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.
Anyway, Peter asked us non-German speakers how the drive was, and if we were hungry, and said he and “Grandmuzzer” had stocked the fridge at the villa, so we should be all right until the “shops” opened again tomorrow, they’re all being closed today on account of it’s Sunday.
Mark asked him about liquor—you can tell sitting shotgun while Holly drove had worn away his last good nerve—and Peter said, looking confused, “Vell, I zink zere are many bottles in the house now.”
Mark looked visibly relieved.
Then Frau Schumacher said for us all to get back in the car and follow her. So we did. And we were driving along, me not being able to help notice that there was a big wall of clouds climbing over the nearby, castle-crested hill, and realizing I probably wasn’t going to be able to squeeze in an evening swim, when all of a sudden Holly went, “Look! The Adriatic!”
And there it was, this beautiful slice of sapphire blue, right there! There was no one on the beach, because being the middle of September, it’s off season, of course… even though it’s still in the 80s, temperature-wise (or the twenties, if you’re going Celsius, like the Italians).
But somebody had still put out all of these white-and-yellow-striped lounge chairs, just in case.
And we drove through this adorable little seaside town, Porto Recanati, filled with the sweetest shops— a gelateria, and an Italian Benetton—and something called the Crazy Bar and Sexy Tattoo Shop, which I’m not sure really qualifies as sweet—and then hung a left onto a road I’m not even sure, technically, really IS a road. I mean, it’s DIRT, and all of this dust was flying as we went down it, so that we had to close the windows.
Still, it was tree-lined, and through the spaces between the trees, we caught glimpses of the Centro Ippico—a horseriding center down the road from Villa Beccacia… although not far ENOUGH down the road, if you ask me, since even as I write this I can hear neighing.
And there’s a slightly horsy odor in the air when the wind shifts.
But whatever. We followed Frau Schumacher to this electric wooden gate, and waited while she hit a button and it slid slowly open….
And then we saw it. Villa Beccacia, Holly’s uncle’s house, which has been around for a really long time… hundreds of years, since it was built in the 1600s!
Of course, it’s been remodeled since then.
But not so you’d notice from the outside. As we drove down the long driveway, past fruit trees around which bees were humming and butterflies were flitting, past a deep green pond, its surface covered with lily pads, past rolling, grassy hills, the stone house, with vines creeping up all over it, came into view.
And it was just the way I’d pictured it!
Well, okay, there weren’t any turrets. But really, it’s LIKE a castle. I mean, it’s really old, and inside, there are these darkly beamed and vaulted ceilings. And there are tapestries hanging on the walls, and in the old- fashioned kitchen, there’s a brick oven.
You can’t USE it… they put in a modern stove to cook on. But the brick oven is still THERE.
The casement windows are sunk into these deep walls with sills you can sit on, and open out like shutters. There are no screens, because if there were, you wouldn’t be able to open the windows.
And out back, the pool is just steps away from the covered stone patio—the terrazza , according to Peter —with the ancient built-in grill/fireplace. This is apparently where Zio Matteo spends most of his time when he’s home, since there was wax all over the wrought-iron table from the many candles that had dripped onto it while
