Royal Wedding (38 page)

CHAPTER 68

9:35 a.m., Friday, May 8

Third-Floor Apartment

Consulate General of Genovia

Apparently Grandmère isn't one of those people who believe that you should treat pregnant women—even women who are pregnant with twins—like they are delicate flowers.

(Michael isn't either, but he's decided to work from home anyway—at least this morning, since he has a meeting this afternoon—because I'm supposed to be resting my foot. He brought me breakfast in bed.)

Although I think he's regretting this decision, because Grandmère's been calling the apartment since nine, demanding that I come back to the Plaza immediately to explain myself.

Obviously I'm not picking up. I decided to text her because I really can't bring myself to speak to her right now, and also I'm enjoying my eggs and toast too much.

HRH Mia Thermopolis “FtLouie”>

And I have just officially had my first round of morning sickness.

CHAPTER 69

9:55 a.m., Friday, May 8

Third-Floor Apartment

Consulate General of Genovia

Or maybe it was only vomiting at the thought that in a few months, I'm not only getting married . . . I'm also going to have to rule a country.

(In name only, since it's a constitutional monarchy, and Madame Dupris is going to be the one actually running it. But still.)

Poor Michael! The lovely breakfast he made me! All gone.

And now I'm starving again.

CHAPTER 70

11:45 a.m., Friday, May 8

Third-Floor Apartment

Consulate General of Genovia

Well, that was awkward. As I was scarfing down the second breakfast Michael made me, there was knock on the door, and who should walk in but my parents. Together!

I don't suppose I should have been too surprised, since Dad is still officially the Prince of Genovia and I live in the Genovian consulate, but still.

They said they wanted to tell me “the big news” in person.

Of course I had to act like Grandmère hadn't already spoiled it, and also like I hadn't just been vomiting in the half bath, and also like my boyfriend hadn't just spent the night, which obviously they must know he does sometimes, since Michael and I have been going out forever, are engaged, Dad receives full reports on my activities—I'm only guessing—from the RGG, and I was wearing pajama bottoms and a VISIT BEAUTIFUL GENOVIA! T-shirt while sprawled with one foot up in the completely unmade bed.

But it was embarrassing nonetheless.

“Well, Mia,” Dad said, smiling more broadly than I'd seen him smile in years . . . maybe ever. “Your mother and I have something to tell you.”

“Great,” Michael said, rushing over with coffee for both of them. He loves playing host. “Mia and I have something tell you two, too.”

“Oh, you go first,” Mom said. She was walking around, poking nosily into all my stuff. This is what she does. She doesn't mean anything by it.

“No,” Dad said. “I think we should go first, actually, Helen.”

“Let the kids go first, Phillipe,” Mom said. “Don't be such a spoilsport.”

Dad seemed a little surprised at being called a spoilsport, but after thinking about it a minute, he said, “Well, all right,” with perfect equanimity.

I could tell this was how his life was going to go from now on: Mom was going to boss him around, and he was going to love it. He's used to having a woman boss him around—Grandmère—but Mom is much better looking and also not his mother.

Michael walked over to the bed and took my hand.

“Well, go on,” he said, giving my fingers an encouraging squeeze. “You're going to have to tell them sometime.”

This was embarrassing. It's one thing to tell your grandmother in a fit of pique that you're pregnant with twins . . .

It's quite another to announce it to your mother and father, especially after you've found out that they've gotten back together after twenty-six years, and that your father was giving up his throne to make it happen.

Also, I've noticed that online there's this trend where young couples film their parents unwrapping a box containing baby clothes, or whatever, then announce, as the sweet but puzzled old fogies hold up a set of booties, “We're having your grandchild!”

This usually makes the grandma-to-be burst into tears.

I wish Michael and I had prepared something this creative. Oh, well, maybe for the Drs. Moscovitz.

Instead I decided to go with the truth.

“Well,” I said, “I went to the doctor yesterday to get an X-ray of my foot, because Olivia's aunt slammed it in her door, and it turns out I'm pregnant with twins. So we're probably going to need to move up the wedding date. I hope this won't be a big problem.”

I wish we had thought to film their reaction, because it was pretty great. They
both
burst into tears, which was pretty gratifying, and started hugging us and weeping and telling us how happy they were.

Except that as they were hugging us and weeping and telling us how happy they were, Dad got a little
too
emotional. When I told him to throw out the map, I didn't mean for him to throw out all his filters, too. He told me that Mom had made him the happiest man on earth, and now I was making him the happiest man in the galaxy, and all he needed was for the lawyers to come up with an agreement so that he could get at least partial custody of Olivia, and he'd be the happiest man in the universe.

“Your mom and Rocky are moving to Genovia this summer, you see,” he told me, “just as soon as I can renovate the summer palace. Hopefully by then I'll have things straightened out with Olivia, and you'll be married, and I'll have abdicated, and we can all be one happy family.”

“Hold on,” I said. “Renovate the summer palace? If you and Mom and Rocky and Olivia are—hopefully—going to live in the summer palace, then where's Grandmère going to live?”

“In the main palace,” Dad said, squeezing me tightly. “With you and Michael. She can help you with the babies. It will be
wonderful
.”

Wonderful for who? Not wonderful for me. Not wonderful for my new husband, to have to live with his grandmother-in-law. It's nice that Dad's so happy, and great that Mom's happy, too, and yes, I realize I'm complaining about having to live in a palace, which is like complaining about my diamond shoes being too tight, but it's a palace with
Grandmère,
who likes to smoke indoors while perusing the morning paper . . . and then the whole rest of the day until she removes her false eyelashes and turns out the light to go to sleep.

CHAPTER 71

11:45 a.m., Friday, May 8

Third-Floor Apartment

Consulate General of Genovia

Deputy Prime Minister Dupris just called to congratulate me on becoming the new reigning monarch. I congratulated her back on becoming the new prime minister.

Of course, none of this is going to be formally announced until next week, which is good, since by then hopefully we'll have Olivia's guardianship sorted out. Dad is on the phone with the lawyers now. Apparently, some sort of headway is being made.

Before hanging up with the deputy prime minister, I asked what Cousin Ivan had said about donating three of his company's cruise ships to house the Qalifi refugees.

She said, “He was perfectly agreeable to the idea!” to which I replied, “Great.”

She said she thought we were going to make an amazing pair. I said I agreed.

I hope she couldn't tell that the whole time I was talking, I had my head resting on the bathroom floor.

CHAPTER 72

1:52 p.m., Friday, May 8

HELV to Cranbrook, New Jersey

The lawyers have worked out an agreement with Bill Jenkins (and, allegedly, Olivia's aunt and uncle).

The details are confidential—I could find out if I asked, but I haven't asked. I'm assuming it's either a sizable deposit into Rick O'Toole's bank account, or a promise not to have him arrested for child-support fraud.

In any case, I'm on my way back to Cranbrook—this time with Dad—to pick up Olivia.

Hopefully. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that nothing's going to go wrong. Things have been going a little too well today for me to get my hopes up—aside from the part where I found out Michael and I may have to live with my grandmother, and the morning sickness, or whatever it is.

I'm feeling a little better. Ginger ale helps.

Grandmère's always insisting that the secret to aging gracefully is remaining well hydrated, but I sometimes wonder if this isn't actually the secret to life itself.

Dad is obviously following this advice. Either that, or it's simple, old-fashioned
loooove
. All his color is back to normal, and I can see a faint hint of shadow on his upper lip (he didn't shave there this morning. He's already looking better). He's chattering away a mile a minute about Mom, and how great she is, and how great he feels now that she's letting him back into her life, and what a great mother she's going to be to Olivia (although we both felt it would be better if Mom—and Grandmère—stayed home for this trip. Their personalities are a bit strong).

And now that I've gotten over the initial shock of it—kind of like the initial shock of having twins—I think I'm going to be awesome at ruling. Madame Dupris, Olivia, and the twins and I might actually make something of that tiny little principality on the sea. If Lilly passes the bar, I might see what I can do about getting her hired as attorney general. And Tina, if she ever finishes medical school, to be surgeon general.

(Although we really ought to hire locals. But there aren't that many Genovians who are interested in pursuing careers in the legal or medical professions, due to the distractions provided by the crystal beaches and many casinos.)

Truthfully, I'm not even that worried about Grandmère. She has other palaces that she inherited from the Grimaldi side of the family, just a stone's throw from the rue de la Princesse Clarisse in Genovia. Once the twins come, I have a feeling she's going to want to move into one of them, especially if she's going to be entertaining romantic guests, like Monsieur de la Rive.

So I'm letting Dad prattle away, telling me how right I was all along about throwing away the map, and how if he'd only “gone for it” sooner, he could have saved himself a lot of heartache.

I'm even restraining myself from pointing out that if he'd “gone for it sooner” with Mom, he'd never have met Elizabeth Harrison, and then Olivia wouldn't have been born. I'm fairly certain he'll work this one out for himself, eventually.

Oooh, Tina's texting: