Olivia’s uncle snap at his wife to shut up, and inform her that everything was all her fault in the first place for having been stupid enough to have allowed Olivia to leave Cranbrook with me in the first place.
When my dad rose so quickly from his desk that his chair fell over and barked, “Would you like to say that again, Mr. O’Toole, this time to someone your own size?” I whirled around to seize my sister’s hand.
“Let’s go into the other room,” I whispered to her. I realized the library was not a particularly safe atmosphere for either Olivia or myself to be in at that moment.
As I was dragging her out onto the balcony on which my father and mother had stood the night before and possibly rekindled their love, Michael came up, smiling, having returned from his fictional office meeting. He was completely oblivious to everything that was going on.
“Did you tell—?”
“Not yet,” I said quickly, cutting him off. “Bad timing.” I tilted my head toward the library. He looked inside the door, saw what was going on, and quickly lost the smile.
“Got it,” he said, and slipped inside the library to help my dad. I hoped this help would come in the form of reminding him to wait for his legal advisers to get here before making any rash moves, and not the kind of “help” he’d given J.P. last night.
“Soooo,” I said to Olivia in as cheerful a voice as possible (which I also tried to make as loud as possible so it would drown out what was going on in the library). “You can see a lot of stuff from up here, can’t you? There’s the park, and the place where my boyfriend, Michael, once took me on a carriage ride before everyone decided it was better to ban carriage horse rides, and if you look really, really hard, you can almost see the zoo, where they have those wildlife illustrations you were talking about—”
“No, you can’t,” Olivia said. “It’s too far away. Am I in trouble?”
“You?” I was surprised. “Oh, Olivia, of course not! Why would you be in trouble?”
“Then why is my uncle Rick so mad?” she asked. “And why is Mr. Jenkins here? I thought Aunt Catherine told you it was all right for me to come with you to New York.”
“She did,” I said, with a sigh. “But things have gotten a bit more . . . complicated since then.”
It was only when I saw the anxiety in her eyes that I realized nothing I’d said had been the least bit comforting. What was I doing, telling her things were complicated? She knew that already!
And my telling her not to worry was no use. Children’s fears are perfectly legitimate, and deserve to be validated, not dismissed, especially when, like in this case, they were over something that very directly concerned her.
What kind of big sister was I being to her by not answering her questions? What kind of mother was I going to be to my own children if, in an effort to protect them, I tried to shield them from everything that might possibly hurt them? Shielding them from bullets, the way Prince Albert had shielded Queen Victoria, was one thing.
But kids whose parents shield them from the truth—censoring their reading material, lying to them about who their parents really are, cushioning them from every possible blow—are the ones who tend to get hurt the worst once they get out into the real world . . . not because the truth is so awful, but because they haven’t been taught the skills they need to handle it.
And suddenly it hit me—with even more force than Dr. Delgado’s announcement a few hours earlier—that this is what my grandmother’s princess lessons, tedious as they’d seemed, had been about all along. Not standing up straight, or using the correct fork, but preparing me for the real world. The wonderful, amazing, but occasionally distasteful and sometimes even horrifying world where most people are incredibly decent and well meaning, but occasionally you do encounter someone who is going to try to use you, or even abuse you, and when that happens, there isn’t always going to be a bodyguard—or a parent—around to rescue you.
Grandmère never cushioned a single blow, and this is why: I needed to know the truth, just like Olivia, because a princess needs those skills to survive.
Well, I wasn’t going to be quite as brutal with Olivia as our grandmother had been with me, but I wasn’t going to sugarcoat it either.
“There’s some stuff about your uncle that we recently found out—it’s why I came out to Cranbrook in the first place to get you, aside from the fact that I wanted to know you, because you’re my sister,” I explained to her, pulling her down beside me on the wrought-iron bench as, below us, taxi horns honked. “Nothing’s been proven yet, since the Royal Genovian Guard is still investigating. But we believe your aunt and uncle have been using money meant for you to fund their business—”
Olivia didn’t look particularly surprised to hear any of this. In fact, it almost seemed as if she’d suspected it herself.
“Oh,” she said. “I get it. They don’t want to give me up because they don’t want to give up the money Dad sends for me every month.”
“No,” I said quickly. “We don’t know that at all. I’m sure your aunt loves you very much.”
Seeing the skeptical look she shot me, I added, wanly, “In her own way.”
“Then why,” Olivia demanded, “did they bring Annabelle’s dad with them?”
“Well,” I said, “your aunt has legal guardianship of you. So if she’s changed her mind and doesn’t want you to stay with us any longer, there’s nothing we can do . . . at least for now.” Seeing the look of growing dismay on her face, I added, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, “But, Olivia, I promise that Dad will never rest until he gets permanent custody of you, if that’s what you want. It just might take a little—”
“Noooooo!”
This is what Olivia cried as she leaped from the bench and ran back inside, Snowball bounding after her. It took me completely off guard, since it was so totally unlike her. She was a quirky kid, but normally pretty calm . . .
Until she wasn’t.
I hurried after her to see where she’d gone, and was relieved when I saw that she’d only rushed back into the library . . . to throw her arms around her father.
He, of course, looked as surprised as me, but was running a hand through her new spiral curls, saying, “Shush, Olivia, it’s going to be all right.”
“I won’t!” she yelled, quite loudly for such a tiny thing. “I won’t go back with them to New Jersey!”
My dad leaned down to whisper something in her ear. I have no idea what it was, but it caused her to loosen her hold on him a little and appear somewhat more composed, though she was still giving her aunt and uncle the stink eye.
I could see then that she’d inherited more than a love of poodles from her paternal grandmother’s side of the family. She’d also inherited Grandmère’s ability to dress someone down with a single look.
“Well,” her aunt Catherine said nervously. “We’d better be going if we want to beat the traffic.”
From the look in Dad’s eye, I could tell he wanted to beat something, too, but it wasn’t the traffic. He was nobly holding himself back, however.
Grandmère appeared in the foyer as Olivia was leaving, Snowball on a sparkling rhinestone leash.
“Do not forget this,” she said with regal calm, and handed her younger granddaughter the end of the lead.
“Grandmère, I can’t!” Olivia cried. “Snowball is your dog.”
“Not anymore,” Grandmère said, and refused to hear anymore about it.
This seemed to cheer Olivia up a little, though Uncle Rick didn’t look too happy about it. He started to say something about his allergies until Grandmère, too, gave him one of her patented evil stares.
I’ve never seen anyone shut his mouth faster.
“Listen,” I whispered to my little sister as I hugged her good-bye. “I’ll see you soon, okay? Thanks for the help with the cruise ships. And keep writing in that diary.”
She nodded, as teary-eyed as I was. “You, too,” she whispered.
&n
bsp; After they left, we all felt low and dispirited, even Rommel, who retired to his French egg basket to lick off what little remaining fur he had left. Dad tried to make himself feel better by getting on the phone and shouting at his lawyers for being incompetent.
I sidled up to Grandmère and—in my new capacity as a mother-to-be, in which I felt I now understood not only her, but what’s actually important in the universe—whispered, “I saw what you did there.”
Grandmère had lit a cigarette—not even a vapor one, which is a sign of how upset she was. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you are blathering about, Amelia.”
“Yes, you do. It was very kind of you to give up your new little dog. It meant a lot to Olivia. And thank you, Grandmère, for always telling me the truth, and preparing me for the real world. I should have thanked you before, but . . . well, I never realized before now what an incredible impact you’ve had on my life.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised when she turned and blew a stream of smoke right at my face.
“I never wanted that bitch in the first place. She nipped Rommel every time he came near her.”
I assumed she was referring to Snowball, not her long-lost granddaughter, but it was hard to be sure. I was coughing too hard, trying to make sure no smoke got into my lungs and threatened my unborn fetuses.
“Why are you just standing there?” Grandmère went on as Michael hurried over to make sure I was all right. “Make yourself useful, and get me a drink.”
“Is everything okay?” Michael asked, concerned, as he dragged me out of the line of secondhand smoke.
“Yes,” I whispered, gagging. “I don’t know what I was thinking, trying to have a tender moment with her. I hope someday she gets what she deserves.”
“I think she’s going to,” he whispered back. “She’s going to be a great-grandmother. To twins.”
I looked up at him and smiled. “HA! Thanks for rescuing me, Fire Marshal.”
He smiled back. “Anytime.”
Dad was saying, in an exhausted voice, after having hung up with the lawyers, “They think we’ll have Olivia back by tomorrow afternoon.”
Michael raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Really?” To my grandmother he said, “And should you really be smoking that in here? I thought your doctor said—”
“I need a drink as well.” Dad grabbed a whiskey decanter from the bar shaped like a globe where my grandmother hides all her best hooch, and began pouring. “Well, who wouldn’t, after something that unpleasant? Who’s with me?”
Dad assumed everyone was with him, since he poured four glasses. Michael and I exchanged glances. I tried to get him to read my mind. Not now. We are not telling them now. Now is not the time.
I couldn’t tell whether or not I’d succeeded.
“Uh,” I said as Dad passed me a glass. The fumes from inside it made my eyes water. “None for me, thanks. I’m not really in the mood.”
“Well, you should be,” my father continued. “Because it’s not all bad news.” He raised his glass. “As of a few hours ago, Cousin Ivan has officially withdrawn from the election for prime minister of Genovia.”
I kept my glass in the air as Michael and Grandmère said “Cheers” and took a sip. “Oh, wow, Dad. That’s great.”
“It is great,” my father said. “For Deputy Minister Dupris.”
“Wait . . .” I lowered my glass. “Why is it great for her?”
“Because I’ve decided to withdraw from the race as well,” Dad said. I noticed he didn’t make eye contact with his mother as he said this. “And when I do, that will make her the only viable candidate.”
I heard the sound of smashing glass. When I turned, I saw that Grandmère had thrown her whiskey into the marble fireplace. She was shaking almost as much as Rommel usually did, only from rage, not from having no fur.
“I knew it!” she cried, her face a mask of fury. “I knew it! It’s because of that woman, isn’t it?”
Stunned at this outburst, I swung my astonished gaze back toward my father. Amazingly, he looked calm . . . and almost cheerful. Certainly happier than he should have been, given what had happened moments before with Olivia, and the fact that he’d just announced he was giving up on a campaign on which he’d spent millions of his own money.
“Yes, it is, Mother,” he said happily. “I’ve decided to take the advice of my daughter, and stop following the map.”
“Map?” Grandmère cried. “What map? What kind of nonsense is that?”
“The kind I should have listened to a long time ago,” Dad said, setting down his whiskey glass and heading toward the foyer. “I’m taking the road less traveled. It may not get me where I thought I was going, but it could take me somewhere even better. Right, Mia?”
“Sure,” I said as Michael and I followed him. He’d reached for his suit jacket, and as he did, I noticed that there was stubble on his upper lip. He was growing his mustache back. “You never know. Where are you going?”
“To have dinner with Helen Thermopolis,” he said. To Grandmère he said, “Mother, do not wait up for me.”
“Helen Thermopolis?” Grandmère looked apoplectic. “Amelia’s mother?”
“Yes,” Dad said. “We’re going to a new vegetarian restaurant that’s opened around the corner from her place. Helen says the baba ghanoush is excellent.”
“Baba ghanoush?” Grandmère looked as if she were about to have a stroke. “You’re going to eat baba ghanoush?”
“Yes, Mother.” Dad stopped in front of the floor-length mirror Grandmère had hung next to the front door to her condo so that she can check herself before she goes out in order to make sure her eyebrows aren’t drawn on unevenly. He adjusted his tie, then smoothed down the imaginary hairs on his bald head. “Helen has decided to give me another chance. And I am going to win her back, no matter what I have to do, even if it’s eat baba ghanoush.” He glanced at us, then added deliberately, “Or step down from the throne.”
Grandmère was so shocked, the cigarette dropped from her limp fingers to the marble floor. Michael stepped forward and quickly stamped it out.
“Abdicate?” my grandmother cried. “B-but what would you do instead of rule?”
Dad gave her a look that was as stony-eyed as any she’d ever given me.
“Live, Mother,” he said softly. It was the softness in his tone, in fact, that caused the chill to creep up the backs of my arms. If he’d said it loudly, it wouldn’t have sounded half as convincing. “I’m going to live.”
Then he left the penthouse, closing the door behind him as softly as he’d spoken.
In the ensuing silence, all I could hear was Rommel’s panting. When I risked a glance at my grandmother, I saw that her face had gone the same color as my bruised foot . . . a sort of purplish gray.
When she noticed I was looking at her, she snapped, “Well, I hope you’re happy now, Amelia. If he abdicates, you’re going to have to take his place on the throne. And it will all be your own fault.”
“How is it my fault?” I demanded. “Just because I told him he didn’t have to follow the map?”
“Yes, whatever that nonsense even means. You know perfectly well sacrifices have to be made when one inherits a throne. Well, now that responsibility is going to fall on you, young lady. Enjoy planning your wedding while also planning a coronation! Enjoy the honeymoon, because as soon you get back, you’ll be princess of a country that’s falling apart!”
“You forgot to add pregnant,” I said. “With twins.”
She stared at me. “What did you say?”
“A baby.” I pulled the copy of the ultrasound from my pocket and stuck it to the suit of armor next to the baby grand. “I’m having one. Times two.”
Grandmère wandered toward the suit of armor to stare at the ultrasound, Rommel trotting along behind her. “Baby?” she murmured. For once, I’d managed to render her speechless. Well, almost. “Two?”
“Yes,” I said. “And I’m going to do just fine ruling
Genovia. The wedding’s going to be fine, too. Though we’re going to need a bigger dress—”
“Okay.” Michael crossed the foyer to take me by the arm. “That’s it. We’re going home now. We’ll see you later, Clarisse.”
“Pregnant?” She stood there murmuring, still staring at the ultrasound. “Twins?”
I don’t know what she did after that because Michael shut the door behind us. He doesn’t really approve of the way I broke the news to my parents (well, paternal grandparent).
But I think I did the best I could under the circumstances, which admittedly were not ideal.
Now I’m in bed with my foot up (finally), eating Rocky Road ice cream (I’m totally going to set up an appointment with a nutritionist like Michael wants us to, but until then, I’m just going to finish this ice cream) and watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer with Fat Louie and Michael beside me.
I suspect tomorrow is going to be a bad day—like, epically bad—so right now I’m going to take Dr. Delgado’s advice and practice gratitude.
Three things I’m grateful for:
1. That I’m safe in bed with the person (and cat) I care about most in the world, watching this awesome TV show.
2. That I have a sister, even though I don’t know how she’s doing. I hope she’s okay. She hasn’t responded to any of my text messages.
3. That I sent the RGG to sit outside her house and monitor her movements, including when she’s at school tomorrow, because I don’t trust that Annabelle Jenkins girl.
And I don’t care what anyone says: it’s not spying, or intrusive. It’s simply making sure my little sister is safe, and being well looked after.
4. That unlike Olivia, I have a mom, even though I can’t necessarily call to tell her my news, because it’s not really the kind of thing you should tell someone over the phone, especially when they live in the same city as you do . . . Hello, Mom? I’m having twins!
It would be nice just to hear her voice. But I know she’s with Dad right now, dealing with whatever it is the two of them are dealing with. I don’t even want to know, really. I just hope they’re happy.