I said, “Um, yes. You mean you didn’t invite them?”

“Of course not!” My mother’s eyes were as wide as Calamata olives. “Your grandmother invited them for some cockamamie wedding she thinks she’s throwing for me and Frank on Friday!”

I gulped guiltily. Oops.

Well, all I can say in my own defense is that things have been very very hectic lately. I mean, what with finding out my mother is pregnant, and then getting sick, and the whole thing with Jo-C-rox, and then the interview. . . .

Oh, all right. There’s no excuse. I am a horrible daughter.

My mom held out the phone to me. “He wants to talk to you,” she said.

I took the phone and went, “Dad? Where are you?”

“I’m in the car,” he said. “Listen, Mia, I got the concierge to arrange for rooms for your grandparents at a hotel near your place—the SoHo Grand. Okay? Just put them in the limo and send them there.”

“Okay, Dad,” I said. “What about Grandmère and this whole wedding thing? I mean, it’s sort of out of control.” Understatement of the year.

“I’ll take care of Grandmère,” my dad said, sounding very Captain Picardish. You know, from Star Trek: The Next Generation. I got the feeling Beverly Bellerieve was there in the car with him, and he was trying to sound all princely in front of her.

“Okay,” I said. “But . . .”

It’s not that I didn’t trust my dad, or anything, to take care of the situation. It’s just—well, we are talking about Grandmère. She can be very scary, when she wants to be. Even, I am sure, to her own son.

I guess he must have known what I was thinking, since he said, “Don’t worry, Mia. I’ll take care of it.”

“Okay,” I said, feeling bad for doubting him.

“And Mia?”

I’d been about to hang up. “Yeah, Dad?”

“Assure your mother I didn’t know anything about this. I swear it.”

“Okay, Dad.”

I hung up the phone. “Don’t worry,” I said to my mom. “I’ll take care of this.”

Then, my shoulders back, I returned to the living room. My grandparents were still sitting at the table. Their farmer friend, however, had gotten up. He was in the kitchen,

peering into the refrigerator.

“This all you got to eat around here?” he asked, pointing to the carton of soy milk and the bowl of edamame on the first shelf.

“Um,” I said. “Well, yes. We are trying to keep our refrigerator free from any sort of contaminants that might harm a developing fetus.”

When the guy looked blank, I said, “We usually order in.”

He brightened at once, and closed the refrigerator door. “Oh, Dominos?” he said. “Great!”

“Um,” I said. “Well, you can order Dominos, if you want, from your hotel room—“

“Hotel room?”

I spun around. Mamaw had snuck up behind me.

“Um, yes,” I said. “You see, my father thought you might be more comfortable at a nice hotel than here in the loft—“

“Well, if that doesn’t beat all,” Mamaw said. “Here your Papaw and Hank and I come all the way to see you, and you stick us in a hotel?”

I looked at the guy in the overalls with renewed interest. Hank? As in my cousin Hank? Why, the last time I’d seen Hank had been during my second—and ultimately final—trip to Versailles, back when I’d been about ten or so. Hank had been dropped off at the Thermopolis homestead the year before by his globe-trotting mother—my aunt Marie, who my mom can’t stand, primarily because, as my mother puts it, she exists in an intellectual and spiritual vacuum (meaning that Marie is a Republican).

Back then, Hank had been a skinny, whiny thing with a milk allergy. He wasn’t as skinny as he’d once been, but he still looked a little lactose intolerant, if you ask me.

“Nobody said anything about us being hauled off to an expensive New York City hotel when that French woman called.” Mamaw had followed me into the kitchen, and now she stood with her hands on her generous hips. “She said she’d pay for everything,” Mamaw said, “free and clear.”

I realized at once where Mamaw’s concern lay.

“Oh, um, Mamaw,” I said. “My father will take care of the bill, of course.”

“Well, that’s different.” Mamaw beamed. “Let’s go!”

I figured I’d better go with them, just to make sure they got there all right. As soon as we got into the limo, Hank forgot all about how hungry he was, in his delight over all the buttons there were to push. He had a swell time sticking his head in and out of the sun roof. At one point he stuck his whole body through the sun roof, spread his arms out wide, and yelled, “I’m the king of the world!”

Fortunately the limo’s windows are tinted, so I don’t think anyone from school could have recognized me, but I couldn’t help feeling mortified.

So you can understand why, after I got them all checked into the hotel and everything, and Mamaw asked me if I would take Hank to school with me in the morning, I nearly passed out.

“Oh, you don’t want to go to school with me, Hank,” I said, quickly. “I mean, you’re on vacation. You could go do something really fun.” I tried to think of something that might seem really fun to Hank. “Like go to the Harley Davidson Cafe.”