by Meg Cabot
Funny. I miss The Dude. I’m so used to his big gray body curled up to mine in bed, I don’t know if I’ll be able to get to slee—
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e-mails
To: Cal Langdon
Fr: Arthur Pendergast
Re: The Book
Where are you this week? Nigeria? Well, wherever it is, just thought I’d give you the good news: Sweeping Sands made the Times extended list. Number 18. If you’d agreed to tour, we’d have probably debuted even higher. But I know, I know. You’ve got this wedding to go to. Oh, it’s also number 48 on the USA Today list. Which isn’t bad for a hardback.
Check out this cover sketch for the UK edition and let me know what you think.
Have you given any thought lately to what #2 is going to be about? The second book on your contract, I mean. No hurry, just that it’s due in a couple months, and you still haven’t submitted a proposal. Have you given any thought to dirty diamonds? That’s a pretty hot topic these days. And I hear Angola is nice this time of year.
Arthur Pendergast
Senior Editor
Rawlings Press
1418 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10019
212-555-8764
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To: Cal Langdon
Fr: Aaron Spender
Re: Things
What’s this I hear about you throwing in the foreign-correspondence towel and taking a post stateside? What are you, going soft on me in your old age? It can’t be because of this multimillion-dollar book deal I hear you landed a while back, because the Cal Langdon I knew never cared about money. I distinctly recall you saying, that night we were trapped in that bomb shelter in Baghdad, that you never wanted to own any material goods because they might “weigh” you down.
All I can say is, you can buy a heck of a lot of pot holders with the kind of green you’re raking in, buddy.
Anyway, if you’re serious about staying home for a while, why work for that rag? Believe me, I’ve been there, and it is not where you want to be. Come on over to where the REAL news is being made. Print media is dead. It’s all about television these days. I can set you up with a really sweet deal, if you’re interested. Let me know.
Barbara says hello.
Aaron Spender
Senior Correspondent
CNN—New York
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To: Cal Langdon
Fr: Mary Langdon
Re: Mom
So I heard from Dad you’re back in the States for a while—well, except for some jaunt to Italy to be a witness to some guy named Mark’s wedding (it’s not Mark from next door, is it? Didn’t he end up becoming a doctor or something else really boring? Typical).
I also heard you got a cool mil for some book you wrote, and that they want a second one. What are you going to do with all that scratch? Try to lure the ex back from Mr. Investment Guy?
Why don’t you send some of it my way? I’ll keep it safe for you. This whole weaving thing isn’t really working out, anyway, and I was thinking of heading up north with this guy who’s got a tiedye biz going out of his van.
Anyway, keep in touch. And welcome back to the good old US of A. It sucks just as much now as it did when you left.
Mare
PS Have you heard the latest about Mom? She actually has a SHOW. An ART show. Of her stupid lint/clothespin people. I don’t know how SHE can get a show and I can’t. My weavings are way more artistic than her lint people.
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To: Cal Langdon
Fr: Graziella Fratiani
Re: You
What is this I hear about you coming to Roma and not calling to me? I would not have known a thing about it if Dolly Vargas hadn’t happened to mention it during our interview. You are a naughty, naughty boy. Where are you staying? Call me. You know the number. I will come by your hotel and give you a true Italian welcome.
Ciao, amore XXXX
Grazi
PDA of Cal Langdon
PDA of Cal Langdon
Art sent the UK cover design for Sands today. It’s got a very romantic feel to it that I’m not sure is entirely appropriate, considering the book’s subject matter. Well, I suppose if it tricks unsuspecting readers into buying it, expecting it to be a work of fiction about a mummy’s curse instead of a nonfiction treatise on Saudi Arabia’s tiring oil fields, all the better.
I can’t believe Aaron Spender is still among the living. I’d have assumed Barbara Bellerieve bit his head off and ate it on their wedding night. I still marvel at my own lucky escape from her clutches. If it hadn’t been for that Daisy Cutter…
And Mary. I guess that grand I sent her last month didn’t last very long. What the hell does she do with it all? It’s not like she ever has anything to show for it. She can’t smoke it ALL away, can she? I wish Mom and Dad had taken some control over her earlier in her adolescence. She probably wouldn’t still be living out of some guy’s van at the age of twenty-five.
But I guess they weren’t necessarily the best role models, as parents go, considering Dad’s obsession with the track and Mom’s conviction that she’s the next Grandma Moses. It’s surprising, actually, that Mary isn’t a bigger flake than she is….
Much like some people I could mention. It was amusing, coming from the airport, to hear Holly’s friend squeal at the sight of every monument—and every passing billboard. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen anyone get so excited about a sign for mouthwash. I thought she was going to have a coronary when we drove by the Colosseum. I’m not entirely sure which impressed her more… the fact that it’s stood for over two thousand years, or the fact that Britney Spears was recently there, filming a television commercial (at least, that’s what Holly’s friend announced to all of us).
There is something refreshing about American enthusiasm for antiquity. I guess I forget, having been away so long, that there is still a place on this earth where there are no structures older than half a millennium. It must be impressive to see something that existed fifteen hundred years before the Mayflower….
Of course, if we hadn’t slaughtered all the Indians and destroyed their native lands, it would be different.
Good Lord. It just occurred to me. What if that wasn’t what she was impressed by? What if it was the Britney Spears thing?
But no. No, that couldn’t be. Not even an artist could be that shallow.
I’ll have to remember to change money later, if I can find a place with a decent exchange rate. I blew my last euro on that cab ride—
That was the concierge. Grazi is here. That didn’t take her long. I called her less than half an hour ago. Still, I thought she’d be coming over later tonight, not NOW.
I guess it would be ungentlemanly of me not to see her, though….
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To: Julio Chasez
Fr: Jane Harris
Re: The Dude
Hi, Julio! Me, again! Just checking in, since I haven’t heard from you. How’s The Dude doing? Does he like that salmon pate I got him? I figured he’d appreciate a few treats, with me being gone. I hope you found the Pounce. I left it on the counter, with the oven mitts. Really, you should only need the Pounce if he tries to attack. Which he really shouldn’t, I mean, he KNOWS you. You two are buds. Right?
Well, let me know how he’s doing as soon as you get a chance. No biggie. You can just email, if you want. Or call. From my phone in the apartment. That way it won’t cost you anyth
ing. Don’t worry about the time difference, you can call at any time. I don’t mind being woken up, if it’s for The Dude.
J
Travel Diary of Jane Harris
Travel Diary of Holly Caputo and Mark Levine
Jane Harris
Oh my God, this place is FABULOUS! When I woke up from my nap, it was two, and I called Holly to see if she was hungry, and she was, but Mark was still asleep, and Modelizer/Armrest Nazi didn’t pick up his phone (much to my relief) when Holly tried him… you know, to be polite, and not exclude him.
So Holly and I met in the hall and the two of us just strolled right out onto tiny Via di Buffalo, which I suppose is named after the mozzarella, which is made from buffalo milk, at least in Italy, and we started walking, and in half an hour, not five blocks from our hotel, we’d seen the Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon, the Piazza Navone, and a bunch of other sights I can’t even remember, as they all involved monolisks with bumpy writing on them.
But that’s not all! We saw portrait artists, right on the street—good ones, not like the cheesy ones in New York—and people eating gelati, and groups of senior citizens following around tour guides holding a flag, and I threw money in the Fontana di Trevi—I don’t know how much, because it was Italian— which apparently guarantees you’ll be back there someday. Which I hope is true, because it’s a kick-ass fountain, almost as cool as Ozzy’s pool on The Osbournes .
And we were solicited by a humpbacked dwarf with no shirt on and a tattoo that said Antonio on his shoulder, and I gave him some money, and then I bought a bottle of Diet Coke that cost five euros, which is more than a six-pack back home, and I realized I gave the humpbacked dwarf enough money to buy FIVE Italian Diet Cokes.
I really need to get a grip on this money thing. Although I’m sure Antonio (if that’s his name) needs the money more than I need Diet Coke.
And then Holly wanted her picture taken with a hot guy dressed as a gladiator in front of the Pantheon, so I started to take one, but then this very blowsy older woman dressed in a toga came over and demanded ANOTHER five euros, just for letting me take the picture with her hot gladiator boyfriend! The guy just stood there looking all sheepish while this went on, but Holly was all, “I want it, it’ll be funny,” so I forked over five more euros and took the picture.
Holly said later that right before I took the picture, the gladiator handed her his plastic sword, and when she asked him, “What should I do with this?” he went, in a long-suffering voice, “Keel me. Please.”
Which in and of itself was totally worth five euros.
And everywhere we went, lots of Italian vendors came up to us, another one every five seconds, it seemed, going “Bag, California?” I guess because we look like we’re from California, even though of course we’re not, though we are sort of tan thanks to Holly and Mark’s share in East Hampton.
Only how they knew we were American I can’t tell, though we were talking a lot, I suppose. And I am apparently the only girl in all of Rome who wears Steve Madden slides.
But then Mark called on Holly’s cell and said he was hungry and Cal wasn’t answering the phone in his room, so we agreed to meet Mark for a snack.
Except that on the way back to the hotel, we passed a church where a wedding was going on—or about to go on, anyway. I saw the crowd and assumed it was another sight we should see, but then it turned out to be a lot of tourists like us waiting outside a church with some flower girls and maids of honor, and we realized it was a wedding!
So then Holly said she had to stay to see the bride for luck, since she was getting married too.
So we edged into the church and stood there and waited and it wasn’t long until a sleek beige Mercedes sedan pulled up and the bride, looking incredibly chic in an ivory sheath with a tiny veil got out, beaming and speaking in Italian to the little flower girls who started jumping up and down.
I got some very good photos of the whole thing and wanted to ask her if she wanted me to send her copies (the bride I mean), but I didn’t know the right words in Italian, and besides, by that point her father had come out of the church and lent her his arm, and that’s when Holly and I realized we were standing right in the aisle, with the groom at the front of the church with the priest, trying to see past us to catch a glimpse of his wife-to-be in her gorgeous ivory sheath.
So we scampered out of the way and I looked at Holly and saw tears in her eyes!!!!
I thought she’d been stung by a bee or something so I was like, “Let’s go find some ice!” but it turned out that wasn’t it at all. Holly looked at me all tearfully and went, “I want my father to lead me down the aisle! Only he doesn’t know I’m doing this. And I’m not even going to have an aisle. Because we’re going to get married by some clerk in some office .”
Then she burst into tears right there on some street I can’t remember the name of.
Of course I had no choice but to hustle her as fast as I could to the cafe where we’d said we’d meet Mark for snacks. Only I knew it was my duty as witness/bridesmaid to get her cleaned up before her future husband saw what a psycho he was marrying. Not that he didn’t already know, since Holly cries at the end of every episode of Seventh Heaven she sees, even the reruns, and won’t pick up the phone on Monday nights as a consequence.
But still.
We got a seat right away at the cafe across from the Pantheon—an outdoor table, even. In New York, you practically have to chew off your own foot to get an outdoor table anywhere. Maybe the waiter saw how dire our need was, considering Holly’s tears. Anyway, he sat us under the shade of his restaurant’s big fluttery awning, and I said, “Un verre de vin blanc pour moi et pour mon amie,” forgetting I wasn’t in 11th-grade French, but in Italy.
The waiter totally took it in stride though. “Frizzante?” he asked me.
I had no idea what he was talking about, but remembering I was in Italy and not France, I managed to say Si and not Oui.
My first foreign language exchange! I’d spoken English with the Diet Coke guy and Mr. Gladiator’s pimp. And OK, the exchange hadn’t been in the actual language spoken in this country. But it had still been foreign.
Then the bread basket came, with a little pot of silky white butter, and we dug in, because even when she’s crying, Holly can still eat, which is one of the many reasons I love her.
And I told her how lucky she is her father ISN’T here, since, like her mom, he doesn’t exactly approve of Mark. Which is ridiculous, because Mark is totally perfect husband material, being completely sweet and thoughtful and funny and self-deprecating and totally the opposite of his horrible friend Cal the Modelizer in every way. Plus Mark’s even reasonably good-looking. Oh, and a doctor. With a weekly health column in a New York paper that’s read by millions. What more could the Caputos ask?
A Catholic, apparently.
Sometimes I get so mad at Holly’s parents for what they’re doing to her, I just want to spit.
But then, Mark’s parents are just as bad, in their own way.
“L–like it even matters to us,” Holly sobbed, as the waiter reappeared with two glasses of white wine on a tray. “I mean, I haven’t been to church since I was eighteen! Church was their thing, not mine. And Mark hasn’t set foot in temple since his bar mitzvah. We have no intention of raising our children any particular religion. We’re going to bring up the kids a-religious. And then when they’re old enough, they can decide which religion—if any—they want to belong to.”
I nodded because I had heard this many times before. The wine in the glasses the waiter was putting down in front of us seemed to catch the sun and dance around before my eyes like fool’s gold in the bottom of that stream Laura found on that one episode of Little House on the Prairie .
“Why can’t they just respect that this is the man I love?” Holly asked, picking up her glass and taking a gulp. “And, yes, he’s Jewish. Get over it.”
I sipped my wine too—
And nearly spat it out! Because it wa
sn’t wine at all! It was champagne!
Only better than champagne! Because the bubbles in champagne usually give me an instant headache.
But these bubbles were tiny and light—barely there at all.
“What is this?” I asked, in wonder, holding my glass up to the light and looking at all the lovely bubbles.
“Frizzante,” Holly said. “Remember? He asked, and you said Si. It’s like…fizzy wine. Don’t you like it?”
“I love it.”
I loved it so much, I had another glass of it. By the time Mark joined us, I was in a VERY good mood.
Fortunately, so was Holly. There was so much people-watching to do in our corner of the piazza that she soon forgot all about the wedding we’d seen, and her yearning for her dad to give her away at her own. Soon we were able to pick out the American tourists as quickly as the Italians obviously could. I don’t mean to say anything negative about my countrymen and women, but hello, the Fab Five have their work cut out for them.
Holly was instantly cheered, as always, by the sight of Mark. He asked for a menu and got one—in English!—and ordered mussels and an antipasto platter, and we sat and ate chunky crumbles of parmesan and fresh tangy olives and buttery slivers of salami and garlicky mussels and had fun watching other suckers get fleeced by the handsome, morose gladiator and his pimp.
Then the shadows started getting longer and Mark checked his Blackberry and said we should be getting back to the hotel to change for dinner. So we got the bill—which Mark insisted on paying—and started back, Mark with arm around Holly’s waist, and her head leaning on his shoulder, her unhappiness from a few hours earlier blissfully forgotten.
And I wished SO HARD that awful Modelizer Cal was with us, so he could see how cute Holly and Mark are together, and how great a couple they are, and what sweet parents they’ll make, and what a crime it would be if they didn’t get married. I mean, how could anyone look at Holly and Mark and think, for even one minute, that marriage is an antiquated institution that ought to be abolished? They are living proof that it works. Just because Modelizer’s wife turned out to be a money-grubbing beeyotch doesn’t mean—
