Royally Crushed (37 page)

“It’s not that,” Dad assures me. “I trust the two of you.”

He’s quiet for a minute, using his pole to pick some loose snow off the side of his boot as the chair ascends. Once he’s settled again, he says, “It’s just . . . do you remember when I e-mailed you in Virginia to let you know I’d be meeting you at the airport when you returned home from break?”

“Sure.”

“I said I wanted to hear all about your trip, but that I also had news to share with you.”

“Oh. Sorry . . . guess I forgot.” Duh. I totally spaced that he said he wanted to talk about what happened with him while I was gone. Or maybe I just assumed he was saying he wanted to talk because he
always
wants to talk, and it’s usually just to nag me about proper behavior. Or to tell me all about what dignitaries he had the chance to meet while he was at work that day. Then it occurs to me. “Are you going to have to travel for work?”

I knew that travel was a possibility when I moved here with Dad. Part of why we’re living in the palace instead of some apartment in downtown Freital (the capital city and, frankly, the only real town in Schwerinborg) is so that if Dad needs to go along on any official trips with Prince Manfred, I’ll be where other adults can check up on me.
Make sure I eat decent food and don’t skip school and all the usual stuff Mom did whenever Dad traveled during his last job, working for the president. And being at the palace—as Dad has pointed out on numerous occasions—means no one can get to our apartment (or to me) without going through metal detectors and showing ID first. It’s like being a well-guarded dignitary myself. Or a prisoner in lockdown, depending on how I feel on any given day.

“No, it’s not travel. This is more, ah, personal.”

“Oh.” At his tone, my throat instantly tightens up. This cannot be good. He never talks to me about personal stuff. At least not about his
own
personal stuff. He barely said two words when Mom made her off-the-cuff declaration that she was leaving him for Gabrielle. He hardly even got snarky when they were trying to divide up their stuff, even though I know Mom took a few things he really didn’t want to hand over. He’s the king of sucking it up and moving on, even when I know he’s pissed off and hurt. “Um, what is it?”

“While you were in Virginia, I started seeing someone.” He rushes to add that it’s nothing serious; they just went out a couple of times. “I thought you should know. I didn’t want you to hear about it from anyone else. And I want it to be clear that this isn’t a situation like your mother has with Gabrielle, where they’re now living together. I have
no intention of getting remarried. Or even getting into a serious relationship. At least not anytime soon.”

I’m tempted to point out that he couldn’t remarry even if he wanted to, since I don’t think the divorce is final yet. But I can’t say anything. This is so out of left field.

It’s a good thing there’s a safety bar on the chairlift, or I might fall overboard.

“Valerie?”

“I’m processing.” I stare at the white snow beneath me, studying the patterns of ski tracks weaving through it and admiring the way a sun-reflected sparkle will appear and then disappear as my viewing angle changes along with the movement of the lift.

What would happen if I did raise the safety bar and lean forward?

He shifts in the seat, which makes it swing a little in the breeze. “You’re not going to ask who it is?”

“Um . . .” He knows so many people—VIPs, their staff members, palace employees, political reporters who are assigned to follow Prince Manfred around during the day—I can’t even begin to guess. But I oblige him anyway. “Who is it?”

“Anna.”

He says it like “On-na.” Not like we’d say it in the States. More Euro-sounding.

“She’s from Schwerinborg?” I ask. For some reason, now that there’s a name attached, I’m curious.

He turns and frowns at me. “Anna Putzkammer, Valerie.
Fräulein Putzkammer
. Her first name is Anna.”

No. Way.

No. No. No. Is he friggin’ insane?

“Her?” I try not to sound screechy, but I know I do.

“Shhh. Sound carries up here.” He takes a deep breath through his nostrils, then says, “And yes,
her
. That’s not why she’s on this trip, though. Prince Manfred and Princess Claudia have no idea we’ve been seeing each other. As I said, it’s a very casual thing.”

Somehow, I get the feeling Blondie back in the chair behind us isn’t hoping for casual. And now I know why my bullshit detector’s been pinging like a Geiger counter at a nuclear waste dump every time I look at her. She not only has the hots for Dad, like every other woman on the planet, but she’s the first woman to actually go out with him since my parents started dating way back in the dark ages.

“You okay?” Dad sounds concerned, but I can’t bring myself to reassure him.

It didn’t occur to me he had any interest in dating, let alone that he’d actually go out and find someone. “I dunno. How am I supposed to be?”

What I really want to say, though, is something along
the lines of,
Isn’t she a little young for you?
Or,
You know she needs to touch up her roots, right? Because that wouldn’t do at a state dinner.
Or maybe even,
Tell her to keep her hands to herself, ’cause you’re on the rebound and I don’t want you to get hurt.
But I don’t think any of those statements would go over very well.

We’re nearing the top of the lift, so he raises the safety bar and shifts his weight forward. “You’re supposed to be worrying about yourself at this stage of your life, not about me,” he says. “And you’re supposed to know that you’re my priority and always will be.”

I mumble an okay. Before we can say anything else, our skis are hitting the snow, and we’re being propelled forward off the lift. Georg and Fräulein Predator Putzkammer ski up right behind us.

“Make sure your cell phones are turned on,” The Fräulein says, looking first at Georg and then at me, all business. “We’ll meet at noon at the bench where we put on our boots. Ja?”

Georg tells her no problem, then indicates that I should follow him down a side run, toward the intermediate slopes. I glance at Dad, who nods that it’s okay, then I turn my skis in the direction Georg’s going. He skis about fifty yards to where the trail goes around a corner, then stops and waits for me to join him. When I pause a few feet above Georg to
loop the straps of my poles around my wrists, I look back to where Dad and The Fräulein are standing at the summit. They’re studying the trail map and Dad’s pointing at something.

Oh, shit. They’re probably trying to figure out where they can ski that’s out of sight of the lift so they can make out or something. Or at least I bet that’s what she’s planning. And I have to wonder—does my dad understand women enough to know their ploys? Will he see through her? It’s not like he’s been out on a date in nearly twenty years. And that was with Mom, who was never the flirty, game playing type, and who’s now batting for the other team, so to speak. He might know how to deal with flirty women like the ones in department stores, but this is a whole ’nother thing.

He’s probably way out of his league here.

At the moment that thought enters my brain, The Fräulein leans in so her head is closer to my Dad’s.

I think I’m gonna yorck up my breakfast.

“Let’s go back,” I say. It’s uphill, but I think if we hurry, we can sidestep up to the summit and catch them before they take off.

I turn my skis to go, but Georg catches my elbow. “What? Why?”

“I just, um, I don’t want Dad to think I’m ditching him. It’d be rude, wouldn’t it?”

“You’re kidding, right?” He pushes his goggles up on top of his helmet and stares at me. I turn away, looking back uphill just in time to see Dad and The Fräulein disappear, heading down from the summit in the direction opposite the one Georg and I started down.

No chance of catching them now. No way of knowing what they’re up to anymore.

I turn my skis back downhill and wave to Georg that we can go. He shakes his head and pulls his goggles back down. “He’s an adult, Valerie. If he’d really wanted you to stay near him, he would have said so. I think he and Fräulein Putzkammer will have a good time without us.”

Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.

AS I SHIFT MY WEIGHT FROM HIP TO HIP, ATTEMPTING
to carve out semidecent turns over the immaculate, perfectly parallel tracks Georg’s leaving as he glides downhill in front of me, I decide that being unable to keep up with him isn’t all bad.

I’m guessing my speed (or lack thereof) is probably holding him back and making him cranky, but for one, there’s the view from back here (smokin’ hot, especially when he’s in a crouch, getting some speed on the open downhill sections of the run) and for two, there’s the fact that he can’t see the angry tears that keep fogging up my goggles.

How could I have been so worked up over what kind
of friggin’ ski pants I wore this weekend? How could I not have realized that I had bigger issues to handle?

How could Dad dancing in the kitchen to David Bowie and singing “Modern Love” not have worked like a knock upside my thick head to make me realize
dear God, he’s found himself a woman
?

I know I shouldn’t be so upset about this. I didn’t get all snot-nosed and crybabyish (too much) when Mom left, and that triple whammy (divorce, Gabrielle, and the whole fact that Mom’s gay) gave me a reality check from completely out of the blue. I should have anticipated that Dad would eventually find someone. In fact, I’m pretty sure that deep in my gut I knew he would. He’s a decent-looking adult whose job revolves around socializing, after all.

And it’s not like this changes my universe the way Mom leaving Dad did. When that happened, I had to move out of the house where I had lived my whole life, leave behind the best friends I’ve ever had . . . the whole shebang. I witnessed Mom getting hot and heavy with someone other than my father (and not even the same sex as my father) and was forced to stand by and watch as she loaded all her stuff into cardboard boxes and crammed them into the back of her Toyota SUV. The SUV that should have been ferrying me and my friends around to school and sports and shopping.

I crouch and lean on my inside leg to go around a corner, trying to ignore my sniffly nose so I can focus on skiing. If I get too distracted, I’m bound to catch an edge and wipe out. I really don’t need to compound my problems by breaking bones.

Besides, if I’m in a hospital bed, there’s no way I can keep tabs on Dad. Or on
her
.

I make it around the corner—barely—then straighten up and look for Georg, but he’s nowhere in sight.

He probably turned down some black run, expecting me to bump over moguls and barrel down icy steeps after him. Expecting me to be a way better skier than I actually am.

I am
so
not going over moguls. Huh-uh, no way.

“Val!”

I do a quick turn, skidding to a hockey stop, but I have too much momentum and end up doing a lame, sideways sit-down in the snow. Georg skis up beside me and offers a hand to pull me up.

“I waited by the tree back there, but you blew right by me. Didn’t you see me?”

“Sorry. Corner,” I mumble. I bend down, using the excuse of brushing snow off my rear and my side to blink and clear my eyes.

“This looks like a quiet stretch,” he says. “And see that
trail heading off through the trees?” He raises a pole and points toward the other side of the run, where a narrow path slices into the woods. “Total privacy. You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Perfect.” I sound so convincing, I surprise myself. It’s not like I don’t want to go find an empty spot and sneak in a few kisses, especially since I just passed the momentous relationship milestone of telling this guy that I love him.

Maybe kissing is what I need. Just enough to make me forget that Dad’s probably doing the same thing with that scuzzy ho, Fräulein Putzkammer the Predator.

Arrrrgh! So not the image I want burned into my brain. I know I’m being completely immature, thinking that blond equals predator, since she’s really done nothing out of the ordinary for a normal female trying to find herself a little TLC. But still . . .

Kissing Georg. Yes, I need a lot of that. Enough to keep me from saying something rude to The Fräulein that I’m bound to regret later.

Georg reaches over and puts one gloved hand against the side of my helmet, studies me, then raises my goggles. His gorgeous mouth thins into a hard line and I know he can tell I’ve been crying. Any other time, I’d find his concern sweet, but right now I don’t want to deal.

“I’m fine,” I tell him. “Just had a cramp. It’s gone now.”

“Right.” He yanks off his gloves and then lifts his goggles to the top of his head so he can study me. “Half an hour ago, when we were riding the lift together, you were smiling and having a great time. Now you’re all worked up about something. What changed?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes shut. “You don’t cut me a moment of slack, do you?”

I can tell that he’s not quite sure what “cut slack” means, but he’s figuring it out from the context. “Was I going too fast? Just tell me . . . I can slow down. I don’t mind—”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with you,” I assure him. At the look of doubt in his eyes, I say, “Honestly!”

A few skiers whiz by us. Georg watches them disappear, then says, “Come on. Let’s cut across to that trail and find a better place to stop.”

We look uphill to make sure it’s clear, then ski across the run and into the woods without bothering to put our goggles back on. We bump along between the trees until we get to a place where it’s wide enough for someone to pass by if they happen to come through, but isolated enough that we’ll hear anyone coming long before they see us.

As I stop alongside him, Georg plants his poles. “Is this because I didn’t say ‘I love you’ back?”

What? “No! I told you, it’s not about you at all.”

In fact, until he mentioned it just now, it didn’t occur to me that he didn’t say it back.

But it’s clearly occurred to
him
, because he looks like he’s upset about it. “Seriously,” I assure him. “It’s not you. It’s Dad.”