by Meg Cabot
Now all we have to do is drive to Rome tomorrow, get the form Holly and Mark need, and drive back.
At last, we can relax a little. We went grocery shopping for food for the rest of the week (and Cal and Mark hit the liquor store, this cute little shop called La Cantinetta in Porto Recanati. Frankly, I think 14 bottles of wine, champagne, J & B, and something called limoncello might be a bit much, but it IS a wedding, after all, even if it’s just four of us attending) and then came home and hit the pool right away. At least, Holly and Mark and Peter and I did. Cal got a call from his editor or somebody, so he’s sitting in the terrazza, yakking into his cell, saying things like, “But I said you’d have it next month. No, I never said that.”
* * *
Sounds like somebody’s a little late on a project. Ha ha.
I got the skinny on Peter while we were in the mayor’s office, too. When we walked in, I was surprised to see a girl about Peter’s age sitting on the mayor’s desk, going “Papa” in the unmistakable wheedle of a teenaged daughter. She was a pretty little thing named Annika—all big blue eyes and blonde ringlets and knobby knees—and when she saw Peter, she completely forgot about whatever favor she was begging her father for. Her eyes narrowed in that mean way only teenaged girls’ eyes can, and she went, “What are you doing here?”
And Peter was all, “I am here on official business with the mayor.”
And the girl started laughing and said, “What business can you have with my fazzer?”
And everything was suddenly SO clear to me, just from those—let me see—OK, eight little words. You know, that Peter adores Annika with a passion that cannot be denied, and that she wants him, too, but Peter isn’t considered cool enough to date in their social set, and so she has to act scornful towards him.
It was all so obvious and sad.
Then the mayor hung up the phone and went, “Annika. Shush.”
Then he and Frau Schumacher started going at it in Italian, so I used the opportunity to ask Peter who the girl was, sotto voce (Italian for “in a soft voice.” I am really getting this language down, if I do say so myself).
And he was like, his voice dripping with (obviously feigned) scorn, “Zat’s Annika. She is the mayor’s daughter. She zinks she is queen of all of Castelfidardo even zo she is not.”
And I asked Peter if he and Annika went to school together, and he told me he goes to “Internet school” because the schools in Castelfidardo aren’t “adwanced” enough for him, and that he can’t go to school back in Germany because there’s no one there for him to live with, his “fazzer” currently being “in the jail.”
In the jail! Peter’s dad—Frau Schumacher’s grandson—is in the jail!
For what, I don’t know. But now I understand why it is that Peter is able to hang around us all day. Annika, presumably, was on her (three-hour) lunch break from school. Can you imagine all the trouble American teens could get up to if we gave them a three-hour lunch break? And all of the malls were CLOSED during it? My God, civilization as we know it would break down completely.
Anyway, after the mayor and Frau S. negotiated their little compromise, there was a lot of cheering and relieved sighs (and, from Cal Langdon, a frown), so I took the opportunity to lean down and give Peter a peck on the cheek—to thank him, you know, since if he hadn’t gone and got his great-grandmother, none of this would have happened.
And, while Peter turned bright red, I had the pleasure of seeing Annika, who’d witnessed the kiss, scowl prettily.
Score one for Peter.
Poor Annika. One of these days she’s going to wake up and realize Peter was the one for her. Only by the time that happens, Peter will have his own software company and be making millions and be dating a starlet from some Fox sitcom… or whatever the Italian equivalent of Fox might be.
Cal Langdon just barked, “You’ll get it when you get it, Art,” into his phone.
God. He is so Type A. He really needs to learn to chill, like me, or he’s going to have a coronary before he’s forty.
And how dare he suggest that there’s something wrong with MY parents for staying together so long? I asked him while we were in the hallway outside the mayor’s office, out of earshot of Holly, how long HIS parents stayed together, and he said, “They were married twenty years, and are much happier people now that they’ve gone their separate ways.”
Which is all very well and good for them, but if Cal Langdon were MY kid, I’d want to get away from him, too. No wonder they split up. The North Pole and Antarctica aren’t far enough to get away from that voice: “I told you, Arthur, I will have the proposal for you when I get back. No, not the DAY I get back. But a few weeks later—yes, well, I still haven’t figured out exactly what I’m going to write about. No, not dirty diamonds. No, I’m not going to Angola—”
Some women, I suppose, might find Cal Langdon’s voice sexy. And IT is kind of deep and gravelly, in a Robert Redford kind of way.
But the stuff he SAYS with it! EW!
And OK, he’s hot. I mean, I’m not going to lie and say he’s not. All I have to do to KNOW that isn’t true is flip back to the beginning of this journal and read the part where I first saw him—God, was that really only four days ago? It seems like months—to know that initially, I thought Cal Langdon was hot.
And it’s true that even now, knowing what I do about him, he still has his moments. Like when he pried my foot out of that crevasse between the cobblestones, and his whole hand fit around my ankle.
And sometimes when he looks at me with those too-blue eyes, it seems like there’s a light shining from out of his head, like a jack-o’-lantern—a light only I can see, and which makes it very hard to maintain eye contact.
But still. In the car on the way back from Castelfidardo, I made a comment about how ludicrous it is that everything in this country closes from noon until four, sometimes five, every single day, and that really, it isn’t any wonder that America is a superpower and Italy isn’t, given that we only take half-hour lunches, for the most part.
And Mr. I Know Everything There Is To Know in the Entire Universe has the nerve to go, “Believe me, if the average temperature in America during the summer months was forty degrees Celsius, we’d be shutting down everything between noon and four as well.”
Whoa! I am sorry, but that is nothing but showing off. CELSIUS? What American knows how to tell the temperature in Celsius?
OK, enough ranting against Cal Langdon. Not while I’ve got all this delicious sun to bask in. It’s actually kind of hard to get worked up about anything, you know, with this sun beating down and the palm fronds overhead swaying gently in the breeze from the sea—carrying with it, as always, that slight hint of horse manure—and the only sounds those of bees buzzing and the crystal blue water in the pool gently rippling and Cal pecking at his Blackberry.
The sun is so hot, in fact, it seems to seep into your skin like thick heavy lotion. Really, it’s hard to tell whether it’s the bianco frizzante (SOOOOO good mixed with a little Orangina) or the sun, but I really feel, I don’t know, like nothing matters right now… not even what happens to Dr. Kovac on ER. I feel like I could just lie here forever….
* * *
To: Cal Langdon
Fr: Arthur Pendergast
Re: The Book
Would you cool it? I’m not trying to bust your chops. I know you’ve got a lot going on right now. Hell, if I’d moved back to the States after a ten-year absence, and had to find a place to live, furniture to put in it, buy a car, etc., I’d be going stark raving mad.
Well, not really, since I’d just leave all that to my wife. But you don’t have a wife. So don’t worry about it.
Just, you know. If you could give me a rough idea of what you’re thinking about doing for your second book. That would be nice.
Arthur Pendergast
Senior Editor
Rawlings Press
1418 Avenue of th
e Americas
New York, NY 10019
212-555-8764
* * *
To: Jane Harris
Fr: Holly Caputo
Re: Did you see that?
????????????????
Holly
* * *
To: Holly Caputo
Fr: Jane Harris
Re: Did you see that?
Hello. Aren’t you getting married the day after tomorrow? What are you doing ogling other men’s naked chests?
J
* * *
To: Jane Harris
Fr: Holly Caputo
Re: Did you see that?
I’m getting married, but I’m not DEAD. My God, who knew that under that mild-mannered Oxford lurked a chest of such exquisite proportions? Did you notice the abs?
Holly
* * *
To: Holly Caputo
Fr: Jane Harris
Re: Did you see that?
They were slightly hard to miss. Don’t you think he was showing them off just SLIGHTLY by ripping off his shirt and diving in like that? I mean, DIVING?
J
* * *
To: Jane Harris
Fr: Holly Caputo
Re: Did you see that?
Well, he’s been working, while the rest of us were just out here lounging around. I think he just got frustrated and gave up, turned off the Blackberry, and went for it. I didn’t catch anything “stagey” about it.
Wow, look at him go. That’s a lot of laps. He must really be annoyed about something—or somebody—to be swimming that fast.
Holly
* * *
To: Holly Caputo
Fr: Jane Harris
Re: Did you see that?
He’s ruining my afternoon of total relaxation. How can I relax when someone is exercising that hard in front of me? He’s making me feel guilty about all that pasta I had at lunch.
J
* * *
To: Jane Harris
Fr: Holly Caputo
Re: Did you see that?
He’ll stop soon. Oh, see. There you go. Oh, look, how sweet. He’s coming to sit by YOU, Janie! I told you he likes you. Maybe even as much as PETER does.
Holly
* * *
To: Holly Caputo
Fr: Jane Harris
Re: Did you see that?
I hate you.
J
Travel Diary of
Holly Caputo and Mark Levine
Jane Harris
Why are men—and boys—so weird?
I mean, they certainly LOOK nice enough, for the most part. Cal Langdon, in particular, though it GALLS me to admit it. I mean, look at him, sitting there in that lounge chair, with the sunlight winking off the drops of water still clinging to his golden body hair.
Oh my God, I can’t believe I wrote the words golden body hair.
Still, not like he’s got so much of it. Just enough, really.
Just enough to make me wonder how much more he’s got, you know, below the waistband of his shorts.
I can’t believe I wrote that EITHER!!!
Still. It doesn’t matter how good they look—and just how, I’d like to know, does a guy whose job entails sitting behind a desk, typing stuff, get such defined biceps?—men are still weird.
Seriously. Just look at what they’re doing now. The Modelizer, Mark, and Peter are having this totally in-depth—and boring—conversation about the Hubble space telescope and dark energy—whatever that is—and they are WAY into it. I mean, as much into it as Holly and I get when we’re talking about ER.
They’re going on about how dark energy—whatever it is— fills up most of the universe, along with dark matter, and how no one knows what either of those things is (which is a bit of a relief, since, um, I was thinking I’d missed something), but they seem to think it’s responsible for the anti-gravitational force that is causing the universe to expand, rather than contract, the way everything else does, when gravity pulls on it.
Hello. Don’t they realize they’re in ITALY? Can’t they shut up for FIVE MINUTES and enjoy the way the light is trickling through the green leaves as the sun sinks down, dappling the pool and veranda in golden half-light? Or the way the setting sun seems almost to create a mist across the patchworked hills, making them seem blurry to the eye—except for where the outbuildings on them are silhouetted against those great big purple clouds built up behind them, the aftereffects of a fleeing storm?
THAT’s what they should be talking about. The miracles of nature right in front of them. Not some stupid dark energy, billions of miles away.
Oh, great. Those clouds, that I thought were fleeing? They’re headed this way. It’s going to rain in a second.
Aw, screw it. It’s time for dinner anyway.
* * *
To: Cal Langdon
Fr: Joan Langdon < [email protected]>
Re: Mary
Hi, Calvin! It’s me, Mom. I don’t know where you are right now—are you still in Riyadh? I know you were on Charlie Rose— one of my neighbors told me. But of course I missed it, because you know I don’t own a television—so you must have been back in the US for that.
I did buy your new book. It was very long.
But they have it in the window at Books-A-Million, so I’m sure you’ll sell lots of copies.
Anyway, I hope you’re well, and not working too hard… but knowing you, I’m sure that’s the case. You were always such a workaholic. Remember in high school, when you were so determined to get into Yale? Your dad and I couldn’t understand it. What’s so wrong with a state school? We went to one, and didn’t turn out so badly.
But you got your way, in the end. As always. Well, I mean, you got in. Too bad they wouldn’t give us enough financial aid to let you go. But hey, you turned out all right! Looks like Ohio State didn’t hurt you too much!
I myself am doing extremely nicely—I have a show at the Tucson Senior Center next month, featuring my latest series of “lint people.” I really think these latest pieces are going to put me on the map in the art world. I see myself as a sort of middle-aged, female Matthew Barnye. You know, the artist who made a name for himself with Vaseline sculptures?
I can’t tell you how good it feels, Cal, to finally be expressing my creative side. I felt so STIFLED all those years I ignored the artistic part of me. I really hope you’re finding a way to let your own creativity flow, Cal. I know some people call writing art, but what you write… well, I don’t think nonfiction counts. You’ve always looked down on your sister and me, I know, calling us “flakes.”
But there’s nothing “flakey” about creative expression, Cal. Nothing at all.
Speaking of your sister, I was wondering if you’d heard from her. I only ask because I had the oddest dream last night, in which you, your dad, and Mary and I were trapped on a frozen pond, and the ice had begun to crack. Oddly, you were the only one who managed to pull yourself to safety.
So I was just wondering if you knew if Mary was all right.
That’s all.
Mom
* * *
To: Cal Langdon
Fr: Hank Langdon < [email protected]>
Re: Hey
Hey! Whaddaya think? I got myself online! Yeah! I know! It’s a miracle!
So when are you coming for a visit? I got an extra set of clubs. The courses here ain’t bad at all. Well, you know, except for the spics. But you can’t escape the spics in Mexico City, let me tell you!
Hey, I heard you landed some big book deal, or something.
Think you can loan your old man ten grand or so? I got myself in a little deep with this guy over a horse—
Well, let me know. And if you talk to your mother or sister, tell ’em to lay off me. They’ve bled me dry. I don’t have two pesos left to rub together.
Mañana.
Dad
* * *
To: Cal Langdon
Fr: Mary Langdon
Re: You
So I take it from your not emailing me back that you have no interest in me or my life. I guess the word FAMILY doesn’t mean anything to you.
Whatever. I can get along fine without you—which is why the judge granted me Emancipated Minor status in the first place.
I’m in Canada, now, in case you’re interested. Not that MY travels could be of any interest to such a jet-setter like yourself. Where are YOU now, anyway? Gstaad? Ougoudagou? Some place more fabulous than where I am, I’m sure.
Don’t worry (like you would), I’m sure I’ll be fine. It’s not that cold here yet. Well, except at night. But I’ve been sleeping in the van. Too bad Jeff can’t leave the heat on overnight, but it wears out the battery.