Okay, maybe I overreacted. Olivia obviously loves her new blue nails and spiral curls (and Grandmère, and I don’t think it’s only because Grandmère has allowed her to name the new poodle Snowball, of all things).

But sometimes I think the entire world has gone mad.

That’s when Michael realized he’d forgotten an important meeting at the office and left.

•   Note to self: Is it possible Michael left only because he couldn’t handle all the estrogen in the room from three—possibly more, if either of the babies is a girl—female Renaldos? Check with his assistant to see if he really had a meeting. No, don’t. Do not be this person.

After everyone had calmed down a bit, Grandmère and Olivia and “Snowball” and Rommel and I went to lunch at the Four Seasons (for “bonding” time), where I ordered every dessert on the menu because Olivia didn’t seem particularly enthusiastic about anything else, and that’s what I felt like eating anyway.

(Although Grandmère remarked about how I ought to be “slimming” before the wedding, not trying to increase my caloric intake as much as possible. HA! Wait until she finds out the truth.)

Now we’re going back to the hotel because Grandmère says that’s where Dad is and he’s going to “hear about” my appalling behavior.

He’s going to “hear about” a lot more than that.

Things to do:

1.   Make appointment with ob-gyn.

2.   Break the news to Mom that she’s going to be a grandmother. Make sure she knows none of her friends can have the placenta for their weird art projects!

3.   Tell Lilly she’s going to be an aunt. Ask her to be godmother? But no fairy jokes.

4.   Start interviewing nannies. No robots.

5.   Ask Lana what labor feels like No, better not ask Lana anything

6.   Ask the vet how to prepare Fat Louie for a new baby. Will he be jealous?

7.   What if Michael wants Boris to be godfather? NO.

CHAPTER 66

7:00 p.m., Thursday, May 7

Third-Floor Apartment

Consulate General of Genovia

Everything is a disaster.

When I got to Grandmère’s this afternoon and went into the library to speak to my dad, I interrupted a meeting he was having. A meeting with Olivia’s aunt and uncle and their lawyer, Bill Jenkins, Annabelle’s dad.

Actually, I didn’t know it was Olivia’s uncle because I’d never seen him before (except in the surveillance photos José had taken), but he had red hair and was wearing a light gray suit with a shirt that was open at the collar to show a lot of gold necklaces. So naturally I assumed he was Grandmère’s nemesis, the “bohunk ginger.”

Annabelle’s dad looked exactly like her, only much larger, male, and wearing a suit and tie instead of a schoolgirl uniform.

It turned out neither of my guesses were wrong.

“What it boils down to, Your Highness,” Mr. Jenkins was saying as I walked in, “is that my client is not willing at this time to give up her—”

“Oh,” I said, startled. “I beg your pardon.”

“It’s all right,” my father said, looking weary. “You might as well hear this.”

“Hear what?” I asked. I instantly had a very bad feeling about what I was about to hear.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t aware that Olivia had followed me into the room (as little sisters, and poodle puppies, apparently have a tendency to do).

When her uncle saw her, he leaped from his chair and said, “Finally. There she is. Olivia, get your things, you’re going home right now.”

I was appalled. I thought we’d had the visitation thing all worked out.

But evidently not.

True, in typical Genovian fashion, we had kind of left it up to a recent law school grad who hasn’t yet passed the bar, a New York law firm employed by the royal family of Genovia, and a crisis management team belonging to my ex-boyfriend’s uncle, who is now suing us. This probably hadn’t been the best idea.

So that made it even worse when I heard Olivia say, in the sweetest voice possible, “Oh, I know I missed school today, Uncle Rick, but it was an excused absence. Grandma totally phoned in—”

“I don’t care,” her uncle said, without the slightest hint of sympathy. “Go and get your things.”

I hadn’t even officially met him, but already I strongly disliked him. And I could tell from the dangerous glint in my dad’s eye that I wasn’t the only one.

“Rick,” Catherine said. She looked as if she’d been crying. “Must you—?”

That’s when I heard Olivia’s uncle snap at his wife to shut up, and inform her that everything was all her fault in the first place for having been stupid enough to have allowed Olivia to leave Cranbrook with me in the first place.

When my dad rose so quickly from his desk that his chair fell over and barked, “Would you like to say that again, Mr. O’Toole, this time to someone your own size?” I whirled around to seize my sister’s hand.

“Let’s go into the other room,” I whispered to her. I realized the library was not a particularly safe atmosphere for either Olivia or myself to be in at that moment.

As I was dragging her out onto the balcony on which my father and mother had stood the night before and possibly rekindled their love, Michael came up, smiling, having returned from his fictional office meeting. He was completely oblivious to everything that was going on.