starting to set, and I know I should go back to the villa to see if she’s there.
But part of me is afraid to leave this chair. Because what happens if I go back there, and she gives me the cold shoulder?
Grazi’s reply, when I asked her this very question as she was boarding her train, was hardly reassuring.
“She won’t,” she said, with a smile, “if you make the grand gesture.”
“What grand gesture?” I asked. “I already threw a party that put me five grand in the hole, and all that got me was a view of the bottom of the pool.”
“What does she want?” Grazi asked, pointedly. “Besides a wedding for her friend, which you already gave her? That is what you must do, you know. Give her what she wants—what she’s never had—and she’ll be yours.”
I had to think about that one. What Jane Harris wants. I thought about it for a long time after Grazi’s train pulled away from the station.
It turned out not to be that hard. I mean, it’s not like it wasn’t written on practically every page of her diary.
Still, how to show her I really meant it:. that was the hard part.
Of course, if it turns out I’m wrong…
Well, here goes nothing.
Travel Diary of Jane Harris
Travel Diary of
Jane Harris
I should have known, of course. That it was all too good to be true.
About him having changed, I mean.
He hasn’t changed. They never change.
I don’t know what I was thinking. I mean, just because he got Holly and Mark married, then threw them a nice party, and made a sweet toast, the way any normal man SHOULD have, I thought he’d come around.
Ha. HA!
It’s so transparently obvious now that the whole thing was some kind of setup to get me into bed.
I have to admit at first I was flattered. I mean, that he went to all that trouble, just to see me naked. No man’s ever gone to such elaborate lengths on my behalf. Well, Curt Shipley took me to the prom.
But knowing now that he didn’t really care WHO he screwed afterwards, me or Mike Morris, has somewhat spoiled my appreciation of the fact in retrospect.
Same with Cal Langdon. I mean, it was all just a big game to him. I knew it the minute I laid eyes on that art gallery woman. Just a kiss. Ha! Exactly as I suspected, it WASN’T just a kiss. He was just lonely, and wanted to get laid. He didn’t care by WHO. Or WHOM. Or whatever. Why else would he have invited her?
And I’ll admit, he did look kind of surprised to see her there. He must have forgotten he’d asked her to stop by.
Well, I’m sure that baptism I gave him reminded him plenty fast.
Whatever. It’s not like I even care. I mean, it’s not like I was FALLING FOR HIM, or anything. Please. Falling for WHAT? Believe me, I can do better than an egocentric jerk like him.
And okay, he DOES have those nice sinewy, tanned hands. And those blue eyes. And he likes cats. And he’s a great kisser. And he’s super smart, but can still be funny when he lets himself.
So what? He has a lot of faults, too. He thinks he knows everything, when, very clearly, he does not, particularly when it comes to human relations.
And he writes books I wouldn’t pick up to read if I even were dying of boredom.
And, though I can’t be sure of it, I think I caught him looked at me a little funny this morning when he saw me putting ketchup on my eggs.
Who needs that? Not me. No, sir. I’m sticking to nice guys. Like Malcolm. Well, not Malcolm, exactly, since he’s clearly moved on, which… good for him.
But I mean simple guys, like Malcolm. Guys who don’t play head games. Guys with a wry appreciation of life’s vagaries. Cal doesn’t appreciate anything wryly. Well, except for maybe my grammatical errors.
Oh. Wait. War.
Okay. Peter won.
Whatever.
Where was I?
Oh, yeah.
The first thing I’m going to do when I get back home is register for some kind of class at the Learning Annex. I don’t know what. But some kind of class a simple guy would take. Like pottery, maybe. Or Italian! Yeah. How to speak Italian. I bet a lot of guys take that class. And then I can meet a nice, simple guy, and next time I come back to Italy, I’ll bring him along.
Because even though this country has its faults—the three-hour lunches, where everything, even SHOE stores, is closed… not to mention the lack of toilets, like at Amici Amore, or just the seats, like that restaurant in Porto Recanati—it can also be super nice. When I made Peter drop me off in town today after the party, when he and Annika and everyone else went to harass Holly and Mark at their hotel, I walked around a little, got myself a nice gelato, sat down in a little palazzo, and just relaxed.
I haven’t been able to do much relaxing since I got to Italy—well, except for like five minutes by the pool that one day—what with the sightseeing and the worrying about Holly and Mark’s wedding not working out and the whole Cal thing.
But today I relaxed, and I looked around, and I… well, I liked what I saw. Italy, I mean. Well, Le Marche, anyway. They’re all so friendly, and say hi to one another as they pass on the street.
And all of the windows have flower boxes instead of fire escapes on them, because none of the buildings is more than two stories high.
And because the buildings are so low, the sky looks HUGE overhead, like in Wyoming, or something. Only it’s a blue like it never gets in New York, on account of all the pollution from the traffic. Here, most everyone rides scooters, or at most, they have tiny little Smart Cars.
Even the ice cream tastes better than back in America. That was the best pistachio I ever had.
And the pace of life is kind of catching. I mean, I definitely don’t approve of three-hour lunches. But if you NEED to take that long for lunch, it’s nice that it’s not frowned on. Like it would be in Manhattan. I mean, can you imagine if you worked on Wall Street or whatever and you tried to tell your boss you wouldn’t be back for three hours?
There’s something kind of nice about the way no one hurries, and how there always seems to be time for a cup of coffee and a friendly Buon giorno.
It’s a shame we have to leave Friday, really. I mean, not that I’ll be sad to say good-bye forever to SOME people I’ve met here. But I think I’ll miss this place. And Peter. And even his great-grandmother and snotty Annika (whom, when she asked me what she was supposed to do with Holly’s bouquet after she caught it, I told it was traditional to shred the flowers to pieces and throw them into the sea for good luck) and the mayor and the smell of horses drifting into my bedroom window in the morning and those skinny cats and the oven that you can’t turn on without the lights going out and all of the Virgin Marys and the castles on every hillside and…
Well, just everything.
Except HIM.
After I take that class at the Learning Annex—on how to speak Italian—and I meet that guy—you know, the simple one who’ll be able to appreciate life’s vagaries—we’ll come back to Italy, and we’ll have a fabulous time, because both of us will know what carabinieri are, and neither of us will laugh at the other’s mistakes, unlike—
HIM.
