Royal Wedding (23 page)

But I didn't, and the result was that tears filled my father's eyes.

It's pretty horrible to watch your dad cry. I'm not going to say it's the worst thing in the world, because there are definitely worse things, like that time I went to Africa to oversee the installation of some water wells. Seeing a man driving a hollowed-out Sealy box spring on wheels pulled by a donkey down the highway, his family sitting inside it (because that was the only form of transportation they could afford), was definitely worse than watching my dad cry.

But awkwardly patting my dad's shoulder and telling him things were going to be okay when, to be honest, I wasn't sure they were going to be (just like with Africa, even after installing the wells) was up there on my list of worst things ever.

Finally, I got up and grabbed my phone to check out the menus the RGG had provided me from all the restaurants in the area that had been approved to deliver to us.

“I'm going to order some dinner now,” I said. “Is there anything you particularly feel like eating?”

I think this surprised Dad so much that he forgot about crying, which was partly my intention. “I . . . I don't know,” he said, looking shocked.
Food? Who can think about food at a time like this?
Uh, Mia Thermopolis can.

“Well, you have to eat something. Hunger and dehydration can lead to impaired decision making, and also mood swings.” At least according to iTriage, and also Ling Su, who always makes sure the kids at the center have plenty of healthy snacks to eat while doing their homework. It's led to a lot less crying-while-doing-algebra. “Marie Rose left a lot of stuff in the fridge, but I really don't think I could handle black truffle mac and cheese right now. What about you?”

“Well . . .” He blinked a few times. “Maybe I could eat a little something. It's been a while since I've had anything other than nuts at the bar at the hotel, and there's something I've always wanted to try . . . but no, I couldn't. It's silly.”

“What, Dad? Just tell me.”

“Well, I keep seeing advertisements on the television for something they call cheesy bread. I've always wondered what it tastes like.”

He sounded wistful, like King Arthur in the musical
Camelot
when he and Guinevere wonder what the simple folk do. People always laugh at that part of the show, because it's so ridiculous that royal people don't know what “simple folk” do.

But in my dad's case, it's true. Growing up all his life in a palace, he really doesn't know. I think it's another reason he probably found my mom—and Olivia's mom—so appealing.

“Fine,” I said, feeling a little sorry for him. “Cheesy bread it is.”

I figured cheesy bread might actually do him some good (it turns out he hadn't eaten solid food in days, maybe since before his arrest, he'd been freaking out so much over everything that's been going on—and of course is freaking out even more now that I'd told him he actually needed to do something about Olivia), so this explained a lot about his current behavior, especially the mustache.

So I ordered some . . . which meant I also had to order some for the RGG and the paparazzi stationed outside.

But whatever. The more cheesy bread, the merrier.

Oh, God, I certainly hope this doesn't become the legacy for which I, Princess Mia of Genovia, am remembered.

CHAPTER 43

9:55 p.m., Tuesday, May 5

Third-Floor Apartment

Consulate General of Genovia

Rate the Royals Rating:
7

Dad ate like one of those starving children you always hear about on the news who somehow get separated from the rest of their families and have to spend a few nights wandering around the woods alone, subsisting on nothing but acorns and snow, and then someone finds them running down the highway days later in nothing but a diaper and it always turns out they're from Indiana and you go, “Uh-huh, I knew it.”

Then he dozed off on the couch while watching a home renovation show on HGTV. I wanted to avoid anything too stressful, such as the news or any
Law & Order
reruns that might remind him of his arrest, and of course the election and how horrible he looks without his mustache.

He chose a show where a couple is given a choice of either “loving” their newly renovated home, or “listing” it for sale and buying another. He couldn't stay awake long enough to find out what decision they made (they listed it).

When I was sure he was really asleep, I put a blanket over him (given to me as a birthday present by the Queen of Denmark), which only acted as a magnet for Fat Louie to jump back on top of him and curl up on his chest . . . but even that extra twenty pounds didn't wake him up. Maybe his crying jag (or the cheesy bread) had been cathartic.

I just texted a photo of the two of them (Dad and cat) to Michael, along with this message:

Michael texted back:

He signed off with an emoji of a melting snowman.

Poor Michael. Since getting engaged to me, he's:

1.   Had the fact that he was getting married announced to his parents over the radio.

2.   Had the small, family-and-friends-only beach wedding we planned turned into a monster affair that will be internationally televised and at which there apparently won't be mini grilled cheese sandwiches or a mashed potato or a build-your-own taco bar.

3.   Lost his apartment to news vans and paparazzi and been forced to live out of a hotel.

4.   Discovered his future father-in-law has a secret younger daughter.

As much as I adore Michael and think he's the type who can weather any storm, I don't know how much more he can take.

I don't know how much more
I
can take either.

After I texted Michael, I texted his sister:

I sent her the photo I'd texted Michael.

*Princess of Genovia. It's been years and she still won't stop calling me this. I've given up.

Even so, it's nice to know that beneath that hard outer shell, she's still got that sweet gooey middle. All the law school in the world can't change that.

Three more things I'm grateful for:

1.   My friends, who really are wonderful (even if they're lunatics).

2.   My dad (even though he can be a lunatic, too, at times).

3.   Cheesy bread.

CHAPTER 44

9:05 a.m., Wednesday, May 6

Third-Floor Apartment

Consulate General of Genovia

Rate the Royals Rating:
7

Dad's gone. He's left Queen Margrethe's blanket neatly folded on the end of the couch, along with a note. The note says:

Mia, thank you for the hospitality. Sorry about my behavior last night. I don't know what came over me. I feel much better today. Perhaps it was the cheesy bread.

In the light of day I feel that it is much better if we don't pursue the subject we discussed last night. It is, after all, an election year, and that particular subject could hurt me in the polls. And as mentioned, I don't know that I have the necessary qualifications for that particular position.

Then there's always your wedding to think of. I don't want such a happy occasion to be marred by foolishness from my past. So I think it's best that, as soon as my legal entanglements are cleared up, I return to Genovia.

As for the other topic we discussed, on that I cannot budge. It's the height of fiscal foolishness for you not to obtain a prenuptial agreement. You are the heiress to one of the largest fortunes in Europe, and it makes no sense for you to enter a marriage without some legal protection. Please reconsider.

Truthfully, Mia, I don't think I'm the type to travel without following a map.

Sincerely,

Your father

Artur Christoff Phillipe Gérard Grimaldi Renaldo

Prince of Genovia

I can tell he means it, too, because he's used all his names in the right order.

He's also taken all the leftover cheesy bread with him.

Foolishness from my past?
That's how he's chosen to refer to his own progeny?

Nice.

Well, if he thinks he's going to intimidate me into backing down about Olivia—and the prenup—he's wrong. I'm
not
giving up. I'm going to have a relationship with my little sister, and like Michael said about marrying me, it's going to happen sooner rather than later.

Apparently not at this precise moment, however, because the deputy prime minister wants a conference call, and then after that—according to my itinerary, anyway—I have my first wedding-gown fitting.

Seriously. This is my life, as if things weren't bad enough. Last night I dreamed that Bruce Willis took me to the ballet, and when, during intermission, he turned to ask me what I thought of the performance, I wasn't wearing any clothes.
I dreamed I went to the ballet naked with Bruce Willis.

In a way I almost wish RoyalRabbleRouser
would
try something—just a very minor assassination attempt (to get it over with so he could be arrested already; one that only slightly wounded me and of course didn't hurt anyone else)—so I'd have to be hospitalized for a little while and not allowed any visitors. Then I could drink Sprite and watch the Food Network for a day or two and have total peace and quiet.

But I realize this is hardly a healthy fantasy.