by Meg Cabot
Mark—what were you thinking? Do you know what you’ve done? What am I going to tell Gloria Schramm? I promised you’d call Susie just as soon as you got back to New York. Now you’re going to call her, not to ask her to meet you at the Cub Room for after-work drinks, but to tell her you’re married? The poor girl will have another one of her episodes. Last time they found her wandering around Fifth Avenue in nothing but Uggs and a pair of Spanx.
Tell me it isn’t true. Do you know how far in advance you have to reserve the reception room at the country club? A year! If you had just let me know you were planning something like this, I could have put my name on the list months ago, and we might have been able to have a nice party when you two get back. Now what am I supposed to do? Have people over to the house? You know we haven’t had the dining room wall replastered yet from when those stupid kitchen people accidentally drilled straight through while they were installing the new cabinets.
We might be able to get a room at the Marriott if they’ve had a cancellation. I’ll have to check.
And your father says now you’ll be paying taxes this year as if you were a married man for the entire twelve months, when you were only married for three of them. He says you should have waited until January.
What size coat does Holly wear? I’m going to look into having your uncle Isaac make her up a mink. And don’t go telling me she’s opposed to wearing fur, it gets very cold in New York, and if she’s going to be having my grandchildren, I want to make sure she doesn’t walk around with a head cold half the year. You could have told us, you know, Mark. Your father and I would have loved a trip to Italy. You know the last place he took me was the Bahamas and it rained the whole time.
Love to you both,
Mom
___________________________________________
To: Jane Harris
Fr: Claire Harris
Re: Holly and Mark
Honey! I’m so excited for them! I just ran into Marie at the Kroger Sav-On. She was carrying on about how God never gives you more than you can handle and that this just means more time in purgatory for Holly, you know, but I could tell she was over the moon. She was positively glowing.
Although that might have been because it’s unseasonably hot here for September.
Still, she was buying Lender’s bagels. Bagels! I asked her about them, and she very nearly blushed as she replied, “They’re for freezing. For when Mark and Holly come to visit, Then I’ll defrost them. He likes to have them for breakfast, you know.”
I think that’s a good sign, don’t you?
Anyway, I hope you’re still having a nice time. Daddy and I are fine. He did get a few acid burns while changing the battery in the Volvo, but Neosporin seems to be working just fine on them.
And just in case you got any ideas from Holly and Mark’s wedding, I hope you know your father and I don’t care WHO you marry, as long as you invite us.
Although I do think that Cal Langdon would probably look very nice in a tuxedo.
Love,
Mom
___________________________________________
To: Jane Harris
Fr: Malcolm Weatherly
Re: Ciao!
Hey, babe. Haven’t heard from you in days. Hope things are okay.
Listen, I was just wondering—we’re not exclusive or anything anymore, are we? I mean, it’s okay to hook up with other people, right? Since I moved out? Because I sort of met someone. Just drop me a line and let me know, will ya? I don’t want to do anything to piss you off. But a guy’s got needs, you know?
Peace out,
Malcolm
___________________________________________
To: Jane Harris
Fr: Julio Chasez
Re: The Dude
Hi, Ms. Harris. Listen, I was wondering—when are you getting back, exactly? Because The Dude, he’s— well, he seems like he misses you, or something. I mean, this morning when I went in to feed him, I caught him gnawing on the screen over the window, trying to get out onto the fire escape, on account of there being a pigeon there. He made a pretty big hole in it, actually. The screen I mean. My dad replaced it, though, don’t worry, and I shut the window all the way so he can’t do it again.
And just now he kind of bit me again when all I was trying to do was pet him.
So I was just wondering… when are you coming home, again?
I hope it’s soon.
Julio
PDA of Cal Langdon
PDA of Cal Langdon
It seems fairly obvious to me that I could have handled that better.
Really, Grazi’s timing could not have been more unfortunate. I think I had almost gotten her to forgive me for my earlier, unfortunate gaffes.
Although I still insist my opinions, especially on marriage, were perfectly valid. You can’t tell me there isn’t an educated person alive who might, looking at the world as it is today, wonder if bringing a new life into it might not be the wisest course of action. Given the state of the global-economic—not to mention environmental—situation as it exists at this moment, what kind of person could possibly consider having children, when all that child stands to inherit is a planet devoid of adequate energy sources and (as a consequence of this rape of our fossil fuels) an ozone layer; bankrupt Social Security and Medicaid; and a community terrorized by fundamentalists who believe it is their inherent right to exert their values and beliefs on others, through physical force, if necessary?
Only a fool.
And yet, for the first time in my life, I can see how being a fool can have its advantages. Especially if what you’re being a fool for is love.
God. I can’t believe I just wrote that.
But, incredibly, it’s true. I can see now why Mark and Holly felt they had to marry, in spite of their parents’ opposition, in spite of what they know about this world and the dangers it holds. I can see now why it was so important to them to legalize their union—why having an easily accessible escape route from a romantic relationship isn’t always necessarily the best thing, if you want the relationship to last.
I see all these things now.
Too bad I can’t convince her of that.
Not that I thought it would be easy. But I honestly never anticipated that I might be doing it from the bottom of a pool.
Here is where the Old Cal might start bleating about how She’s got some nerve, expecting me to have acted like a damned eunuch in the past, when I didn’t even know her. This is when the Old Cal might think to himself, Why am I even bothering to put myself through this? I’ve got a perfectly beautiful, elegant, sophisticated Italian woman right here who’d be more than happy to make love with me all night long. Why am I worrying about what some American cartoonist is thinking?
Ah, there’s the rub. Because I don’t want the beautiful, elegant, sophisticated Italian woman. I want the cartoonist with the cat tattoo who can’t seem to stop tripping over her own shoes.
God help me.
She, however, has made it perfectly clear she doesn’t want me. At least, not anymore. I suppose Grazi strolling in like that, looking as if she owned the place in that hat and those stilettos, was just one strike too many against me.
Grazi was perfectly understanding about it. She apologized for not having checked her email, and said by the time she got my phone messages, she was already on her way. I believe I made quite an ass of myself, trying to explain what was going on, as I drove her back to the train station (after I’d changed into dry clothes, of course).
“I see,” was what Grazi had to say about it. “You are in love. With a woman who draws a cartoon. About a cat.”
Hearing her put it that way, so baldly—You are in love—I actually felt physically ill for a moment.
And yet—here’s the strangest thing of all—I felt ill in a good way.
“That’s n
ot all,” I felt compelled to confess. “She thinks I’m a pompous ass, incapable of feeling anything except my own sense of superiority.”
Grazi seemed to find this amusing.
“You can be pompous,” she said. Which I can’t say I found particularly reassuring. “You seem to think you know everything there is to know.”
“She’s categorically uninterested in geopolitical dynamics,” I went on, “or world affairs of any kind.”
“Yes,” Grazi said. “But these things are not important to most people.”
“This morning,” I added, feeling desperate for someone, anyone to try to talk me out of what I knew perfectly well was already a foregone conclusion, “I saw her put ketchup on her eggs. And she likes Nutella. And that television show, ER.”
To which Grazi replied, with a calmness I’m sure she was far from feeling, “Yes, but this is a very popular show.”
“It’s not something I planned on happening,” I explained to her.
“Who plans on falling in love?” Grazi asked, with a shrug. “It simply happens. We cannot stop it, however much we might try.”
Then, exhaling a plume of blue smoke from her cigarette, she added, “Though I imagine in your case, trying not to just made you fall harder. That is the way, with men like you. When it happens, nothing can stop it. Not even ketchup on the eggs.”
“She hates me,” I admitted miserably.
“No, she does not,” Grazi was kind enough to say. “If she hated you, she would not have pushed you in the water when she saw me.”
I hope—but do not actually believe—that Grazi is right.
But even if she is, what can I do about it? By the time I got back to the house after dropping Grazi off at the train station, so she could go back to Rome, the party was over, and the house was shut up tight. She was nowhere to be found. I knew she hadn’t left… her suitcase was still there. Thinking she’d gone into town with the others to terrorize the bridal couple at their hotel, I drove in, but saw only Peter and his little friends on the beach, ripping apart Holly’s garlic flower bouquet in some sort of strange pubescent Lord-of-the-Flies-like ceremony, and throwing the petals into the sea.
Now I’ve had too much coffee at the cafe, and read every English-language paper in town. The sun is starting to set, and I know I should go back to the villa to see if she’s there.
But part of me is afraid to leave this chair. Because what happens if I go back there, and she gives me the cold shoulder?
Grazi’s reply, when I asked her this very question as she was boarding her train, was hardly reassuring.
“She won’t,” she said, with a smile, “if you make the grand gesture.”
“What grand gesture?” I asked. “I already threw a party that put me five grand in the hole, and all that got me was a view of the bottom of the pool.”
“What does she want?” Grazi asked, pointedly. “Besides a wedding for her friend, which you already gave her? That is what you must do, you know. Give her what she wants—what she’s never had—and she’ll be yours.”
I had to think about that one. What Jane Harris wants. I thought about it for a long time after Grazi’s train pulled away from the station.
It turned out not to be that hard. I mean, it’s not like it wasn’t written on practically every page of her diary.
Still, how to show her I really meant it:. that was the hard part.
Of course, if it turns out I’m wrong…
Well, here goes nothing.
Travel Diary of Jane Harris
Travel Diary of Holly Caputo and Mark Levine
Jane Harris
I should have known, of course. That it was all too good to be true.
About him having changed, I mean.
He hasn’t changed. They never change.
I don’t know what I was thinking. I mean, just because he got Holly and Mark married, then threw them a nice party, and made a sweet toast, the way any normal man SHOULD have, I thought he’d come around.
Ha. HA!
It’s so transparently obvious now that the whole thing was some kind of setup to get me into bed.
I have to admit at first I was flattered. I mean, that he went to all that trouble, just to see me naked. No man’s ever gone to such elaborate lengths on my behalf. Well, Curt Shipley took me to the prom.
But knowing now that he didn’t really care WHO he screwed afterwards, me or Mike Morris, has somewhat spoiled my appreciation of the fact in retrospect.
Same with Cal Langdon. I mean, it was all just a big game to him. I knew it the minute I laid eyes on that art gallery woman. Just a kiss. Ha! Exactly as I suspected, it WASN’T just a kiss. He was just lonely, and wanted to get laid. He didn’t care by WHO. Or WHOM. Or whatever. Why else would he have invited her?
And I’ll admit, he did look kind of surprised to see her there. He must have forgotten he’d asked her to stop by.
Well, I’m sure that baptism I gave him reminded him plenty fast.
Whatever. It’s not like I even care. I mean, it’s not like I was FALLING FOR HIM, or anything. Please. Falling for WHAT? Believe me, I can do better than an egocentric jerk like him.
And okay, he DOES have those nice sinewy, tanned hands. And those blue eyes. And he likes cats. And he’s a great kisser. And he’s super smart, but can still be funny when he lets himself.
So what? He has a lot of faults, too. He thinks he knows everything, when, very clearly, he does not, particularly when it comes to human relations.
And he writes books I wouldn’t pick up to read if I even were dying of boredom.
And, though I can’t be sure of it, I think I caught him looked at me a little funny this morning when he saw me putting ketchup on my eggs.
Who needs that? Not me. No, sir. I’m sticking to nice guys. Like Malcolm. Well, not Malcolm, exactly, since he’s clearly moved on, which… good for him.
But I mean simple guys, like Malcolm. Guys who don’t play head games. Guys with a wry appreciation of life’s vagaries. Cal doesn’t appreciate anything wryly. Well, except for maybe my grammatical errors.
Oh. Wait. War.
Okay. Peter won.
Whatever.
Where was I?
Oh, yeah.
The first thing I’m going to do when I get back home is register for some kind of class at the Learning Annex. I don’t know what. But some kind of class a simple guy would take. Like pottery, maybe. Or Italian! Yeah. How to speak Italian. I bet a lot of guys take that class. And then I can meet a nice, simple guy, and next time I come back to Italy, I’ll bring him along.
Because even though this country has its faults—the three-hour lunches, where everything, even SHOE stores, is closed… not to mention the lack of toilets, like at Amici Amore, or just the seats, like that restaurant in Porto Recanati—it can also be super nice. When I made Peter drop me off in town today after the party, when he and Annika and everyone else went to harass Holly and Mark at their hotel, I walked around a little, got myself a nice gelato, sat down in a little palazzo, and just relaxed.
I haven’t been able to do much relaxing since I got to Italy—well, except for like five minutes by the pool that one day—what with the sightseeing and the worrying about Holly and Mark’s wedding not working out and the whole Cal thing.
But today I relaxed, and I looked around, and I… well, I liked what I saw. Italy, I mean. Well, Le Marche, anyway. They’re all so friendly, and say hi to one another as they pass on the street.
And all of the windows have flower boxes instead of fire escapes on them, because none of the buildings is more than two stories high.
And because the buildings are so low, the sky looks HUGE overhead, like in Wyoming, or something. Only it’s a blue like it never gets in New York, on account of all the pollution from the traffic. Here, most everyone rides scooters, or at most, they have tiny little Smart Cars.
Even the ice cream tastes better than back in America. That was the best pistachio I ever had.
And the pace of life is kind of catching. I mean, I definitely don’t approve of three-hour lunches. But if you NEED to take that long for lunch, it’s nice that it’s not frowned on. Like it would be in Manhattan. I mean, can you imagine if you worked on Wall Street or whatever and you tried to tell your boss you wouldn’t be back for three hours?
There’s something kind of nice about the way no one hurries, and how there always seems to be time for a cup of coffee and a friendly Buon giorno.
It’s a shame we have to leave Friday, really. I mean, not that I’ll be sad to say good-bye forever to SOME people I’ve met here. But I think I’ll miss this place. And Peter. And even his great-grandmother and snotty Annika (whom, when she asked me what she was supposed to do with Holly’s bouquet after she caught it, I told it was traditional to shred the flowers to pieces and throw them into the sea for good luck) and the mayor and the smell of horses drifting into my bedroom window in the morning and those skinny cats and the oven that you can’t turn on without the lights going out and all of the Virgin Marys and the castles on every hillside and…
Well, just everything.
Except HIM.
After I take that class at the Learning Annex—on how to speak Italian—and I meet that guy—you know, the simple one who’ll be able to appreciate life’s vagaries—we’ll come back to Italy, and we’ll have a fabulous time, because both of us will know what carabinieri are, and neither of us will laugh at the other’s mistakes, unlike—
HIM.
Oh, my God. He’s back.
He has some nerve.
Oh, and look. His face still has that same hangdog expression that he had on when I left. What happened, Cal? Did your Italian skank refuse to put out when she saw how stupid you look sitting at the bottom of the pool?
Huh. He’s trying to make conversation. Yeah, nice try, buddy. But you’re not going to get anywhere in front of the kid. Why do you think I invited him over here? Yeah, not because I have such a burning love for card games. No, it was because I had a feeling you’d come crawling back. And I know you aren’t going to be talking about us if there’s a third party—