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 likevicissitudes 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.

___________________________________________

e-mails

To: Holly Caputo <holly.caputo@thenyjournal.com>

Fr: Jane Harris <jane@wondercat.com>

Re: Where is he?


Holly, is Mark with you?

J

___________________________________________


To: Jane Harris <jane@wondercat.com>

Fr: Holly Caputo <holly.caputo@thenyjournal.com>

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.

Holly

___________________________________________


To: Holly Caputo <holly.caputo@thenyjournal.com>

Fr: Jane Harris <jane@wondercat.com>

Re: Where is he?


Is Cal with him? Mark, I mean?

J

___________________________________________


To: Jane Harris <jane@wondercat.com>

Fr: Holly Caputo <holly.caputo@thenyjournal.com>

Re: Where is he?


How should I know? I told you, I’m in my room. I came up to bed because I’m exhausted. What is WRONG with you? Where ARE you? Why are you acting so weird all of a sudden?

Holly

___________________________________________


To: Holly Caputo <holly.caputo@thenyjournal.com>

Fr: Jane Harris <jane@wondercat.com>

Re: Where is he?


Nothing’s wrong. I’m on my way to bed too. I’m in a downstairs closet. I just don’t want to run into Cal. Go back to sleep. Sorry if I woke you up.

J

___________________________________________


To: Jane Harris <jane@wondercat.com>

Fr: Holly Caputo <holly.caputo@thenyjournal.com>

Re: Where is he?


Right. Like I’ll be able to go back to sleep NOW. Janie, WHY are you in a downstairs closet? And WHY don’t you want to run into Cal? Tell me now, or I’m coming down there and ripping that closet door open.

Holly

___________________________________________


To: Holly Caputo <holly.caputo@thenyjournal.com>

Fr: Jane Harris <jane@wondercat.com>

Re: Where is he?


It’s NOTHING, okay? After you went up to bed, and Mark went to see if he could find another bottle of scotch after we polished off the last one, Cal said he wanted to have a word with me alone before bed. That’s all. Now I am hiding in the closet because I don’t want to have a word with him. OK? Are you satisfied?

J

PS If you figure out where he is, let me know, and if he’s far from the stairs, I’ll make a run for my room. Then I can turn out all the lights and pretend to be asleep if he knocks.

___________________________________________


To: Jane Harris <jane@wondercat.com>

Fr: Holly Caputo <holly.caputo@thenyjournal.com>

Re: Where is he?


Janie, don’t be such a freak! He LIKES you. He MUST. Why else would he want to see you alone? He probably wants to… you know.

And why not? You’re both on vacation, you’re both attractive, you’re both single… why WOULDN’T you hook up?

Holly

___________________________________________


To: Holly Caputo <holly.caputo@thenyjournal.com>

Fr: Jane Harris <jane@wondercat.com>

Re: Where is he?


Um, why WOULD we? He is a modelizer, lest you forget.

And believe me, sex is NOT what he wants from me.

J

___________________________________________


To: Jane Harris <jane@wondercat.com>

Fr: Holly Caputo <holly.caputo@thenyjournal.com>

Re: Where is he?


Then what is it? What on earth do you think he wants to talk to you about?

Holly

___________________________________________


To: Holly Caputo <holly.caputo@thenyjournal.com>

Fr: Jane Harris <jane@wondercat.com>

Re: What on earth I think he wants to talk to me about


Oh, you might be surprised.

J

___________________________________________


To: Jane Harris <jane@wondercat.com>

Fr: Holly Caputo <holly.caputo@thenyjournal.com>

Re: What on earth I think he wants to talk to me about


Janie, you really have to get over this absurd prejudice you have about Cal. Mark and I were talking about it earlier, when you were doing the dishes, and Cal was cleaning the grill. You two actually have a lot in common. I mean, you both come from small towns. You both are extremely successful, and you both built up your careers from basically nothing. You’re both attractive and creative. And you’re both friends with us! You two would make an AWESOME couple. Just give him a chance. I know he’s not up to your usual standards—seeing as how he has a job and is over twenty-five—but he might surprise you.

Holly

___________________________________________


To: Holly Caputo <holly.caputo@thenyjournal.com>

Fr: Jane Harris <jane@wondercat.com>

Re: What on earth I think he wants to talk to me about


Excuse me, but did you just use the word AWESOME?

J

___________________________________________


To: Jane Harris <jane@wondercat.com>

Fr: Holly Caputo <holly.caputo@thenyjournal.com>

Re: What on earth I think he wants to talk to me about


Stop being so silly. Come out of the closet. See what he wants!

Holly

___________________________________________


To: Holly Caputo <holly.caputo@thenyjournal.com>

Fr: Jane Harris <jane@wondercat.com>

Re: What he wants


Believe me, I know. And it is so not going to happen. Trust me on this, H. It’s in your own best interest.

J

___________________________________________


To: Jane Harris <jane@wondercat.com>

Fr: Holly Caputo <holly.caputo@thenyjournal.com>

Re: What he wants


Well, I think you’re being completely ridiculous. And I’m not having this conversation anymore. I’m going to get some sleep. We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow—you promised you’d go into Castelfidardo with us to petition for the marriage license and pick the day for the ceremony. I don’t know about you, but I want to look good for the mayor’s office. Good night.

 Holly

___________________________________________


To: Holly Caputo <holly.caputo@thenyjournal.com>

Fr: Jane Harris <jane@wondercat.com>

Re: What he wants


Fine, go to sleep. Traitor. I’m doing this for your own good, you know.

Well, no, I guess you don’t.

And believe me, I intend to keep it that way!

Buona sera.

J

PDA of Cal Langdon

 PDA of Cal Langdon

God bless Zio Matteo. The man may not care much about his home’s electrical wiring, but at least he keeps a well-stocked liquor cabinet. Mark and I finished off the better part of a bottle of twelve-year-old scotch, and though it’s a bit hard to type this, with my fingers feeling so numb, at least I got the picture of that snake out of my head at last.

The rain’s finally stopped, too. The stars have come out, and there’s a lovely warm breeze—slightly scented with horse manure—coming from the east. The pool and the wet stone surface around it are glistening in the moonlight, and somewhere in the distance—over the snoring of Mark, passed out face down at the table beside me—I hear the braying of a donkey. It reminds me of those nights in Baghdad with Barbara Bellerieve, before she finally gave up on getting a ring out of me and hooked up with Aaron Spender—poor bastard.

Something which I realize has begun to happen with alarming regularity. Women I’ve slept with settling down with someone else, I mean.

I guess I shouldn’t complain. God knows I’m not looking to register at Williams-Sonoma with any of them.

But it is a bit strange that all of my friends are pairing off. Mark, for instance. Well, not that I wouldn’t have expected it of Mark, seeing as how he never exactly blazed any trails for rugged individuality in his lifetime. He does grill a mean turbot though.

But even people I’d pegged as lifelong bachelors—John Trent, for instance, over at the Chronicle—and Spender are taking the plunge.

Will it be long before I am the only single male my age left in the world? And if so… why? Don’t these guys realize what they’re getting themselves into?

I will admit, in Mark’s case, the situation doesn’t seem as dire as I once thought, despite what Ruth Levine might claim. Holly appears to be a cheerful, caring companion, who doesn’t fall short in the looks department, either. She put together a wicked antipasto to go with the fish, an artfully arranged platter of marinated artichokes, mushroom, olives, fresh mozzarella, roasted red peppers, sundried tomatoes, and parmesan, all drizzled with olive oil and balsamic.

And when Mark mentioned something self-deprecating about his column, she chastised him, and proudly told me that his pieces are the Health section’s most popular.

And when we sat down at the table her friend Jane had set—somewhat whimsically, with, I believe, every candle from the house on it, since we were dining al fresco on the logia, as the rain beat down just beyond the stone arches around us—Holly insisted on taking a picture, to mark our first meal at Villa Beccacia.