Chapter Four
FOUR
DARIO
Two weeks later
On a blazing afternoon in the middle of July, the scent of freshly baked focaccia lures Dario from the guesthouse.
A new, white tent presides over the villa’s green, grassy rear lawn that separates his room in the barn house from the main house.
The grandiose nature of the frilly tent gives the impression that the circus arrived at the village overnight, blown in on a strong Adriatic breeze.
Are his guests arriving to meet the ringmaster or the century’s saddest clown?
Regardless of whether he is ready or excited, today is the day that five total strangers descend upon his home for a weeklong stay with the hope of…a love match?
That seems too impossible, even for his nonno’s fancies. What are the odds that he would find the elusive, magical recipe for love buried somewhere in hundreds of thousands of short, written testimonials?
The word recipe peppering his mind gives him a whole-body shiver even while embraced in the sun’s radiant warmth.
A recipe is what ended his last serious relationship.
He learned the hard way that it wasn’t only his heart that needed guarding like a precious family heirloom when it came to trust and vulnerability.
Angelo, the Cotogna family’s geriatric Maltese with the size and plucky spirit of a newborn puppy, darts through the parted flaps of the tent.
He sniffs at the square white table before hiking up his back leg.
“Angelo, no!” Dario appeals. Either Angelo’s hearing is shot, or he ignores his owner and nightly cuddle buddy before dashing off.
Dario closes his eyes and keys into the blades of mowed grass poking up between his toes.
In a moment, he will have to slip into his Italian leather loafers and greet his prospective spouses like a world-renowned host, but he takes a moment to relish being barefoot while wearing his new five-piece, seafoam green suit.
Seafoam green is Dario’s favorite color.
Once he became the sole inhabitant of Villa Meraviglia, he had all the door and window frames painted with it.
He needs the armor of his favorite color to buoy him.
The last few years have left him depleted and sorely lacking in social practice.
How does one make small talk when the problems he faces seem so large?
When he opens his eyes, the sight of Violetta spooks him. She wears all black even in this heat.
“Just the reaction I love to get,” she says, deadpan. Dario apologizes for his overreaction. He supposes he should get used to people coming and going around here. “I have come to oversee the arrival of your guests and to get them to sign proper documentation.”
Ah, so she is here as a lawyer and not as a family friend. “Grazie.”
“I am also to deliver these to you.” She passes him a stack of envelopes tied up with an Amorina bow. “They are from your grandfather.”
“Don’t tell me this is some additional scheme of his.”
“Non lo so.” I don’t know. “They were sealed and given to me with instructions.”
Dario sets the bundle on the table. As soon as he undoes the ribbon, the whole tower falls apart. Each envelope is inscribed with a day. There is one for every day his guests will be here. “Veramente?” For real?
Violetta nods. “Signor Cotogna was nothing if not a planner.”
He lets out a gusty sigh. “Too bad I can’t just marry you.”
She does not even pretend to laugh, which he appreciates.
“You have been saying this since you were five.” Before she was a lawyer, she was a babysitter.
Ever the cliché, Dario developed a massive crush on her.
So did Emilio. They would fight and fight and fight about it, despite her adamancy that she preferred older gentlemen.
“Business and pleasure should stay separate.”
“Is this not business?” Dario gestures around at the tent and the focaccia. He points at her leather attaché case, overstuffed with legal documents. “It all seems pretty transactional to me.”
“View it as you wish.” Violetta blows a stray hair out of her eye. “I’ll be inside preparing the paperwork if you need me.”
Alone again, Dario takes a seat under the tent.
There are trapezoidal centerpieces set out before him with tiny utensils and a wide array of finger foods on the shelves for a proper aperitivo.
It is a long-standing Italian tradition dating all the way back to the 1800s with Roman roots.
Small bites are paired with alcoholic drinks to jump-start your appetite before a big, savory dinner.
The spread is robust. Fresh focaccia, olives, prosciutto, figs and jam.
Bruschetta is on a display all its own next to veggies, a cold salad and a rich-looking quiche made by Paola.
Paola has been the Cotogna’s personal chef for longer than Dario has been alive and he is almost certain she will outlive him.
When he was a kid, Dario hated the cultural tradition of the aperitivo.
While the adults gabbed and sipped wine without a care in the world, he munched on potato chips and moaned that he was hungry for something more substantial.
Having an aperitivo felt like a giant tease.
As an adult, though, he thinks of the aperitivo like extended foreplay before really good sex.
Not that he has had really good sex since Preston, and Preston is as good as dead to him.
A clank ratchets him from his thoughts. Across from where he sits, on the triangle of grass on the other side of the stone path that wraps around the house, a bar has been erected.
Behind it, a handsome man with salt-and-pepper hair and a fabulous mustache organizes the liquors, mixers and garnishes.
There are plentiful wines and beers, and also the ingredients for an Aperol Spritz or a Negroni.
A small glass bowl of salted nuts sits near the front edge of his workstation.
Dario’s stomach begs for even the tiniest morsel, but it would be rude to start eating before his guests arrive, so he picks up the day one envelope and unfolds the stationery he has handled a million times before.
Caro Tesorino,
Today begins your new adventure. Bravissimo for agreeing!
Love, in the stories I’ve been told and the one I lived with your nonna, is a matter of time, place and spirit.
I have given you a time: one week rolling into one year rolling into forever.
I have given you a place: Villa Meraviglia, the site of many fond memories and a million more to be made.
Unfortunately, unless I am now un fantasma favoloso, I cannot provide the spirit.
That must come from within you, Dario.
Strangers can only become friends and friends can only become amanti if you possess an openness of spirit, a joy for the possibilities.
Now go. Greet your guests with a smile, a hug and a delicious meal. See what cooks up between you.
Con affetto,
Nonno
Despite having sworn his tear ducts were depleted over the last couple of months, he softly cries. His nonno was always looking out for him and his well-being, even if he chose the strangest ways to do so. Dario has to trust that this is going to work out for the best.
Moments later, a musical horn blares out front. So engrossed in the letter, Dario didn’t even hear the big car coming up the drive.
From the outer pocket of his jacket, he produces a tan handkerchief to wipe away his tears. The handkerchief is monogrammed CCS. He runs his thumb over his nonno’s initials. It’s a small way to keep his nonno close to his heart through this wacky plot.
A sleek black Mercedes van idles a few feet away from the side gate.
The bartender from earlier appears behind Dario with a tray of champagne flutes.
The driver—Fabrizio, a favorite of his nonno’s—comes around and slides open the back door.
Dario’s heart climbs up into his throat and backflips off his Adam’s apple.
He has seen these people in photographs and read their ruminations on love, but meeting them in person still makes his hands clammy and his back sweat. Good thing he remembered to put an undershirt and deodorant on.
The first guest to step out of the van wears board shorts, a blue T-shirt advertising his own band called California Storm Clouds, and Velcro sandals.
His skin is dark, and his hair is free-form dreadlocks.
His easy, charming smile is tinted with melty chocolate.
An Amorina wrapper is balled in his right hand and a sticker-covered guitar case is gripped in the other.
“Hey, man. I’m Beau Garner. Oh, shit. Sorry.” Laughing, he shoves the candy wrapper in his pocket, then pulls Dario in for one of those very bro-ey greetings: part handshake, part hug, all awkward.
Dario stumbles backward. “Ciao. It’s a pleasure to meet you.
” Beau wrote lyrics to a song as his contest entry.
He fronts a relatively new, modestly popular indie group back in the States that Dario enjoyed listening to online even if he’s unfamiliar with most popular music.
He favors opera and classical over other genres.
Perhaps his nonno should’ve been more specific when he said Dario liked music.
The bartender waves the tray of champagne before Beau in offering.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Beau says and then, clearly perked up by the bubbly, breaks into a song about landslides and supernovas that Dario has never heard before.
“Bravissimo! Did you write that?” Dario asks.
“I wish! That was ‘Champagne Supernova’ by Oasis. Do you guys not have Oasis over here?” Beau asks.
Dario doesn’t have a moment to respond before Beau barrels on by singing a song about a woman named Sally that he also doesn’t recognize.
“Oh, man. Let me play for you later. There’s so much music I can introduce you to. ”
He ventures into the yard singing yet another song Dario can’t identify.