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There’s that giddiness. “That was the plan,” I tell her. “Just came from his office.”
She takes a deep breath. “And?” For a moment she looks terrified.
“And he wants to meet her. Like I said. And you, too. Again. He remembers meeting you years ago but wants to say hello.”
“Is he mad?” she whispers.
“At you? Why would he be?”
“Because I kept—” She crushes her lips together.
Ah. The guilt.
“His grandchild from him? I don’t think he’s thrilled about that, but he’s never been one to hold a grudge.”
“Oh. Okay.” She takes a deep breath. “We’re going to meet the king. When?”
“Now, I guess.” Hettie’s anxiety must have been rubbing off on me because now I’m nervous about the whole thing.
And I shouldn’t be. This is going to be fine. Great. It’s all good.
Hettie gathers Tema, frets about what she’s wearing, that she needs a haircut, tells her to behave six times, all on the five-minute walk to Dad’s office.
I guess it’s five minutes. It feels like forever. But finally, we’re here, standing outside the closed door.
I glance over at Hettie with what I hope is a reassuring look and then I knock. “Enter,” Dad calls.
“Ready?” I ask Hettie.
“Open the door,” Tema orders, grabbing the doors’ knobs and pushing both of them open.
“Well, hello there.”
My father stands by the door, hand stretched out to open it. He’s already shed his jacket and tie and cancelled his next meeting.
Tema stops and stares at him. And then: “Your Majesty,” she says in a clear voice, dropping into a curtsy.
“No need to do that,” Dad says, bending over to raise her up by the shoulders.
“But I practiced for years in case we ever came back and I could meet you. Of course, I didn’t know you’d be my grandpa when we met,” Tema tells him.
“Grandpa,” Dad murmurs with a sheepish smile. “So you wanted to meet me?”
“You’re the king of another country,” Tema says with a touch of scorn. “Why wouldn’t I want to meet you? I have another grandfather,” she adds. “He has a boat. And a great-grandfather. He paints pictures.”
“I know. I have one over here.” Dad points at the picture on the wall.
“Hey! I know that one. He painted that when I was four.”
“Do you remember when you were four?”
“No. But there’s a picture because I got into Grandaddy’s paints and made a big mess. If you look here—” Tema darts over to the painting and points up. “Here. That’s my finger.”
“Well, look at that.” Dad peers at the watercolour of the trees, from the view of someone lying on the forest floor and looking up. “There’s a finger print there.”
“That’s me.”
“I like the painting even more now.” He smiles down at her, and I can see the exact moment the king of Laandia falls in love with his granddaughter.