Of course, Mark’s father and I always knew you were destined for great things. It was pretty obvious from the day we met you, when you and little Markie took apart our vacuum cleaner’s motor on the kitchen floor to see how it worked. It still ran perfectly well after you put it back together, despite those leftover pieces.
Well, I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m writing to you after all these years, so I’ll get to the point:
I’m worried about Mark. I’m sure this Holly is a very nice girl.
But I’m not so sure she’s right for our Mark. She’s the ARTISTIC type, for one thing. I know she has a very good job with the paper Mark sometimes writes that little column for. But let’s face it: she doesn’t exactly earn the kind of money I know some of Mark’s past girlfriends are making now—Susie Schramm, for instance. You remember Susie, don’t you, Cal? She’s a lawyer now, with a very high-powered firm. I think Susie’s SO MUCH more of Mark’s type than this Holly girl.
And I DON’T mean because Holly’s not Jewish. You know I NEVER judge people by their religion. After all, your family was—what was it again? Protestant?—and it never bothered me a bit! We quite enjoyed your mother’s Christmas Eve cocktail party every year.
It’s just that Mark has always been such a romantic. I’m sure deep down he thinks things like religious background don’t matter. But you were always much more practical, Cal—not to mention, you’ve been around the world, and seen much more than Mark has—so I know you understand.
Plus, having been through a divorce yourself, I’m sure you wish someone had taken you aside in a brotherly manner and warned you not to rush into anything with that Valerie person. She was no good for you, anyone could see that. I knew it the minute I met her. What was she thinking, wearing that off-the-shoulder thing at your wedding? I realize it was couture and that Oscar de la Renta designed it just for her. Still, it hardly fit in at the country club here, now, did it?
And what about the children? Mark and Holly’s, I mean, if, God forbid, they should have them? How are they going to raise the children? I don’t want my grandchildren having no sense of identity because they’ve been raised in TWO religions. That’s worse than being raised with none!
Anyway, I’m just hoping that since you’re with Mark right now, you could try to talk some sense into him. He’s always respected you, and I just know if you told him not to rush into anything— to give Susie Schramm a call when he gets home—he’d listen. She has completely outgrown that under bite, you know. It’s a miracle what orthodontia can do.
Thank you, Cal. And please give my love to your parents. Except for an annual Christmas newsletter from your mom, I haven’t heard much from them since they split up. But Joan’s hacienda in Tucson looks lovely—at least, judging from her newsletter. And I hope Hank is enjoying himself in Mexico City, and that that little misunderstanding at the track back in Dayton got cleared up.
Affectionately,
Ruth Levine
PDA of Cal Langdon
PDA of Cal Langdon
Well… this is definitely going to be an interesting trip.
The bride-to-be’s uncle appears to employ a German half-wit as a housekeeper, who went on ad nauseum about how things are so different now in Le Marche than they were right after the war (no need to ask which one… around here, there was only one war) and that Americans are welcome now with open arms, in spite of what they did to Ancona. No mention, of course, about her own country of origin’s having started that war.
The groom’s mother has another girl in mind for her daughter-in-law.
And the maid of honor appears to hate my guts.
This should be a lot of fun.
Sarcasm aside, Le Marche is an extraordinarily beautiful area of the world, filled with Renaissance towns still virtually untouched by American influence… no McDonalds, no twenty-four-hour convenience marts, no superstores. No wonder so many Italians flock here every summer. The waterfront resorts are reportedly packed from July though August. And there are even supposed to be some beaches down by Portoforno and Osimo that rival the Cote d’Azur for natural beauty.
Still, stunning vistas and Renaissance churches aside, Le Marche is not exactly where I’d choose to get married. If I were to make the mistake of getting married again. Which, of course, I never will.
And I feel a sense of responsibility toward Mark to keep him from making the same mistake as well. Not because, despite what Jane Harris might think, that I believe Holly is another Valerie. And not even because his mother asked me to. But because the guy has never lived! He’s been in school for what, twenty years? And then he went straight from that to practicing full time…. the guy’s done NOTHING. Never backpacked in Nepal. Never trekked the Amazon. Never swallowed the worm at the bottom of a tequila bottle in Belize. Adventure, to Mark, is a Star Trekconvention.
And he thinks he’s ready to get married? He’s ready for a therapist’s couch, is what he’s ready for.
Holly’s a great girl—I have no doubts about that. But marriage? No. Not now. The guy needs to have a life first. Then, if he and Holly were meant to be, they can attach the old ball and chain.
Obviously, I’m going to have to be subtle about this. Ms. Harris will undoubtedly be watching for any signs of mutiny. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. She looks kind of cute with her chin thrust out in righteous indignation.
I can’t believe I just wrote that. First fetching. Now cute. I think I need out of this car. And a drink.
She does have the worst problems with her footwear of any woman I have ever met. First the stiletto between the cobblestones last night, and today, the heel twisting in the gravel. I don’t know how she manages to remain upright.
And she has this unnerving habit of staring at my crotch. Yes, she’s short, but certainly not so much that this is where her eye level might naturally rest.
Ah, we’ve reached the exit where Frau Schumacher is going to meet us. She says she drives a silver Mercedes. Her grasp of English seems to have been derived from watching too many subtitled episodes of Murder She Wrote.
This should be an exceedingly entertaining week.
Travel Diary of Jane Harris
Travel Diary of
Jane Harris
Oh my God, we’re HERE. Villa Beccacia!
And it’s GORGEOUS.
I will admit, at first I had my doubts. That Frau Schumacher— I think she might actually be as old as some of those castles we zoomed by. And, um, she’s just SLIGHTLY in love with Large Appendage. It’s sickening! Just because he speaks German! We got out of the car to meet her on the shoulder of the exit, and she was all, “Vich vun is Cal?” and when he raised his hand, you could practically see her melt onto the asphalt.
And she’s got to be a hundred if she’s a day! Who knew Large Appendage’s magic works on centenarians?
The next thing I knew, the two of them were totally chattering away in German, leaving the rest of us out of the conversation.
Fortunately she had her great-grandson with her, Peter, who’s fourteen and speaks English… well, pretty well anyway. Don’t ask me why Peter is living with great-granny in Italy and not attending school, either here or his native Germany. Possibly she’s home-schooling him? He does look a bit like he’d get the you know what knocked out of him in an American high school. I mean, he’s a little on the chubby side and very soft-spoken, with an X-Men T-shirt under his jean jacket. In any case, I didn’t think it would be polite to ask. About why he wasn’t in school, I mean.