In fact, because of all this, I’m starting to think my dad isn’t scared of Grandmère at all! I think he just doesn’t want to be bothered. I think he just feels it’s easier to go along with her than to fight her, because fighting her is so messy and exhausting.

But not this time. This time, he put his foot down.

And you can bet he’s going to pay for it, too.

I may never get over this. I am going to have to readjust everything I ever thought about him. Kind of like when Luke Skywalker finds out his dad is really Darth Vader. Only the opposite.

Anyway, while Grandmère was plotzing behind the baby grand, I went up to Dad and threw my arms around him and was like, “You did it!”

He looked at me curiously. “Why do you sound surprised?”

Oops. I said, totally embarrassed, “Oh, well, because, you know.”

“No, I don’t know.”

“Well,” I said. (WHY? WHY do I have such a big mouth?)

I thought about lying. But I think my dad must have realized what I was thinking, since he said, in this warning voice, “Mia . . .”

“Oh, okay,” I said, grudgingly, letting him go. “It’s just that sometimes you give the appearance—just the appearance, mind you—of being a little bit scared of Grandmère.”

My dad reached out and wrapped an arm around my neck. He did this right in front of Liz Smith, who was getting up to follow everyone into the Grand Ballroom. She smiled at us as if she thought it was sweet, though.

“Mia,” my dad said. “I am not scared of my mother. She really isn’t as bad as you think. She just needs proper handling.”

This was news to me.

“Besides,” my dad said, “do you really think I would ever let you down? Or your mother? I will always be there for you two.”

This was so nice, I actually got tears in my eyes for a minute. But it might have been the smoke from all the cigarettes. There were a lot of French people at this party.

“Mia, I haven’t done so badly by you, have I?” my dad asked, all of a sudden.

I was surprised by the question. “No, Dad, of course not. You guys have always been okay parents.”

My dad nodded. “I see.”

I could see I hadn’t been complimentary enough, so I added, “No, I mean it. I really couldn’t ask for better . . .” I couldn’t help adding, “I could probably live without the princess thing, though.”

He looked as if he probably would have reached out and ruffled my hair if it hadn’t been so full of mousse his hand would have stuck to it.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “But do you really think you’d be happy, Mia, being Nancy Normal Teenager?”

Um. Yes.

Except I wouldn’t want my name to be Nancy.

We might have gone on to have a really profound moment I could have written about in my English journal if Vigo hadn’t come hurrying up just then. He looked frazzled. And why not? His wedding was turning out to be a disaster! First the bride and groom had neglected to show up, and now the hostess, the dowager princess, had locked herself into her hotel suite and would not come out.

“What do you mean, she won’t come out?” my father demanded.

“Just what I said, Your Highness.” Vigo looked like he was about to start crying. “I have never seen her so angry! She says she has been betrayed by her own family, and she will never be able to show her face in public again, the shame is so great.”

My dad looked heavenward. “Let’s go,” he said.

When we got to the door to the penthouse suite, my dad signaled for Vigo and me to be quiet. Then he knocked on the door.

“Mother,” he called. “Mother, it’s Phillipe. May I come in?”

No response. But I could tell she was in there. I could hear Rommel moaning softly.

“Mother,” my dad said. He tried turning the door handle, and found it locked. This caused him to sigh very deeply.

Well, you could see why. He had already spent the better part of the day thwarting all of her well-laid plans. That had to have been exhausting. And now this?

“Mother,” he said. “I want you to open this door.”

Still no response.

“Mother,” my father said. “You are being ridiculous. I want you to open this door this instant. If you don’t do it, I shall fetch the housekeeper, and have her open it for me. Are you trying to force me to resort to this? Is that it?”

I knew Grandmère would sooner let us see her without her makeup than ever allow a member of the hotel staff to be privy to one of our family squabbles, so I laid a hand on my dad’s arm and whispered, “Dad, let me try.”

My father shrugged, and, with a sort of if-you-want-to look, stepped aside.

I called through the door, “Grandmère? Grandmère, it’s me, Mia.”

I don’t know what I’d expected. Certainly not for her to open the door. I mean, if she wouldn’t do it for Vigo, whom she seemed to adore, or for her own son, who, if she didn’t adore, was at least her only child, why would she do it for me?

But I was greeted with only silence from behind that door. Well, except for Rommel’s whining.

I refused to be daunted, however. I raised my voice and called, “I’m really sorry about my mom and Mr. Gianini, Grandmère. But you have to admit it, I warned you that she didn’t want this wedding. Remember? I told you she wanted something small. You might have realized that by the fact that there isn’t a single person here who was actually invited by my mother. These are all your friends. Well, except for Mamaw and Papaw. And Mr. G’s parents. But I mean, come on. My mom does not know Imelda Marcos, okay? And Barbara Bush? I’m sure she’s a very nice lady, but not one of my mom’s closest buddies.”