by Meg Cabot
Oh, and the whole wedding thing is taken care of.
Holly broke the news to Frau Schumacher as we were following the old lady around the house, listening to her rattle on in broken English about how there were plenty of clean towels but she’d just finished washing them and they were still drying on the line over at her cottage farther down the driveway.
“You vill need lots of tovels,” Frau Schumacher was saying, “for the svimming and the beach.”
“Well,” Holly said, glancing sweetly at Mark. “We aren’t really here for the watersports, Frau Schumacher. Mark and I plan on getting married this week, over in Castelfidardo.”
Frau Schumacher reacted the way a NORMAL—read, not Cal Langdon—person would react upon finding out a young and attractive couple like Mark and Holly were getting married: She clapped her hands for glee and wanted to know all the details, like what Holly would be wearing and did her uncle know and when were her parents coming.
To which Holly replied, her face getting red, “Well, I didn’t tell Zio Matteo or my parents. We’re eloping, actually—”
Which threw Frau Schumacher into a tizzy of excitement— once Cal translated, since neither Peter nor she was familiar with the word elope. She exclaimed, in her broken English, that she knew the mayor of Castelfidardo very well, and that if any problems developed, she was to be consulted immediately. Where was the wedding breakfast going to be? What? We hadn’t planned for a wedding breakfast? Well, there had to be a wedding breakfast. She would supply it—
Then Frau Schumacher’s gaze fell on Cal (it never actually strays away from him long, I’ve noticed) and she glanced from him to me quickly and asked, no longer smiling, “And you two? You are having vedding, too?”
Both Cal and I hastened to assure the housekeeper that we were not—Cal a little more hastily than I think was actually polite, to tell you the truth. I mean, he may not know it, but he’d be LUCKY to be married to a girl like me. At least I can support myself without Daddy’s—or some investment banker’s—money, unlike SOME women he might know.
And I am at a completely normal body weight, and don’t have to stick my finger down my throat to maintain it.
Plus, I have two television sets. How many does Cal have? Oh, that’d be none. I asked. Yeah, Cal doesn’t “believe” in TV.
Right. You know what I don’t believe in? People who don’t believe in TV.
And then there’s The Dude. Any man would be lucky to get to share a domicile with The Dude.
But whatever. His loss.
Not like I WANT to marry him. Or anybody. I mean, I have a development deal. What do I need a husband for?
Anyway, Frau Schumacher insisted on making us some snacks while Peter helped us take our bags upstairs. Mark picked up Holly’s bag plus his own and Cal had his stupid backpack (Queen. That’s the only CD he travels with. QUEEN. Although come to think of it, I sort of like Queen. But I’ll never let HIM know that) so the only bag left was mine and when Peter went to pick it up he stiffened suddenly and said, “Vundercat?” in this astonished voice, staring at me.
Then Holly, halfway up the stairs, called down, laughingly, “Yeah, Peter, didn’t you know? Janie’s the creator of Wondercat.”
And Peter—to my everlasting gratification—cried, “You are Jane Harris, the artist of Vundercat? Vundercat is my favorite comic of all time! I have all of the Vundercat collection! I have Veb site dewoted to all things Vundercat!”
“Oh, do you?” I couldn’t help stealing a look at Cal as he was following Holly and Mark up the stairs. Was it my imagination, or was he smiling a little ruefully? Yes, you BETTER feel full of rue, Mr. I Never Heard of Wondercat. Wondercat is INTERNATIONALLY RECOGNIZED. Oh, yes. Even strange, apparently home-schooled German boys in Italy have heard of Wondercat! I may not know what carabinieri means, buddy, but at least I can draw something that has INTERNATIONAL appeal.
“Well, while I’m here,” I said, mostly to get Cal’s goat, “I’ll be happy to draw you some original Wondercats, Peter, for your Web site or whatever.”
A look of total joy suffused Peter’s round-cheeked face, and he raced up the stairs with my bag, chattering a mile a minute about his favorite Wondercat cartoons. I made sure to keep him talking too, so that Cal Langdon heard every word.
Villa Beccacia has seven bedrooms. Holly told Cal and I to pick whichever ones we liked best. Six of the bedrooms are huge, with ancient canopied beds with curtains around the sides, just like Scrooge’s bed in A Christmas Carol, and walls lined with dark panels and bookshelves, on which sit copies of everything from books on bird-watching to Valley of the Dolls in Italian.
The seventh bedroom is tucked away beneath a sloping roof, its single dormer window facing the pool. It’s clearly a boy’s room, with dark blue bedspreads on its twin beds, and matching dark blue tiles in the adjoining bathroom. All of the paintings on the walls are of ships. The oldest one has the words A sua eccellenza il sig Cav Francesco Seratti engraved beneath it. Whatever that means.
I knew at once this was the room for me.
Peter was horrified. He said, “No, you don’t vant this room. You vant the pretty pink room.”
But I said, “Cal can have that one.” (I know he heard me, too, because I heard a snort from the hallway.)
So Peter grudgingly put my bag down and went downstairs to see what his grandmother wanted, since she was bellowing for him (she has quite a set of lungs for such a tiny old lady).
And now I’m lying on one of the twin beds writing this, while everyone else is doing who knows what. All her life, Holly’s talked about Villa Beccacia, the money pit her eccentric uncle bought with his first million doing… well, whatever it is Holly’s uncle does. And now I’m finally IN it! And it feels as much like home as if Zio Matteo were MY uncle!
Oooh, Frau Schumacher is calling us. Authentic Italian (if German-made) snacks must be ready. Yum!
* * *
To: Jane Harris
Fr: Malcolm Weatherly
Re: Ciao
Hey! Where are you? I haven’t heard from you. Hope things are going good.
Listen, do you remember if I left my green ESPN hat at your place? Because I can’t find it anywhere. I know I could just go buy a new one, but that was my lucky one. If you remember, could you let me know? And when you get back, send it to me, if you still have it?
Cool.
Rock out.
M
* * *
To: Listserv
Fr: Peter Schumacher
Re: JANE HARRIS
Listen up, kids! You are not believing what is happening! JANE HARRIS, creator of our beloved Wundercat, is here in Italy! Yes! IN THE HOUSE THAT IS NEXT DOOR TO THE ONE OF MY GRANDMOTHER!!! She is helping her friend to get the elopement in Castelfidardo!
And I have conversed with her! She says she will be drawing me some original sketches of our most favorite cat for this site! YES!!!!!
And JANE HARRIS is looking to be HOT! She has the dark brown hair (long, like we like it, boys!) and big brown eyes, and the very cute figure (sorry, girls!). She is looking very much like the beautiful vampire warrior Selene (played by the ravishing Kate Beck-insdale) in the finest film ever made of all time, Underworld!
And she has slain this mortal’s heart!
I will be reporting more of the news of JANE HARRIS as it is happening!
Until then,
WUNDERCAT LIVES FOREVER!!!!
P. Schumacher
Webmaster, www.wundercatlives.com
Travel Diary of
Holly Caputo and Mark Levine
Jane Harris
Okay, I know the Italians have contributed a lot to our society, what with da Vinci and Mike Piazza, not to mention cannoli.
But seriously, why couldn’t Holly and Mark have eloped to some country where they actually have electricity?
All right, all right, I KNOW Italy ha
s electricity. In theory. In most areas. It just doesn’t, apparently, extend to her uncle’s house. When the stove is on, anyway.
Because the minute Mark turned the stove on to start boiling water for the pasta Frau Schumacher left us, all of the lights went out.
And when we called Frau Schumacher to ask her if her power was out, too, she was all, “No,” and then when we explained what we’d been doing when the light went off, she cackled, “Oh, you cannot turn the owen on vile the lights are on as vell!”
Seriously. She was laughing like a crazy person at the idea of the stupid Americans trying to use a stove AND have lights on at the same time.
So then we asked her where the fuse box was, so we could turn the power back on (and I guess just eat antipasto for dinner) and she went, “Oh, yes. Vell, you go down the road to the gate—”
And Holly was all, “The ELECTRONIC gate? To the driveway?”
And Frau Schumacher was like, “Yes,” as in, “What other gate would I be talking about, dorkus?” and then went on to say, “Go through the gate to the Wirgin Mary statue under the big tree—”
Seriously. THROUGH the gate. MILES from the house. Well, okay, but like two hundred yards. TO THE VIRGIN MARY STATUE. Under the big tree.
“—zen open her back and you will find the fuses.”
Yeah. That’s how they turn the power back on when it goes out in Italy. They go DOWN the road, THROUGH the gate, UP TO the VIRGIN MARY statue, OPEN her back, and flick the switch.
Oh yeah. In the dark. And the pouring rain.
Since Holly thought she hadn’t understood Frau Schumacher correctly, she handed the phone to Cal and made him ask again, in German.
Same answer.
So Cal said he’d go do it.
Which I have to say is the first sign of generosity—well, except for paying for dinner last night—from him so far. Especially since Frau Schumacher said she could send Peter.
But Cal insisted. He ran outside, and Holly and Mark and I sat in the dark making jokes about all the escaped Italian convicts that might be lurking outside, just waiting for someone to turn their stove on so that their lights would go out and they could rob them.
After a little while we heard the front door slam and Cal came back, dripping wet and cursing like a sailor.
But the lights weren’t on.
“What happened?” Mark wanted to know.
Only Cal wouldn’t say. He stumbled around in the semi-darkness, found the bottle of Jack Daniel’s Holly’s uncle had in his liquor cabinet, poured himself a stiff one, and downed the whole thing in one gulp. Then he sat down—getting Zio Matteo’s white couch all wet—and buried his head in his hands.
“Oh,” Mark said suddenly, like he knew what was wrong. “Was it—?”
Cal just nodded, not looking up.
So Mark went, “Okay. Never mind. I’ll go.” And grabbed the crummy flashlight we’d found in Zio Matteo’s pantry.
Of course I couldn’t let him go after that. I mean, I totally had to see whatever it was that had so destroyed the Modelizer.
And all it turned out to be was a little snake! A tiny one, curled up at the bottom of the fuse box, which someone had cleverly bolted to the Virgin Mary’s back. Mark said Cal has been terrified of snakes his whole life.
Which is kind of sweet, in a way. You know, that he actually has a weakness? I mean, I can almost forgive him for the phenylethylamine thing.
Almost.
Except that now I’m soaking wet and one of my Steve Maddens got stuck in the mud in the road and came off and I had to pry it out with my fingers while Mark laughed his head off at me and now we can’t make any hot food unless we do it by candlelight (even though Cal, recovering from the snake sighting, is out on the terrazza or whatever it is, trying to stoke up a fire in the stone barbecue thingie, saying we could grill up the fish Frau Schumacher left us. As if somehow if he accomplishes this it’s going to make us forget the whole part about how he was scared of that tiny snake. Yeah, so not going to happen, Mr. Million Dollar Advance for My Big Boring Book But I’m Scared of Snakes).
And I miss The Dude—even waking me up at 4 A.M. for a moonlit serenade.
And I can’t seem to stop thinking about how I missed this week’s ER because I was too busy packing to come here, and how it really is a shame that Holly asked me and not her brother Darrin to be her maid of honor. I’m sure DARRIN wouldn’t be sitting in his room trying to dry his hair with a damp towel (what is up with these tiny Italian towels? They are the size of those hot cloths they handed out on the airplane on our way here—not to me, of course, but in first class. I just happened to see them because the line to the bathroom was too long in coach, so I snuck in to use the facilities in the forward cabin) thinking about Dr. Kovac.
No, at a time like this, Darrin—and his boyfriend Bobby— would probably be brainstorming about what to get for Holly and Mark. You know, as a wedding present. Like Egyptian cotton sheets, or a hand-tinted Audubon print, or a George Foreman grill, or something really meaningful like that.
Not a stupid travel diary that, guess what, I can’t even give to them now because I’ve mentioned the best man’s alleged Large Appendage a few too many times—
Holly just tapped on the door to say that Cal got a fire started and that he and Mark are trying to grill the fish and that it’s hilarious and I should come down and by the way, do I like Cal better now that I know he has a phobia of snakes?
Trust Holly, at a time like this, when the elopement she’s been planning for a whole year is finally just days away, to be wondering if Cal might be The One for me.
I can so totally tell she’s hoping that Cal and I will fall in love and get married and buy a house next to the one you so know she and Mark are going to buy someday in Westchester (aka the Hellmouth) and send our kids to the same school and get together for barbecues on Saturday nights and sit around drinking Amstel Lights while spraying our progeny with Off to keep them from getting West Nile.
Yeah. Don’t think that’s going to be happening, Holl. The best man doesn’t BELIEVE in love. But don’t worry, I’m sure his toast will be VERY heartfelt….
Oh, wait, no, it won’t. Because he doesn’t HAVE a heart.
So now I’m wet and cold and sitting in my room with a too-small towel around my head, trying to scrape the mud off my Steve Madden, wondering what’s wrong with me. I should be having fun. This is my first trip abroad, after all. And I haven’t had a proper vacation in months, possibly years. I just spend all my time cooped up in my tiny studio apartment drawing stupid cats.
And I know that despite what the Customs guy said, Le Marche is supposed to be this magical place, even though since we’ve gotten here it’s been pouring rain and the drops make this weird hollow sound as they hit the red terra-cotta roof tiles above my window and I swear to God if Cal Langdon and I end up cooped up in this house together for a week because of rain, only one of us is going to emerge alive, and it will be me because I know his weakness now.
But oh my God! What’s with the mud and the everything being closed on Sunday and the power going out when you turn on the oven and the whole not-speaking-English thing? Not to mention, what is up with all the fish? I mean, I like fish, I guess, sort of, in small doses, and of course I am concerned about my Omega 3 fatty acid intake. Who isn’t?
But I can certainly rectify that by having H & H throw a little nova on my bagel three times a week. I do not need to eat fish morning, noon, and night, like these Italians apparently do.
Wait. Could this explain why they’re all so fit?
Oh, God, what is wrong with me? I am in an exotic foreign country, staying in a lovely house (except for the no-TV thing. And the Virgin Mary paintings everywhere—Holly’s uncle seems to collect them, the ones whose eyes watch you wherever you go, so creepily that I had to take the one in my room down and put it in the wardrobe; oh, and the fact that there are no bathtubs, only showers, in any of the bathrooms. Oh, and my best friend’s husband
’s best man keeps using words like vicissitudes and apparently wants to find some time to be alone with me so we can “talk.” But other than that, the place is lovely) with my best friend, who is getting married, MARRIED, to the man she has loved forever. I should be happy for her.
It’s just that really, with this storm overhead, pouring down buckets, we are stuck in this house together, with nothing but the Virgin Mary statues and the fish Frau Schumacher left us, and all I can think about is how crappy the weather is and how mean Mark’s best man is and how much work I am going to have when I get back and how probably Julio is going to be resentful of The Dude’s biting him and consequently forget to tape all my shows and then I won’t know what’s happening on any of them and I’ll have to ask Dolly Vargas who will tell me all pityingly that a single woman who cares as much about television as I do has no life and why don’t I let her introduce me to someone.
Holly is calling me. She says dinner is ready.
I swear to God, if any of them finds the playing cards some previously rain-swamped guests left behind and suggests we play bridge or something equally chummy, I am definitely going out to the pool, rain or no rain, and drowning myself.
* * *
To: Holly Caputo
Fr: Jane Harris
Re: Where is he?
Holly, is Mark with you?
J
* * *
To: Jane Harris
Fr: Holly Caputo
Re: Where is he?
Oh my God, Jane. Where are you? Why are you e-ing me? I’m still awake. Why don’t you come talk to me in person? I’m in our room. It’s OK, Mark’s still downstairs.
