Royal Wedding - Meg Cabot Page 0,108

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