The Boy Is Back + Every Boy's Got One Bundle

by Meg Cabot

  * * *

  Degustazione

  Carpaccio scottato di branzino e capesante con olio extra vergine al basilico

  Mezzi rigatoni grezzi all'aragosta con crema di zucca

  Ravioli di barbabietola con polenta e taleggio

  Coda di rospo al forno con speck e lenticchie

  Medaglioni di vitello in crosta di pecorino senese con zucchine croccanti

  Crostata aromatizzata con mele e mandorle, semifreddo alle nocciole e Ferrari Maximum Demi-sec

  Caffe

  Delizie friabili

  Gourmet Menu

  Warm sea-bass and scallops carpaccio, extra virgin olive oil flavoured with basil

  Rigatoni with lobster and pumpkin cream

  Beetroot Ravioli filled with polenta and taleggio cheese

  Oven-baked monkfish with smoked ham and lentils

  Veal medallions in a Pecorino cheese crust, crispy courgettes and marjoram

  Apples and almonds on pastry, hazelnuts semifreddo and Ferrari Maximum Demi-sec sauce

  Coffee

  Petits fours

  * * *

  PDA of Cal Langdon

  Now this is more like it. Sunshine. A nice prosecco. Panoramic views of the entire city. La Terrazza Dell-Eden at the Hotel Eden never fails in a pinch. Since 1889, it’s been pampering guests, battle-worn from Roman sightseeing and psychically scarred by the traffic. This is where we ought to have come from the start.

  Let that be a lesson to us all: Never let an artist choose the restaurant.

  Travel Diary of

  Holly Caputo and Mark Levine

  Jane Harris

  Oh my God, I totally know this place! This is where Britney Spears and Pink stayed when they were filming that Pepsi commercial in the Colosseum, the one they showed at the Superbowl! And the photographers got all these shots of Britney up on this very sundeck, hanging out with that married dancer.

  Cool.

  It’s just GORGEOUS here, all yellow and green, with this view to DIE for. You can see all the way to the Vatican. You can wave to the Pope. Hi, Pope! Holly’s mom sends her love! I’m sure Dan Brown didn’t mean it!

  And prosecco… yum. The food is delicious, too.

  But we better hurry up. The office opens again in 45 minutes. Cal wants to go to the Spanish Steps, which are down the street from here. Like we’ve got time for sightseeing.

  Still, I don’t want to say no.

  He’s being so NICE, all of a sudden. I mean, taking me here, and showing me this place, and buying lunch, and just being… well, like a nice guy, for a change.

  And he looks so… well, hot too, sitting there in his jeans and chambray shirt. He finally got his hair under control, I see—which is good, if he ever hopes to pass for Mark, who doesn’t have as much of it as he does—hair, I mean. The sun is really bringing out his golden highlights.

  And he’s telling such funny stories, about things he and Mark did in school. You can hardly tell he’s the same person who just the other day was insisting that marriage is an outdated institution, and that love is nothing but a chemical reaction in the brain.

  You know, between this and the cat thing last night, I’m almost starting to LIKE him.

  Maybe that’s just the prosecco. God, this is so romantic, sitting up here on top of the city, looking down on all the treetops and ancient ruins, drinking sparkly wine and eating these luscious olives. I can’t believe Holly and Mark are missing it—

  Holly and Mark! We’ve got to go!!!!

  * * *

  To: Jane Harris < jane@wondercat.com>

  Fr: Claire Harris < charris2004@freemail.com >

  Re: You

  I don’t know if you’re just ignoring me now, or if something’s happened to you. I hope it’s the former, of course. I was flipping through the channels last night and I happened to see that on the Travel Channel they were doing a show on the lesser-traveled regions of Italy, so I watched it, and sure enough, they did a story on Le Marche, and they said there are WOLVES there.

  Yes. WOLVES. In the hills.

  I hope there are no hills near Holly’s uncle’s villa, and that if so, there are no wolves in them. And that you’re keeping your window closed at night. Because wolves can jump very high. At least according to this documentary.

  I suppose you aren’t writing back because you’re angry about my telling Holly’s mother that she is gaining a son, not losing a daughter. I still don’t see how Marie is going to extrapolate from this that Mark and Holly are eloping in Italy.

  But I just thought I’d let you know that it looks like Marie is going to have a lot more important things to worry about soon: Daddy and I were just at the Promptcare for a splinter he got in his foot (I TOLD him the dining room floor needs sanding) and ran into Holly’s sister-in-law Brandy, who was there with little Heather because she’d stuck a Red Hot up her nose.

  Heather, not Brandy.

  Anyway, according to Brandy, the Caputos are fit to be tied because Darrin just announced that he’s getting married. To his boyfriend, Bobby. Apparently, they are having some sort of commitment ceremony on the steps of City Hall to rub the mayor’s nose in it.

  And I already phoned her—I HAD to, to let her know Angela di Blasi has the flu and book club is going to have to be at my house this week—and she was STILL in hysterics over the fact that Darrin is inviting the paper to cover the event and Father Roberto will know Darrin is gay.

  I hope you’re happy now.

  Nancy Jansen wants to know if you’ll autograph a copy of Wondercat: The Early Years for her nephew Jeff. I told her you would. She’s sending it to you in New York with a self-addressed stamped envelope so you can just pop it in the mail back to her when you’re done.

  Love,

  Mom

  Travel Diary of

  Holly Caputo and Mark Levine

  Jane Harris

  Those Spanish Steps weren’t anything so big. I mean, they were all smooth from being walked on so much, since they’re like three hundred years old. They are definitely a safety hazard. I nearly twisted my ankle a couple of times going down them.

  And yeah, okay, so Shelley’s house was right next door. Shelley. Wasn’t he the one whose wife wrote Frankenstein?

  I don’t know why Cal got so tight-lipped when I asked him this. How am I supposed to know stuff about literature? I was an art major. I bet he doesn’t know that Michelangelo got so sick of people complimenting him on his David statue’s hands that he cut them off.

  So I asked him if he knew this, and he said he didn’t. Also that he didn’t understand why, if so many people liked the hands, Michelangelo would cut them off.

  So I explained about how artists want people to view their work as a whole, not parts. If people were too busy concentrating on the hands, they wouldn’t see the rest of the statue. And that’s not what Michelangelo wanted… to make a great pair of hands. He wanted to make a great statue.

  I could tell he was impressed by this. I think it made up for when I told him about the Britney thing back at the Hotel Eden. He’d looked kind of scared then.

  Whatever! I can’t help it if he’s the Wall Street Journal and I’m Us Weekly. I obviously have to know SOMETHING or I wouldn’t have had to switch over to quarterly income tax returns this year, would I?

  There were all these hippies sitting on the steps, playing guitars and singing about peace and stuff. Seeing them obviously reminded Cal of something, since he was like, “I have to go to Western Union.” I was all, “Why?” and he was like, “I’ve got to wire some money to my sister.”

  So we went to Western Union—fortunately the Spanish Steps are in this totally high-tourist area, so we found one right away—and Cal wired a thousand dollars to someone named Mary Langdon. I know I shouldn’t have looked, but what else was I supposed to do?

  Besides, I was curious.

  Even though he didn’t seem to want to talk about it, I asked him how old his sister was, and he said she was 25. So he’s her big
brother. It’s hard to imagine Cal having a little sister.

  It’s hard to imagine Cal ever having been a kid. But I know he was one, once, because that’s how he and Mark came to be friends.

  I wonder if Mary’s afraid of snakes too.

  Also, what she needs a thousand bucks for. Who hits their brother up for a loan that big? That is just bound to get the two of them on the People’s Court, you just know it.

  But when I asked, Cal was just like, “Mary’s an artist,” in this tone that suggested he didn’t think much of the profession. Um, MY profession.

  But whatever. It’s sweet of Cal to help out his little sister. I really wouldn’t have pegged him as a soft touch for money, but you can tell that girl’s got him wrapped around her gold-digging finger….

  Generous with his sister. Nice to cats. Scared of snakes.

  Still. Modelizer. And anti-marriage. Hmmm.

  We’re back at the consulate. Cal wanted to give up, but I wouldn’t let him.

  And I’m glad I didn’t, because things are totally speeding up around here. They’re on number 67 now. Don’t even ask me how.

  One annoying thing… there’s this woman here, about my age, who I guess is trying to get the same form we are. She’s marrying this Italian guy named Paolo. I know because she is telling anyone who will listen about it. Paolo is sitting there beside her, this hulk of a man, who doesn’t look very happy. She says he doesn’t speak any English. Also, that she can barely speak Italian. She says their relationship is based entirely on physical attraction.

  Which, if it’s true, is kind of sad. For her. I mean, Paolo’s hot, don’t get me wrong. But she’s nothing to write home about. I wonder if Paolo even knows where they are, and that they’re getting married.

  I just elbowed Cal, who was busy typing into his Blackberry (as usual) and asked him (sotto voce) if he thinks Paolo knows what he’s getting himself into. Before he had a chance to reply, the future Mrs. Paolo was all, “He’s a mechanic. My parents don’t approve. They think I can do better than marry an Italian mechanic who doesn’t even speak English. But the sexual energy between us is so strong, how can I deny it?”

  This last question was directed solely at me. Unfortunately, I’ve made eye contact. Now she won’t go away.

  “I’m Rhonda,” she says. “What are you writing in that book there?”

  Me: “Nothing.”

  Rhonda: “Oh, it’s a travel journal. I just love journaling. You know, I can’t sleep at night if I don’t journal about my day. Sometimes I’ll go for twenty, thirty pages.”

  Me: “Wow.”

  Rhonda: (batting her mouse brown eyelashes at Cal) “So is this your honey?”

  Me: “Um. Yes. Yes, I guess it is. This is Mark. I’m Holly.” Rhonda: “Hi, Holly. Hi, Mark. Aren’t you handsome! What are you two doing here? Lose your passport? I’m here to pick up a form I need to get married.”

  Me: “So I heard. We’re here to pick up a form we need to get married too.”

  Rhonda: “Oh, you two are getting married? Here in Italy? Why, if you don’t mind my asking? I mean, what’s wrong with Vegas?”

  Cal: “We just can’t wait, Rhonda. My love for this woman is so strong, I want to marry her right away, and not wait a minute more. I want to make her Mrs. Mark Levine as soon as is humanly possible.”

  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  He’s funny!!!!!

  Who knew?????

  Rhonda: “Oh, boy, do I ever understand that! It’s just like me and Paolo. Have you met my future husband, Paolo? He doesn’t speak any English. And I don’t speak any Italian. We met three days ago. My cruise ship stopped here, and I went to rent one of those little scooters, and there he was, and… well, I wouldn’t get back on the cruise ship. My parents are furious with me—it was a cruise to celebrate their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary—but what can I do? Our physical attraction is overwhelming. Paolo’s like an animal in bed.”

  Me: (patting Cal on the knee) “So’s this guy.” Cal: (putting his arm around my shoulders) “Now, honey, don’t be modest. You’re no slouch in the sack, either.”

  Me: (looking modest) “Well, we did make love—how many times was it yesterday, sweetie?”

  Cal: “Seven, I believe.”

  Me: (trying hard not to notice that Cal Langdon smells really, really good) “Well, yes, but that’s just because you had that sports-related injury.”

  Cal: “Of course. Yesterday was kind of a slow day, actually.” Rhonda: (looking excited) “Paolo went nine once! In one day!”

  We all looked at Paolo with respect. He blinked back at us, without the slightest glimmer of recognition of what we were talking about—or of intelligence.

  Me: (Cal’s arm is still around me. It’s warm. And distracting.) “That is very impressive. No wonder you’re marrying him.”

  Rhonda: “I know. If only my parents would try to understand! They called from Greece last night, and were furious with me when I told them what Paolo and I were doing today. I thought they’d be happy for me—happy that I’ve finally found the happiness they’ve been enjoying for thirty-five years! But no. They think I’m crazy, and that in a week we’ll be divorced. But of course Paolo’s Catholic, and doesn’t believe in divorce. I think. It’s hard to tell what he’s saying, exactly, but I think that’s the deal. Anyway, too many people get divorced these days. They don’t understand that a marriage takes work and that you can’t just move out because your husband’s cheating on you or whatever. You’ve got to stay and try to MAKE it work. You would think Mom and Dad would understand that.”

  Cal: “Families can be so difficult sometimes.”

  Rhonda: “Tell me about it. I was journaling about mine just the other night, when it occurred to me that—-” Consulate guy: “Ninety-two! Number 92!”

  THAT’S US!!!!!!!!!!

  * * *

  MARRIAGE OF U.S. CITIZENS IN ROME'S CONSULAR DISTRICT

  U.S. citizens planning to marry in Italy must present certain documents and comply with specific requirements of Italian law in order to obtain a marriage license. Marriages cannot be performed by American Consuls, nor on the premises of the American Consulate. The documents required and the procedure to follow are described below.

  1. Valid U.S. passport.

  2. Birth certificate (original or certified copy).

  3. Evidence of the termination of any previous marriage, if applicable (e.g., final divorce decree, annulment decree or death certificate of former spouse).

  4. Affidavit, sworn to by the U.S. citizen before a U.S. Consul commissioned in Italy, stating that there is no legal impediment to the marriage, according to the laws of the State of which the citizen is a resident.

  NOTE: Once issued, this affidavit must be stamped by the Legalization Office of any Prefettura in our Consular District (there is one in every province capital).

  5. Atto Notorio: This is a declaration, in addition to the sworn statement described under point 4, stating that according to the laws to which the citizen is subject in the United States there is no obstacle to his/her marriage. This declaration is to be sworn to by two witnesses (a witness may be of any nationality, but must be over 18, with current photo ID), before an Italian Consul outside Italy or, in Italy, before an official at the Pretura(Lower Court) in the city where the marriage is to take place. U.S. citizens coming to Italy to be married must obtain this declaration from a Consul of Italy, before leaving the United States.

  6. Declaration of Intention: Bride and groom should present all the above documents to the Ufficio Matrimoni(Marriage Office) of the Municipio(Town Hall) in the city where the marriage will be performed, and make a "Declaration of Intention to Marry" before an Ufficiale di Stato Civile(Civil Registrar).

  NOTE: All documents originating out of Italy (birth certificate, divorce decree, etc.) MUST be translated into Italian. Both the original documents and the translations MUST be legalized for use in Italy, with the so-called "APOSTILLE" stamp, in accordance with
The Hague Convention on the legalization of foreign public documents. In the U.S., the "APOSTILLE" stamp is placed by the Secretary of State in the state where the document was issued.

  I swear the information contained in the documents submitted herewith is both true and valid.

  Signature: Holly Ann Caputo

  Signature: Mark Levine Stato Civile

  Stato Civile

  * * *

  To: Cal Langdon

  Fr: Mark Levine

  Re: Wheere adre you?

  Hgey. II cvan;t find mt glasdes. Whiohe are yyi????

  MKal

  PDA of Cal Langdon

  I am an international fugitive from justice. At any moment I expect our car to be overtaken by Interpol, and for Jane and me to be yanked out, slammed to the asphalt, and slapped into cuffs. I suspect Black Hawk helicopters are hovering over us at this very moment. Undoubtedly, we’ll be thrown into an Italian prison, and no one will ever hear from us again.

  And Rhonda, ultimately, will have the last laugh.

  We did it. We perjured ourselves. Committed fraud. Forged our friends’ names on government documents.

  And they never suspected a thing.

  Jane was right. It was a cinch. The guy behind the bulletproof glass barely even glanced at us or our passports. He just asked us where we were staying, made a laconic comment when he found out it was Le Marche, slid the form through the slot for us to sign, then gave us back our documents with the form stamped appropriately. All that waiting—we didn’t get back on the road until almost five-thirty—and we were done in five minutes.