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Those four little words, however, momentarily robbed me of breath with their sweet simplicity.
Of course. Of course she wanted to meet her dad. How could I have been so stupid? What else was a little girl who’d never known her father—never really had a parent at all—going to want?
“Oh. Right,” I said, my heart rolling over in my chest. Up until that second, I hadn’t even thought about where we were going. Away, was all I’d said to François. Just take us away . . . away from that awful school and that terrible Annabelle and all those kids throwing themselves against the car and Aunt Catherine and Cranbrook.
But clearly I needed to take her to meet her father, and right that second, before I did another thing.
I wasn’t sure Dad was going to agree, but I didn’t care.
“Of course. François? New York City, please.”
He nodded. “Yes, Your Highness.”
Olivia looked a little nervous at this development. “Wait . . . my dad is in New York City?”
“He is,” Lilly said, leaning forward to thrust her right hand toward Olivia. “Only sixty-four miles away, and you never even knew it, did you? Lilly Moscovitz, by the way, but you can call me Aunt Lilly. I’m your sister’s cool friend.”
“Hey!” Tina protested.
“Lilly’s teasing you,” I explained to Olivia as she politely shook Lilly’s hand. “All my friends are cool.”
“Not true,” Lilly said as she continued to pump Olivia’s hand. “I’m the one you’re going to want to come to with all your questions about boys—”
“No.” I reached out and disengaged their hands, laying Olivia’s back in her lap. “Do not go to her.”
“Come to me,” Tina said firmly. “I’m your aunt Tina. I’m in medical school.”
“Okay,” Olivia said faintly. “But I’m only twelve.”
Hoping to distract her—and myself, since I’d been feeling a little teary-eyed since she’d asked about meeting her father—I asked Olivia, “Would you like a soda?” It was the only thing I could think of to say. Who wouldn’t be thirsty after an ordeal like the one we’d just gone through in the parking lot?
“Yes, please,” Olivia said, looking bewildered by her exchange with my friends . . . and no wonder, since they’re psychotic. “So we’re going to New York City right now?”
“Yes,” I said as I was pouring her soda. “That’s not a problem, is it?”
She shook her head, her braids flying.
“I guess not. Dad always said we would meet someday, but not until I was much older.”
I nearly spilled the soda. “He did? When did he say that?”
“In his letters,” she informed me matter-of-factly. “We’ve been writing letters to each other for a long time.”
I couldn’t believe it. My dad, who’d been so freaked out the night before about being Olivia’s sole parent, had been in communication with her this entire time? Well, written communication, but communication just the same. He’d led me to think horrible things about him—that he’d allowed this child to live in total ignorance of his existence—that weren’t even true!
“He gives me all kinds of advice,” Olivia prattled on, accepting the soda I passed her. She certainly isn’t shy, which is definitely a positive if you’re going to be thrust into the international spotlight. “Like he said it was good to keep a diary. He told me it really helps to write down your feelings when you get overwhelmed.”
“Gee, I wonder where he got that idea,” I murmured.
“What do you mean?” she asked curiously.
I hadn’t meant for her to overhear me.
“Oh, nothing. My mom told me to do the same thing—write down my feelings in a diary when I thought I was getting overwhelmed—when I was about your age.”
“Really? Your mom is still alive?”
“Yes. She lives in New York City, too.”
