Chapter Four #2
The next guest is short, white and pale.
She wears red lipstick that matches her red hair, which hangs down in long waves that clear her rib cage.
She’s dressed in an unassuming floral shirt and a light tan jacket.
She introduces herself as Michelle Trottier.
“Lovely to meet you. You’re a fashion student in Paris, yes? ”
“Aix-en-Provence,” she corrects, demurely shaking his hand. “Have you seen the latest episode of The Luxurious Ladies of Provence?”
Dario curls his brow. “What is that?”
The demureness evaporates into the air. Her wide eyes go wider, making her look like a Walter Keane painting.
“Are you joking? Only the best French reality show on TV!” She whips out her phone to show him her wallpaper.
A gaggle of women in lavish gowns pose before a glittery background.
They are all attractive, if somewhat plastic-looking.
Dario Cotogna is as pansexual as a person can be. His first kiss was with a guy, his first time was with a woman, and his first real relationship was with a nonbinary person. Like with all the best chocolates, the wrapper does not matter so much as its contents.
“Your information section said you liked watching TV. I can’t believe you haven’t seen it,” Michelle says.
“On the most recent episode, Juliette—the one in the middle with the big hoop earrings—was filmed outside my new apartment! I nearly dropped dead when I watched the episode. When had they filmed it? Had I been home and missed it? I rushed outside and took this.” She shoves a side-by-side comparison photo in his face.
On the left is Juliette taking a phone call, looking stern yet glamorous.
On the right is Michelle in a similar yet less expensive version of Juliette’s outfit, holding the same pose.
“My friend took it. Do we not look alike?”
Dario doesn’t see the resemblance. “Of course. Uncanny!”
Michelle beams. “You must watch at least one season while I’m here. You’ll be hooked. It’ll be our thing!”
He is confused why someone would want to travel all this way just to stay inside and watch a TV show, but she’s beautiful and he’ll need to be amenable if he plans to find a spouse among these strangers.
“Your wish is my command. I look forward to it. It is a pleasure to have you with us,” he says as she accepts a champagne flute and flits into the yard.
A lumbering, square-faced, white man emerges next. He dons a blue polo shirt and slacks. On his wrist is the largest, gaudiest watch Dario has ever seen, and he is very rich, so that’s saying something. The man’s golden hair is parted to the left and shellacked into place with a ton of product.
“Guten tag!” he greets.
His handshake is firm and a tad abrasive. Dario’s fingers cramp. “Ansel Voight, thank you for making the time to be here with me.”
The cheesy joke sails right over the head of the German watch salesman.
“The pleasure is all mine,” Ansel says. “What is that you’ve got on there? Is that a Panerai?” He points his nose down at the watch Dario wears.
“Good eye,” Dario says, twisting his wrist in the light.
Every day, he straps on one of his late father’s watches.
He possessed an impressive collection of Florentine watches with Italian leather bands and titanium bezels with vintage-inspired dials.
The brand has ties to the Italian Navy, and as an avid sailor, Cosimo Cotogna Jr. loved the waterproofing and practical design as a status symbol without all the flash.
It keeps Dario connected to him in the same way the hankie keeps him connected to his nonno, and it serves as a reminder that time is never guaranteed, so he needs to make the most of it.
“’99?” Ansel asks, grabbing Dario’s wrist and bending down quite a way to get a closer look. As a short king, Dario has always been taken by tall people. He likes his bed partners climbable.
“I believe so. Si,” says Dario. Ansel’s large hand is warm and inviting. He glances up with an impish smile and arrestingly clear pale blue eyes. Dario’s heart patters. Maybe this won’t be all bad.
“Finely crafted and well-minted, but nein. It doesn’t suit you. Let’s talk more about this. A lovely wrist like yours deserves a statement piece,” Ansel says before planting a charming kiss on the back of Dario’s hand. A heat rushes to his cheeks. Does he say this to all his customers?
Selina Velasco bounds onto the scene next.
She is a skyscraper of a woman made to look even taller by her high-waisted slacks and sand-colored platform heels.
A tailored crop top with a low neckline hugs her slender frame.
Her deep-set, dark eyes have smoky makeup around them.
She wears huge, dangly earrings in the shape of the quince fruit.
“Cotognas,” Dario says with a smile, pointing to her jewelry.
“You noticed,” she says, eyelashes fluttering. She turns her head and extends her neck to give him a better look. He contemplates what it might be like to trail kisses up and down that soft-looking skin.
“What a sweet touch. Did you make those?” he asks.
“Sí. Te gustan ellos?” she asks.
Since he knows a little bit of a lot of languages given his line of business, he replies in Spanish to try to impress her. “Ellos son muy hermosos.” They are very beautiful.
“Eres muy hermoso,” she says with the radiant smile Dario mooned over in her modeling portfolio.
She’s even more beautiful in person. Her nails are long and painted white and he’d like to feel them tracing down his cheeks.
“Before the sun goes down, I have to take a picture of my outfit to post. I promised the designer. Where is the best spot to take it?”
“Just around the house. You can get the hills and the lake in the background,” he says.
She leans in and air-kisses both of his cheeks.
Not wanting to miss Selina posing for those pictures in his own backyard, Dario starts to follow her before someone clears their throat behind him.
When he turns back, he is shocked at the sight of his fifth guest, Charlie Moore, whom he’d forgotten all about for a moment.
Charlie is the first man Dario has ever seen with blue hair.
It was blond in his photos, no? Currently, it is buzzed short and dyed bright.
He stands at a sensible five-foot-ten in a pair of orange, lace-up sneakers, green shorts, and a white tank top with a wrinkly, button-up linen shirt thrown over it.
A small nose ring on his right nostril blinks in the sunlight.
While Charlie’s head is pitched back, mouth agape, taking in the grandiosity of Villa Meraviglia, Dario plays connect the dots with the plethora of tattoos going up his arms, across his collarbone and down his legs. He loses count of them by the time Charlie speaks.
“You really live here?” Charlie asks without so much as a hello. There is a gentle scrape to Charlie’s voice. It’s a bit nasal and reminds Dario of a bouncy ball, rising and falling in random arcs.
“For my whole life, I have,” Dario says.
“How old is this place?” Charlie asks, not moving an inch from his spot on the gravel driveway.
“Oh, centuries,” Dario says. “It got a renovation when my parents married and moved in to start a family, but all the original materials and stylings were kept, maintaining the architectural integrity. My great-great-grandmother was born here.”
“That’s some history, huh? Is it haunted?” Charlie asks.
Only with memories, Dario thinks but says, “Not to my knowledge.”
Charlie frowns. Dario hopes he hasn’t dissatisfied his guest already. These people came from all over the world to stay here, to meet him. Disappointment is the airplane of fear crop-dusting this endeavor and he would like to cut the engine on it as quickly as possible.
“All good,” Charlie says. Their gazes finally meet. Dario likens Charlie’s eyes to molten chocolate, so brown and rich. “I’m Charlie, by the way.”
“I’m Dario Cotogna,” he says. “Won’t you come in?” The iron gate squeaks behind him.
Neither is sure which of them should go first, so Dario and Charlie end up squeezing through the gate together.
Their shoulders brush. They let out little uncomfortable laughs, though Dario secretly thrills at the touch.
This reminds him of courting back in scuola secondaria di secondo grado, when he was beginning to blossom into his own.
“I’m clearly underdressed,” Charlie notes, obviously inspecting Dario’s suit.
“Not at all. You’re perfect as you are,” Dario says, surprised at how suave he sounds despite his flirting skills sitting dormant for some time.
The pink flush that instantly appears on Charlie’s cheeks coupled with his blue hair makes him look like a delicious tower of cotton candy.
“How do you say ‘thank you’ in Italian?” Charlie asks.
“Grazie,” he says.
“Grazieye. Grayzey-aye,” Charlie tries then laughs at himself.
“Grat-zee-ay. Grat.” Dario motions with his hand toward Charlie to repeat after him.
“Grat.”
“Zee.”
“Zee.”
“Ay.”
“Eye,” Charlie says with his gaze laser-focused on Dario’s mouth.
“Ay,” Dario repeats slower.
“Ahye,” Charlie tries again, mouth really making a meal of the wrong-sounding syllable.
Dario stifles a laugh. “Once more. Ay.”
“Ay.”
“There! Now, put it all together. Grazie.”
“Gratezie.”
Dario offers an encouraging smile. “Closer.”
“I sound like a hick, don’t I?” Charlie asks, slipping his hands into his pockets. It’s not a self-conscious gesture so much as a self-aware one.
“A hick?” Dario asks.
“You know, like, unintelligent, unsophisticated, a total bumpkin.” His head bobbles.
“Bumpkin? Like a pumpkin?” His confusion increases as their strides lock.
Charlie’s blush deepens. “I think my Pennsylvania is showing. A ‘bumpkin’ is somebody from the countryside.”
“Is Pennsylvania the countryside? I’ve only been to America a handful of times, and never to Pennsylvania,” Dario says, surprised by this easy conversational rhythm they fall into.
“You’re not missing much,” Charlie says. “Especially in Slatington. It’s a bit of a one-stoplight town.”
“We have no stoplights here in Montecologna,” says Dario. Flashes of his father’s untimely end emerge from his subconscious even after twenty years. He elbows them back down.
Charlie, having clearly caught Dario’s far-off expression, looks away out of courtesy. “It’s more of a phrase that means it’s a small town with not a lot going on in it. This—me winning the contest—is the first exciting thing to happen to someone from Slatington in years.”
“Is this your first time in Italy?” Dario asks as they cross the pool deck on their way to the tent where the others are already snacking away.
“This is my first time out of the country. It was my first time on an airplane ever,” Charlie says. “I knew they gave you in-flight pretzels or whatever, but they served me a whole meal! It wasn’t very good, but it was still cool. Eating in the middle of the sky like that.”
Dario is taken by the innocent wonder radiating off Charlie. “Why don’t we get some good food in you here? There’s plenty to choose from.” He gestures at the impressive spread Paola and her team have whipped up.
Charlie’s eyes brighten. “Grazie, Dario.”
“That was it! Exactly right,” Dario says, clapping Charlie on the back in an overly familiar way. He steps back, afraid he’s gone too far, but Charlie flashes him a big, bright smile as they enter the tent together.