by Meg Cabot
“My mother? About what?”
“She said we marry our parents. ‘A good idea for us to protect our personal assets?’ You sound exactly like my dad.”
“Well, your dad’s not always wrong, Mia. And you are always trying to help people. Who does that sound like?”
I flung a glance across the length of the limo at Lilly, who was now bathed in sapphire blue from the fiber-optic lights while she bent over Olivia’s homework.
“Not your sister,” I whispered in a horrified voice.
“No, you nut,” he said. “My parents, who are psychotherapists, one of the ultimate helping professions. You always want to help everyone. It’s one of the many reasons I fell in love with you, but also one of the reasons you’re always getting yourself into trouble.”
“Well, I can assure you,” I said, “after today, I’m quitting.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it. Look, I’ll text you as soon as I hear anything. In the meantime, if you get pulled over by the cops, don’t let Lars show off his gun to them.”
“Obviously,” I said.
After we’d hung up and I crept back to my original seat, Tina looked at me worriedly and mouthed, “Everything okay?”
I gave her a reassuring smile. Of course everything’s okay. It’s me! When hasn’t everything been okay?
• Found out I’m a princess of a country no one’s ever heard of, but everyone wants to move to? Check!
• Getting married in less than three months on live international television and don’t yet have a dress, or anything else ready? Check!
• Discovered I have a long-lost sister? Check!
• Exposed her identity to the entire world by showing up at the wrong time, getting my picture posted on every website in the world, and ruining her life? Check, check, and check!
CHAPTER 54
5:32 p.m., Wednesday, May 6
Traffic jam on Houston Street
Rate the Royals Rating: 1
When I phoned just now to say that I was on my way to her apartment with her long-lost grandchild, Grandmère’s reaction was unsurprising but still not satisfactory.
“But I don’t even have my eyebrows on! I can’t meet my only other grandchild with no eyebrows.”
I told her that we still have to drop off Tina and Lilly at their respective domiciles, which should give her plenty of time to draw on her eyebrows.
Olivia, who’d been eavesdropping, asked brightly, “Our grandmother likes to draw, too? That’s so great!” and held up her notebook. “We have something in common already!”
When she finds out all Grandmère likes to draw are eyebrows (and from her Swiss bank account, of course), she’s going to be crushed, but I tried to sound encouraging. “Yeah! It’s great!”
“Is that her?” Grandmère demanded. “I cannot believe you’ve done this, Amelia. It’s going to ruin all my careful plans.”
“Yes, it’s her,” I said, then switched to French. Never in a million years did it occur to me I’d be using my ability to speak French—learned over the many summers I spent visiting my grandmother, then perfected with Mademoiselle Klein in high school—to keep my secret sister from knowing what I was saying about her over the phone to our grandmother. “And that’s a nice attitude to take about your grandchild. Why don’t you have your eyebrows on? It’s cocktail time.”
“I, er, had an afternoon visitor, and somehow they must have become smudged—”
“Oh, sure, somehow. Who was it this time? Please don’t say Chris Martin. You have got to leave that poor man alone.”
“José de la Rive, if you must know, though I don’t see why you—”
“You were making love with the director of the Royal Genovian Guard while your son was in court?”
“Amelia, must you be so coarse? José merely stopped by to share with me the very interesting results of his continuing investigation into Olivia’s uncle’s personal finances, and I suppose one thing led to another, and before I knew it, we’d—”
“Continuing? I didn’t know he’d begun a secret investigation into Olivia’s uncle’s personal finances.”
“What do you think the director of the Royal Genovian Guard does all day, Amelia, besides check for bombs along my shopping routes? In any case, he discovered something else very important. Are you aware that Ivan’s grandfather—my own sweet Count Igor—owned a controlling interest in Monarch of the Seas Cruise Lines, one of the largest cruise-ship companies in the world?”
“Uh, no.”
“And that when Igor passed, he left his controlling interest in the company to his only grandson, Ivan?”
I was aghast. “But, Grandmère, that would mean—”
“Of course. He never disclosed that conflict of interest, did he? And while running on a platform of economic reform that included a promise to dredge the harbor to allow for larger—and more—cruise ships. Naughty, naughty boy.”
I was stunned. “But that’s criminal!”
“Of course it is, Amelia,” Grandmère purred. “That’s why José’s on his way to the airport right now to catch a flight back to Genovia and meet with Count Ivan. He’s going to ask the count whether he prefers to quietly withdraw from the race—for medical reasons, I think—or face public humiliation and arrest.”
“Don’t tell me. José’s going to cause the reasons for Ivan’s medical withdrawal if he doesn’t agree to go quietly, isn’t he?”
“Don’t be so cynical, Amelia, it isn’t becoming in a young bride. Now tell me about my granddaughter. What is she like? Will she make a trainable flower girl? I already asked some of your second cousins to fill that role, but as you know they’re not particularly telegenic, having inherited your grandfather’s troubling jawline. You were so fortunate to have inherited mine, Amelia. What about your sister? Is her jaw shaped normally?”
“Grandmère, stop. What about Dad? Have you heard anything from him?”
“Your father’s on his way here. He was only given a fine by the judge. And they returned his sword.”
“Grandmère, that’s wonderful!”
“Yes. You would think that—plus the news about Ivan—would make him a very happy man. But I’m afraid he was quite abrupt with me on the telephone. I suppose your antics today have spoiled his celebratory mood a bit.”
“My antics? More like his antics twelve years ago.”
“What was that, Amelia?” she demanded. “I’ve told you before not to mumble, it’s unbecoming.”
“Nothing. He’s not seriously upset with me, is he? Because if so, he knows where to reach me.”
“He’s far too busy fielding calls from the deputy prime minister about his illegitimate daughter. Why that woman can’t deal with the press herself is beyond me.”
“Um, maybe because Olivia is Dad’s daughter, and they’re questions he should be answering?”
Grandmère sniffed. “Well, she shouldn’t have chosen to be deputy prime minister of Genovia if she can’t take the heat. She couldn’t run a book club, let alone a country.”
“That’s far from true, Grandmère, she graduated first in her class at the Sorbonne. And what do you know about book clubs, anyway? All you ever read anymore is the entertainment news from BuzzFeed.”
“Which is how I know someone spoke to that horrible Brian Fitzpatrick from Rate the Royals about all this. He’s saying terrible things about your father while making you out to be some kind of saint.”
“Well, I don’t have any publically unacknowledged children in New Jersey.” Still, it was surprising that Brian Fitzpatrick had anything nice to say about me considering the way I’d treated him the other day.
“Don’t be fresh, Amelia, it isn’t attractive. And now Lazarres-Reynolds is saying the best way to handle the situation is for you to bring the child instead of Michael when you go on Wake Up America tomorrow morning. They don’t want you to talk about the wedding anymore, they only want you to talk about her. They say it will be the best way to, uh, how did
they put it? Oh, yes . . . come out ahead of the story.”
“Well, you can tell Lazarres-Reynolds from me that that will only happen over my dead body,” I said, throwing a quick, protective look at Olivia, who was now on her third bag of mini chocolate cookies and showing Tina how to draw a giraffe.
“I’ll do no such thing,” Grandmère hissed in her scariest voice. “And you’re going to this benefit to raise heart-attack awareness tonight, as well. We’ve got to show the world that nothing is amiss. Dominique can send someone to fetch a gown for you to change into.”
“Uh,” I said. I’d totally forgotten the event at the W. “No, Grandmère. I realize sudden cardiac death is an important issue, and moreover, it was my choice to bring awareness to it after Mr. Gianini passed away from it, but considering today’s events, I feel the best thing to do is cancel and stay home with—”
She cut me off faster than Ian Ziering cuts sharks with chain saws midair.
“No one is interested in your feelings, Amelia. Lazarres-Reynolds is sending a representative over right now—one here, and one to the bohunk uncle’s house—to start planning the offensive.”
“What offensive?”
“On the media! What on earth did you expect, Amelia? This revelation about your father was bound to bring him worldwide attention, and not the pleasant kind either!”
She was shouting so loudly I had to hold the phone away from my ear. I could tell everyone else in the car could hear her, because they all looked over at me inquiringly. Fortunately, she was shouting in her native French, so Olivia, at least, couldn’t understand. I gave her an embarrassed shrug.
“Grandmothers,” I mouthed, and Olivia smiled, but it was clear from her slightly troubled expression that she knew something, at least, was up.
“Now do you understand why Genovia so desperately needs a large wedding right now, full of pageantry and elegance and cannon fire?” Grandmère continued to shout. “Between this and the refugee crisis, I don’t know how else we’re going to get out of it, Amelia. This is our annus horribilis. Being a bride, particularly a princess bride, you can turn it all around by becoming a symbol of hope and beauty and joy.”
“Yes,” I said, wincing a little at the shrillness of her tone. “I understand. But in the meantime I can’t allow my little sister to be paraded around like a prizewinning show dog. I thought the whole point of the wedding was to distract the public from her existence—”
“It was, until you thrust her into the spotlight,” Grandmère said.
“I didn’t mean to do that, but at least someone did the right thing and stepped up and—”
“Excuse me.”
I paused as a voice I recognized chimed in. Only it was my sister Olivia’s voice, and it was speaking perfect French, and it shouldn’t have been. I slowly turned my head to find her looking at me expectantly.
“Pardon me,” she said, again in perfect French. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but may I make a suggestion?”
My normally shaped jaw dropped.
“Who is that?” Grandmère demanded. “Who is that speaking, Amelia?”
“Your other granddaughter,” I said. “You better get your eyebrows on. You’re going to need them.” I hung up on her, then stared some more at my sister. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“The refugees,” Olivia said, this time in English. “I’m sorry to have interrupted, but I couldn’t help overhearing Grandma talking about them? And the cruise ships? Well, I have an idea that might help.”
I shook my head in astonishment. “How could you have understood any of that?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Mia,” Lilly said. She held up the notebook Olivia had been doodling in. “Maybe because of the language class Olivia is taking. French.” Then she mouthed the words you moron over the top of my sister’s head.
I felt sick to my stomach. “Oh, wow. So you understood everything I was saying to Grand, er, ma, Olivia?”
“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
Rate the Royals Rating: 1
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.
