Royal Wedding (39 page)

CHAPTER 73

5:45 p.m., Friday, May 8

Waiting Room, Cranbrook Memorial Hospital

Well, that certainly did not go the way I was expecting it to.

Although the people here in the waiting room at the Cranbrook Memorial Hospital are being very pleasant, which is more than I can say for Olivia's aunt and uncle.

Actually, Catherine did try to be gracious at first, inviting us in and serving coffee, which of course I didn't actually drink, but no other refreshment was offered.

But her husband acted like a sullen schoolboy, saying, “Really, it's up to Olivia to decide where she wants to live, and I can tell you, she wants to stay here. She knows she's better off moving to Qalif with down-to-earth people she knows than to Genovia with a bunch of royals she never met until a couple days ago.”

Seriously? In what universe?
I wanted to ask.

I couldn't tell if he was angling for more money or simply being obtuse (to quote a favorite phrase of Grandmère's). It seemed pretty obvious to me that Olivia wanted to live with her father, especially after the heartrending way she'd cried
Noooo!
when she'd learned her aunt and uncle had arrived in New York to take her back to New Jersey.

But I said, exercising some of my diplomacy skills, “Well, when Olivia gets home from school, we'll see what she has to say. Until then, let's sit and enjoy this delicious coffee and these lovely gluten-free cookies.” Note: They were not lovely. “Whatever her decision is, that's what we'll abide by.”

Dad did not like my saying this one bit, I could tell, since he kept shifting on the white couch and looking at his Rolex.

But what were we supposed to do? We'd arrived too early, and Olivia wasn't home yet, and in any case, it
was
her decision, no matter what the courts said. I knew my dad would never want to make her unhappy, and he'd certainly do everything he could to keep any sort of legal battle with her aunt—and Rick O'Toole—out of court as well.

I was making small talk with Catherine O'Toole about her wedding to Rick—they had a very large photo of their outdoor beach ceremony on the wall—when the front door opened and in walked my sister, the front of her white school uniform blouse
covered in blood.

I don't think I've ever screamed so loud in my life.

Then I jumped from the couch and ran over to Olivia, crying her name, trying to figure out where the blood was coming from.

It's strange how differently people react in times of crisis. Dad did the exact same thing I did, minus the screaming. Lars, who'd been slouched against a chair, sprang up as if he'd been electrified and began calling the units of the RGG I'd asked to be sent to protect my sister, demanding to know what had happened.

But how did Olivia's aunt and uncle react? The two of them didn't even get up off the couch! Not until I spilled my coffee (when I jumped up).

Only
then
did Aunt Catherine leap to her feet. And then it was only to clean her precious white carpet.

“Olivia.” Dad was running his fingers up and down his younger daughter's arms, looking for broken bones. “Where are you hurt? Where is the blood coming from? Who did this to you?
Who did this to you?
”

“I'm okay,” Olivia said, through some cotton toweling she was holding to her face. “It's only my nose.”

“She's fine,” we were assured by a red-haired girl who'd come into the house behind her. “Annabelle Jenkins just punched her in the face.”

All I could say in response to this was “Thank God.”

That may sound horrible, but what I meant was,
Thank God it was only Annabelle Jenkins and her fist, and not RoyalRabbleRouser with a gun, or a knife, or acid.
It could have been so, so much worse. I felt so relieved.

But a split second later, I got angry. Not because I'd been wrong, but because my little sister had been punched in the face, and apparently some people—like the school, and her uncle Rick's two kids, who'd come slinking inside along with her, and were standing around, smirking at me—had allowed it to happen.

Obviously you can't protect kids from everything—like I said earlier—but there should be some reasonable protections, especially if you're paying for them, which P.S., I am.

“Where was the Royal Genovian Guard?” I demanded, glaring at Lars, who was still on the phone. “I sent them to shadow her all day. Why didn't they stop Annabelle?”

“Annabelle's dad said he would sue them,” Olivia said, through the cotton toweling. “And the entire Cranbrook school district, if they laid one finger on his daughter. They said they called to tell you, but you were in a meeting and couldn't be disturbed. I didn't know the meeting was
here,
about me.”

Uncle Rick laughed from his place on the couch. “Ha ha. That Jenkins. You gotta admit, the guy's good.”

That's when Dad lost it. I think he actually might have done some punching of his own if I hadn't intervened and said, “Okay, that's enough. I'm taking Olivia to a doctor right now.”

“Oh, please, you don't have to do that,” Catherine said, looking embarrassed. I couldn't help noticing that throughout the whole thing between my dad and her husband—which had gotten a bit ugly—she hadn't once stopped scrubbing at the coffee stain I'd left on her carpeting. “I'm sure it's nothing serious, but our pediatrician is perfectly capable—”

“You should notify your pediatrician that our doctor will be requesting Olivia's records.” I took my sister's hand. “Because I believe this incident has more than adequately proved that this isn't a safe—or stable—environment for her to live in. If you disagree, you may have your lawyer contact ours. Come on, Olivia. Let's go get your things.”

I began tugging my sister toward the stairs so we could start packing up her stuff. I was really mad.

But even though she was in obvious physical discomfort—something I understood; my foot wasn't feeling too great either—she lingered a little, wanting to see what was going to happen next.

What happened next was that our father stopped glaring at her uncle Rick and said, “Yes. Yes, of course, Mia, you're right. Let's go.”

And he bent down to pick up Snowball—who'd become very fascinated by the coffee stain, as well—and followed us to the stairs.

But of course the aunt couldn't let it go.

“But what about the promise I made to my sister?” she asked, coldly. “I promised her that I would raise her child to be as normal as possible—”

“You and I both know, Catherine,” Dad said, in as crushing a tone as I'd ever heard him use, even in Parliament, “that what Elizabeth wanted most of all was for her child to be loved. And from what I've seen so far, that's far from what's happening here.”

I saw Olivia's aunt and uncle exchange a look. I might have been reading more into that look than was actually there, but I thought I saw guilt—guilt and maybe even a little shame—in their eyes.

The next thing I knew, Olivia had been pulled from my grasp, and Catherine was kneeling down before her.

“Olivia,” she said, in a tearful voice. “You know perfectly well that we love you. I know we didn't exactly spoil you, but that's because my sister wanted you to know what it's like to live among the common people. She didn't want you to grow up to be some snobby, rich princess who only cares about her looks and getting on the covers of magazines.”

She had the nerve to narrow her eyes at me. What?
I
was the snobby rich princess she was talking about?

“That's not what you want, is it, Olivia?” Catherine asked. “To grow up to be some rich, snobby princess?”

“No,” Olivia cried, looking horrified. “Of course not!”

Catherine smiled. Her grip on Olivia's arms loosened a little. “Oh, thank goodness,” she said. “You had me worried.”

“I don't want to live with you because all you cared about when I walked in was getting the stain out of your stupid carpet.” Olivia pointed at my dad and me. “
They
cared about what happened to me. That's why I want to go live with them. Now, could someone please give me some ice? Because my nose really hurts.”

If the twins turn out half as wonderful as Olivia, I'm going to feel like a complete success as a mother. Not, of course, that I've had anything to do with how Olivia's turned out.

As soon as we get the X-ray results to let us know for sure whether or not her nose is broken (if it is, we're going to have a consult with a plastic surgeon), we can all go home.

Which, in Olivia's case, is going to be Manhattan, and from there—most likely tomorrow, via the royal jet—Genovia.

No offense to my sister's birthplace, but if I never see Cranbrook, New Jersey, again, I will be very, very happy.

Oh, Michael's texting:

CHAPTER 74

2:05 p.m., Saturday, June 20

Royal Bedroom

Palais de Genovia

Principalité de Genovia

Reader, I married him.

Ha! I've always wanted to write that!

It's so perfect, I wish I'd made it up. But I can't take the credit: it's from
Jane Eyre,
which I have to confess I've never read in its entirety (even though it's one of my favorite books) because I've never been able to handle the depressing bits at the beginning where she's stuck in the orphanage.

And I'm certainly not going to read the depressing bits
now
. I'm under doctor's orders to read only lovely, cheerful, nonstressful things, which even my mother—who is one of the people who forced me to come up here to “rest” between the ceremony and reception, though I told them I'm not tired—says is good advice.

“I read J. R. R. Tolkien's
Lord of the Rings
series when I was pregnant with you,” she admitted. “I've always wondered if that's the reason you turned out the way you have.”