Page 55 of My Big Fat Italian Break-Up

Brides Past and Present

July started with the task of pruning all the damaged olive trees, replanting all the flower bushes and re-landscaping the grounds of our property. But the lunar landscape left behind by the locusts was taking much longer than we’d expected. The damage had extended to the neighboring towns, making every venue in the area unfit to host anything except for a Star Trek convention.

As far as the wedding was concerned, we could have settled for a civil marriage at the town hall, but even that had to be booked months in advance, and besides, it that was not what we wanted. Our wish had been to get married in our own home, surrounded by our friends and family in our own, beautiful home.

Julian’s three-week window that had been allocated to the wedding and honeymoon was soon over and the calendar filled once again with all his blue squares that had kicked my one pink square’s ass to the curb indefinitely. But Paul insisted on not losing momentum as far as planning was concerned. He was convinced that the land would be restored in time, and that everything would be fine. That was Paul for you, the eternal optimist. Personally, I didn’t think it was going to happen anymore, and it was driving me crazy. I needed a break from it.

My VIP boutique hotel was a dead duck. But I was going to come up with a definitive solution, once and for all. I needed to prove to myself – and Julian – that I hadn’t lost my drive. That I was still Erica the Ass-kicker.

I was five minutes into my one-woman war council when my cell phone rang.

‘Hello?’

‘How ya doin’, boss?’

Only one person had that lilt. Jackie, my Number Two when I worked at The Farthington. ‘Oh my God, Jackie! How are you?’

And then she laughed her nervous laugh. ‘As stressed as ever, thanks, and you?’

Ditto. ‘Everything’s fine,’ I lied. Why make the poor girl even more miserable? ‘You do sound stressed, what’s up?’

‘Up? Only that it’s The Farthington’s 100thanniversary and Mr. Farthington asked me to invite all of our past guests for a huge shebang.’

That was old Harold for you, doing things in style. I learned all I know from him. ‘Great idea. So?’

A huge sigh. ‘The system’s completely crashed. I have a guy working on it but he said it’s not looking good and even if he could find any data, it would only be very recent, due to our updated system…’

‘How recent?’ I asked.

‘Two years, tops.’

Yikes. That was a proper pickle to be in, as Julian would say. ‘Is there no other back-up system? One that you’ve implemented since I left?’

‘It’s the back-up system that’s crashed.’

‘Ouch…’

‘I’ve tried remembering all their names and I’ve even got people on Linked In and Facebook to track them down, but so far we’ve only found twenty-odd people. Erica, if I can’t pull this 100thanniversary off, there goes my bonus, if not my job.’

She was most definitely right about that. Harold Farthington took absolutely no prisoners. One mistake and you were out, no matter who you were. A few years ago he’d even fired his own nephew for not recognizing a famous guest.

Think, think, think, Erica! Hotel crises, this is what you’re good at! This is where you shine! ‘Why don’t you start with the big clubs and associations that you remember? That would give you hundreds of member names,’ I offered.

‘That’s a great idea! Now why didn’t I think of that?’

‘Thinking outside the box is an occupational hazard.’ For me, at least. Something that machines can’t do. It’s a good thing that I depended so little on them. I even used to copy all the important info into a ledger in case— Holy shit!’ I blurted.

‘What? What’s wrong?’

‘Uh, Jackie! Hang on a minute, will you? I might lose you, so I’ll call you back, okay?’

‘Why, where are you going? Erica, I need you, please don’t hang up! Erica? What are you up to now?’

I ran down the stone steps as fast as I could and to the cellar where we kept all of the junk we didn’t need anymore but hadn’t had the heart to throw away. Like old sports equipment, the kids’ old textbooks and such. And my Farthington ledger. Where I had copied the names of every guest, and I mean every single guest that had come through the lobby doors.

Due to the width of the stone walls, there was no signal down here, and I felt for Jackie whose life must have flashed before her eyes several times by now, probably on a loop.

If only I could find it in this mess. I waded my way through Julian’s mountain of sports equipment, from the canoe he hadn’t used in ages to the paraglider he found on Ebay. Maddy’s very first pajamas, Warren’s first baseball outfit, and even some clothes I still hoped to fit into one day. (I’m sure you tell yourself similar jokes, too?) Old bags that were barely keeping together via the rotting stitching and shoes that not even The Wicked Witch of The West would be caught dead in. You gotta love the cockroach killer toes! And there, right around the corner, was my stuff, all neatly labeled.

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