by Meg Cabot
A party of people we never met before this week—some we never met before today—but a party nonetheless. Thrown together at the last minute by a man who, as of midnight last night, was still insisting love is nothing but the result of a chemical imbalance in the brain.
Holly looks so happy over there, dancing with the mayor! It’s almost as if she were dancing with her dad after all.
And Mark, dancing with—well, whoever that is. Oh, wait, Annika called her Mutti, so she must be the mayor’s wife. He looks blissfully happy too. The two of them seem to be over the moon. This is SO MUCH better than eloping down at City Hall back home. This is like… well, what the reception would have been like if Holly’s mother had planned it.
It wouldn’t have happened—any of it—without the man who’s been insisting from the beginning that Mark and Holly were making a horrible mistake. Cal Langdon did it. Cal did it ALL.
This is just unbelievable. I wish I had thought of something so sweet. Why didn’t he ask me? I totally would have chipped in.
But apparently I’m the enemy now, judging by the way he’s avoided speaking to me all morning— except once to say that my Christian Louboutin pump had come unbuckled. Only he didn’t call them Christian Louboutins. He said, “Your, um, shoe is coming undone.”
I guess I can’t really blame him. I mean, about the not-speaking-to-me thing. I really was pretty brutal to him last night. It was just a kiss, after all. I don’t know why I had to jump to the conclusion that all he wanted was a roll in the hay. I’m so STUPID sometimes. I’ve blown it with yet another great guy.
But how was I to know he was planning this lovely party all along? I mean, what’s someone who claims not to believe in love doing, throwing a wedding reception? Not to mention rushing in and SAVING the wedding in the first place. How could I have misjudged him so BADLY?
But the brain-chemical thing. I mean, there’s still THAT—
Peter just wandered over here and asked me to dance again. This is the third time. I was like, “Peter, why don’t you ask Annika to dance?”
I said it kind of loudly, since Annika is standing nearby. She doesn’t exactly look like she wishes I hadn’t mentioned it.
Then again, her English isn’t as good as Peter’s. In fact, she should probably be in school. Half the wedding guests look like they’re skipping calculus to be here. Did Cal get this declared as a local holiday on top of everything else? Or is it Italian tradition for everyone in the village to abandon their schools and workplaces whenever zany Americans take it into their heads to be married in their town?
Anyway, Peter is telling me he CAN’T ask Annika to dance, as she’ll just say no.
“Annika,” I say. “If Peter asks you to dance, will you say no?”
Ha. Annika just shook her head, blushing. BLUSHING!
So I shoved Peter over there, and the two of them are slow-dancing to “Killer Queen.”
Because of course Holly keeps insisting Peter play Cal’s Queen CD over and over again. “Fat-Bottomed Girls” really IS her official wedding theme song.
Oooh, Cal is smacking one of Zio Matteo’s spoons against the side of a champagne flute. He’s going to make a speech!
Oh, dear. Considering how he feels about the occasion—or did until his mysterious change of heart this morning—“Down the hatch, and through the gums, look out stomach, here she comes,” is about as eloquent as I imagine this is going to get.
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To: Darrin Caputo
Fr: Holly Caputo
Re: I’m MARRIED!!!!
Well, I did it. Mark and I are married. I sent Mom and Dad a telegram, but they won’t get it until tomorrow.
Still, I wanted you to be the first to know.
I hope you’re happy for me. I’m over the moon, myself. The only thing that could possibly be better than this is if you were here.
Jane’s been so great—there was a snag with our paperwork, and they almost weren’t going to let us go through with it, but Jane drove all the way to Rome and perjured herself on our behalf, along with Mark’s friend Cal, who’s also thrown us the sweetest reception right here at Zio Matteo’s. He just gave the most elegant toast, and since I know Bobby collects them, I tried to write it down as best I could. It went:
“Thanks everyone for coming here today. I know not all of you speak English, so I’ll try to make this brief. I’ve known Mark Levine since the two of us were in Osh Kosh overalls. And though I haven’t always approved of every choice he’s made—I still think he should have gone out for the MLB instead of medical school, but he always did have a rescue complex, and wanted to save lives instead of hit homers for a living—this one—marrying Holly—is one even I can support. People in Mark’s field can’t leave anything well enough alone. They’ve even analyzed the chemical make-up of love. When we fall in love, our brains are flooded with something called phenylethylamine. It’s a stimulant that can be found in chocolate, and, like the effects of chocolate on the mood, it doesn’t last.
“But for the lucky few—and I believe Mark and Holly fall into this category—even as the human body builds up a tolerance to the “love” drug, other chemicals—endorphins—rush in. Endorphins are what flood the brain when long-term lovers touch. They’re what give them that secure, comfortable, old-shoe feeling. But to keep things from getting TOO comfortable—and keep them exciting—a healthy dose of naturally occurring oxytocin gets released too, increasing desire, and stimulating—
“Well, I think I can leave the rest to your imagination. Right now I’d like you all to just raise your glass and say, Congratulations, Mark and Holly. May your lives together be blessed with health, happiness, and many, many endorphins.”
Isn’t that sweet? Everyone else really seemed to think so. I had no idea Mark’s friend could be so eloquent. I think he really knocked poor Janie for a loop, too, because she just stood there staring at him with the funniest look on her face!
Whoops, Mark wants to dance again—more later. I hope you can read this, I have to admit, I’m a little tipsy!
Much love,
Holly
Travel Diary of Jane Harris
Travel Diary of Holly Caputo and Mark Levine
Jane Harris
OK, I’m scared now. Something’s happened to Cal Langdon.
Seriously. It’s as if he snapped or something in the night. Maybe his Wellbutrin ran out. Or maybe he started actually TAKING Wellbutrin.
What gives???? First that thing this morning in the mayor’s office. Then this party he’s throwing for two people whom, at the beginning of the week, he didn’t even think should get married in the first place. He had to have spent a small fortune on all of this champagne alone.
And Holly just came up to me—three sheets to the wind, but whatever, it’s her wedding day, she deserves to enjoy it— and slurred, “Oh my Go’, Janie, d’you know what Cal did? D’you know what Cal DID?”
And when I asked what Cal did, she said, “He booked us a shuite—Mark and me—a deluxe shuite at a five shtar hotel right—on the beach—for tonight. For our wedding night. For a little honeymoon. All inclushive, dinner AND breakfasht…and there’s even a Jacuzzi tub in the room. AN INROOM JACUZZI. Have you ever heard of anything sho shweet in your LIFE?”
I had to admit that I hadn’t.
And that toast? WHAT ABOUT THAT TOAST???? THAT was not the toast of a man who doesn’t believe in love. Not at ALL. That was, in fact, an in-depth scientific DEFENSE of love. LONG-TERM love.
What was he THINKING?
Maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s on drugs. That HAS to be it. He got up this morning with some diabolical plan to stop Holly and Mark’s wedding, and somewhere between trying to bribe the mayor into calling in sick and phoning a bomb threat into the Commune di Municipale building, someone slipped him a roofie. Or some E.
Except that if this were true, why is he currently dancing
with Frau Schumacher in a completely sober (and yet completely engaging and charming) manner? He’s navigating her across the terrazza—ahem, and toward me—with perfect ease. In fact, Peter’s great-grandmother looks as if she just died and went to heaven, she’s so thrilled by the manly embrace she’s floating in. She doesn’t even seem to be aware of the fact that she’s dancing to “Bohemian Rhapsody.”
Which is coming to its head-bobbing end shortly. Surely he’s not getting any ideas. You know, about asking ME to dance. Not after the dressing down I gave him last night. LIKE THE HUGE IDIOT I AM.
Oh my God. I’m actually considering APOLOGIZING to him for not kissing him last night. That’s how much he’s psyched me out with this sudden about face of his. I mean, endorphins? ENDORPHINS? He never said a word to me about endorphins. He was all phenylethylamine yesterday. Now suddenly he’s Mr. Endorphin?
“Oooooh, such a lowely party!” That’s what Frau Schumacher just said, as Cal twirled her into a seat near me, “Bohemian Rhapsody” having come to its rousing (and second in the past hour) finish.
Me: “I’m so glad you’re enjoying yourself, Frau Schumacher. I had no idea you were such a good dancer.”
F.S.: “Me? I am nozing. Zees man, here” (clutching Cal’s hand. He, by the way, looks ready to flee to the other side of the room again)—“he is the party animal!”
Cal: (looking—I have to say it—sweetly embarrassed) “Now, Frau Schumacher. Don’t be modest. We know you must have been quite a party girl yourself once.”
F.S.: (dismissing this with a wave of her hand) “Vell, yes, of course. But zat vas long ago. Oh, the parties zey used to zrow at the headquarters of the Fuhrer! Zis reminds me of zem, a little. Zere the champagne flowed and flowed, just like here.”
Cal and I exchange wide-eyed glances.
Me: “Excuse me, Frau Schumacher. Did you say… headquarters of the Fuhrer?”
F.S.: (wide-eyed with innocence) “Yes. But of course. Zat is vhere I go as young girl to dance. Ven I vorked for theS.S..”
Cal: (stunned) “Frau Schumacher… you worked for the S.S.?”
F.S.: (waving her hand again) “Of course, of course. Ve all did! Vell, zat is vhat you did back then! Zere is more champagne?”
Cal hastened to refill Frau Schumacher’s glass. “Under Pressure” came on over Peter’s CD player, and his great-grandmother leaped back to her feet, declaring, “Zis is my faworite!”
Then she threw herself back onto the dance floor/pool deck.
Cal and I are staring at each other.
“We can never,” I warn him, “ever tell Mark and Holly that someone who used to work for the S.S. made their wedding breakfast.”
Cal shrugs. “Vhat’s the big deal, Jane? Ve all did it,” he says, in a perfect, deadpan imitation of Peter’s great-grandmother.
“Swear,” I say to him.
“Sworn,” he says. Then: “So. Still writing in that book, I see.”
Me: (unable to drag my gaze from his hands, which are looking even sexier holding a champagne glass than they did last night, holding playing cards) “Yes.”
Cal: “You’re not going to give it to them, then?”
Me: (Is it my imagination, or do his eyes actually match the blue of the sky above our heads?) “Give what to whom?”
Cal: “Mark and Holly. As a wedding present. The travel diary you’ve been keeping for them.”
Me: (He’s wearing a jacket and tie in honor of the occasion. Can I just say that he looks almost as good in them as he does without a shirt on?) “Oh, no. Not anymore. I changed my mind. Kind of the way you did.”
I know! Bold move on my part!
He looks confused. May I just say that confused, on him, is completely adorable?
Cal: “I beg your pardon?”
Me: “Well, this party, of course. When did you decide marriage is a good thing that ought to be celebrated instead of dreaded?”
Cal: “Oh, that. Well. Listen, would you quit writing in that book for a minute? It’s kind of distracting.”
Me: “But it’s my first trip to Europe, you know, and I don’t want to miss a minute.”
Cal: “If your head is constantly stuck in a book, you’re going to miss a lot.”
Me: “I’ll quit writing if you tell me what changed your mind.”
Cal: “Changed my mind about what?”
Me: “Holly and Mark.”
Cal: “Oh. Well. You, actually.”
ME???
Me: “ME??? But… when? Not last night.”
Cal: “Yes, actually. Last night.”
Me: “But I was so mean to you!”
Cal: “Maybe I deserved it.”
Oh my God, he DID start taking Wellbutrin! He MUST have! There’s no other explanation for this!
Me: “Okay, what gives? Why are you being so nice all of a sudden?”
Cal: “I’m always nice.”
Me: “No, you’re not. What was all that saving the day down at the mayor’s office? You blew your perfect opportunity to save your friend from a fate you USED to think was worse than death. So what happened?”
Cal: “I realized I was wrong.”
Me: “About Holly and Mark?”
Cal: “About everything.”
Me: “EVERYTHING? Even that whole phenylethylamine thing?”
Cal: “Well—that’s a scientific fact. But everything else.”
Me: “But… how? Why? Did you pick up a prescription for anti-depressants while you were in town this morning, in addition to hiring a caterer and all of that? Because you are NOT acting like yourself.”
Cal: “Yeah, well, maybe I had a chance to see how I appear through someone else’s eyes, and I didn’t exactly like what I saw. Now will you put down that book and dance with me? They’re playing our song, you know.”
“Fat-Bottomed Girls” just came on again.
Nice one. Maybe he hasn’t changed that much, after all.
Which wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing. I mean, who wants a guy who can’t take—or make—a joke?
Cal: “Come on. Give me a chance to prove to you I’ve got one.”
Me: “Got what?”
Cal: “A heart.”
HOW DID HE KNOW????
And how can I say no?
___________________________________________
e-mails
To: Listserv
Fr: Peter Schumacher
Re: JANE HARRIS
Halloooo! I am writing to you having come home from the party for the marriage of the friends of JANE HARRIS! This was a very good party. If you were not there, I feel sorry for you! There was much feasting and champagne. Some people were getting very drunken. This was very comical!!!
Everyone has very good time when the car from the hotel come to take away the happy couple for their honeymoon. Then we decide to follow the car on our motorinos, because this is very fun. We stand beneath the terrazza of the happy couple at the hotel, and shout many comical things. Then the bride, she comes out and throws her bouquet to us! The bouquet was catched by Annika! Annika will now be the next bride in Castelfidardo (in American tradition)!
But this is not the most comical thing that happened at the party of the marriage of the friends of JANE HARRIS. The most comical thing was when JANE HARRIS was dancing with the very nice Cal Longdon (who gives me 20 euros to spend on MORE WUNDERCAT COMIX) and a very beautiful Italian lady arrive at the villa. She is called Graziella, and she come to see Cal Longdon.
Cal Longdon looked very, very surprised to see this woman. JANE HARRIS looked very surprised to see this woman, also.
Then JANE HARRIS pushed Cal Longdon into the pool.
This was most comical of all! JANE HARRIS is very hilarious—just like Wundercat!
This is Peter, #1 Fan of Wundercat, saying GOOD NIGHT!
Wundercat Lives—4eva!
Peter
___________________________________________
; To: Holly Caputo
Fr: Sal Caputo
Re: Hello, this is your father speaking
Hello! You didn’t know your father had email, did you? Well, I’ll admit we don’t have much use for it down at the shop, but I do like to have one for bidding on antique Electroluxes on eBay. You never know when you might find one that just needs a little tweaking to get it running again.
Anyway, what is this I hear that you and Mark got married today at Zio Matteo’s place in Marche? Is this true?
Well, if it is true, you have made your mother very sad. She is at church right now, making a novena for you. At Mass this evening she plans to petition for a prayer of the faithful to be said for your immortal soul.
I, however, want to be the first to say congratulazioni. Or should I say mazel tov? I know in the past your mother and I have expressed our concern about Mark not sharing our beliefs. But you are a big girl now, and you need to make your own decisions. I have always liked Mark. At least he understands how a motor works, unlike some of your brothers.
And, as I said to your mother, it will be a good thing to have a doctor in the family. Especially since I have a mole I would like for him to look at when the two of you come to visit.
Don’t worry about your mother. I will ask Father Bob to have a word with her.
And, of course, now she’ll be able to concentrate on making Mark convert. You know how she loves a project.
Much love,
Dad
___________________________________________
To: Mark Levine
Fr: Ruth Levine
Re: Hello!
Mark. Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me that Marie Caputo, from whom I just received a nearly hysterical phone call, claiming one of her sons told her that you and her daughter have eloped, is suffering from a psychotic delusion.