Chapter Five
FIVE
CHARLIE
Charlie downs the last drops of his Negroni as an old woman who barely clears five feet shuffles out into the night.
She wears a spotless apron over a short-sleeved shirt with lemons on it.
Her hair is as white as her apron and mostly tucked back into a bandanna, and from her droopy ears, two pearl earrings dangle.
She does not speak a lick of English, and nobody expects her to.
“Buona sera, a tutti. Mi chiamo Paola. Per il nostro primo piatto abbiamo un’insalata di rucola condita con finocchi e pomodorini all’olio d’oliva e limone,” she says. Charlie understands none of it, but he politely accepts the plate of greens coated in a citrusy dressing anyway.
At first bite, dormant taste buds on his tongue galvanize.
Pleasure centers he has never accessed in his brain flicker on.
He thought the focaccia was mind-blowing, but this?
A whole cherry tomato bursts with freshness between his in-need-of-a-checkup teeth.
The dance of flavors is divine, and he eats faster, almost as if he’s afraid his plate is going to get taken away before he’s finished. He audibly mmms through his chews.
A soft chuckle comes from across the table.
Dario, their gracious and well-dressed host, has his fork set aside.
Is he overheating in that dapper, seafoam green suit in this over-eighty-degree weather?
His shoulder-length, chestnut brown hair curls a bit at the edges, yet there’s not a single bead of sweat on his face.
Only a charming smile. Directed right at Charlie.
“Am I being too loud?” Charlie asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “My manners are a little rusty.” He remembers the cloth napkin on his lap and wipes his mouth again to save face.
First impressions are important. They seemed to click when he got out of the van, but any number of uncouth quirks could turn Dario off.
There’s too much riding on this for him to not put his best foot forward.
Marriage, as a concept, has never really appealed to Charlie.
While he understands the legal and economic benefits, it’s a bit archaic, and he’s never seen it as the ultimate declaration of undying love the way some of his peers do.
In equal quantities, he knows miserable married couples and blissful unmarried couples.
Signing his name to a piece of paper alongside a wealthy stranger doesn’t seem like such a bad trade if it gets his family out of the early grave they’ve dug for themselves.
“Not at all. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Dario says. His eyes crinkle slightly with his growing smile.
“I’ve never met a salad I actually liked,” Charlie says. The wilty, premade bagged stuff from the grocery store makes his stomach sad and leaves him hungry all afternoon.
“Typical American,” says Michelle with an over-the-top eye roll.
Beau chuffs at this from the other end of the table. “You think all we eat is McDonalds, don’t you?”
“No,” Michelle says. “I’m sure you eat Chipotle, too.”
Selina lets out a spicy ooh.
Ansel chimes in. “Care to comment, Charlie?”
“I’m more of a Burger King fan myself,” he says earnestly.
Everyone laughs, even though Charlie didn’t think he said anything funny.
“Who can talk about fast food when we’re eating this?
In Charlie’s defense, this is a really good salad.
How long has Paola been cooking for you?
” Selina asks, even though she’s barely touched her food.
She is far too busy taking photos of it from every angle, poring over them to decide which one to post on her social media story so she can rack up impressive numbers of views.
“Since well before I was born. Paola’s like a nonna to me,” says Dario, straightening in his chair.
“Che cosa?” Paola comes up beside him. Several suited servers line up at her back.
“Sei come una nonna per me,” he repeats in Italian.
She smiles, revealing a few missing teeth.
“Mio tesorino” she coos before swapping out his empty salad plate for a fresh plate of mouthwatering pasta. Food is clearly her love language.
Thick noodles cradle a hefty white sauce dappled with finely grated cheese and specks of black pepper. The aroma is enough to send Charlie into a state of sheer bliss. He picks up his new, clean fork and feasts.
Ansel is the first person to break the strong spell of the spaghetti. “Dario, this is truly your home?”
“Si. This is my home. I live right in there.” He gestures toward the stone barn adjacent to the main villa.
Charlie questions aloud why Dario lives in the smaller of the two structures on the expansive property.
“I am only one person. I do not need all that space.” Dario stares down at his plate, swirling his noodles.
Charlie wishes he hadn’t asked. Clearly, he struck a nerve.
“You’re really going to let us stay here?
” Michelle asks. Charlie hates to admit that he was thinking the same thing and glad someone else spoke it first. Seems like a wild invasion of privacy.
Not to mention a massive inconvenience. But then again, when you have this much, it would be wrong not to share it.
Dario nods.
“Why?” Ansel asks. “I assumed we’d all be in a luxury rental in Perugia proper. This is so much like Der Bachelor!”
“It’s for the promotion, obviously,” Selina says.
“Nobody here knows branding better than me. Amorina is a chocolate brand that started in the home. What better way to underline that than inviting potential suitors into the home of the new head of the brand? You are the new head of the brand, right?”
“Since we have such a short time together, this is also easiest for me to get to know you,” Dario says, but sounds as if he’s holding back.
“This is just like when Juliette Boucher from The Luxurious Ladies of Provence launched her own shoe line and gifted the other luxurious ladies a lifetime supply of Boucher Booties,” says Michelle.
“But we’re not getting a lifetime supply of chocolate,” Ansel says. “It’s not at all like these Lavish Ladies.”
“Luxurious Ladies,” Michelle corrects under her breath. Then louder: “If one of us marries Dario, then we can have all the chocolate we want, right?”
“Right,” Dario says, clearly having a hard time following the rapid volley of conversation across the table. Charlie is right there with him. The varied accents don’t help either.
“You said if one of us marries Dario. Isn’t one of us going to marry you?” asks Beau.
“There are no expectations on this experience. It was simply my grandfather’s final wish for me to meet people from all walks of life from different parts of the world that I may not have crossed paths with otherwise.
There are no obligations. You are all here to relax and enjoy.
If at any point you decide you are not interested in me, that is completely fine and you are still welcome to stay the whole term of your winning,” he says.
This isn’t a surefire thing? Charlie sags a bit. He got on the plane under the assumption he had a one-in-five chance of being engaged by the end of the week. He was floored that he was selected in the first place—reading and rereading the email to make sure it was not some sort of awful joke.
In this case, his game plan for winning Dario over might need to be more aggressive. Beau’s got the voice, Selina’s got the looks, Michelle’s got the style, and Ansel’s got the charm. What does Charlie have?
“I did not notice any release forms in the paperwork we signed earlier,” Michelle says, changing the subject.
“Why would there be release forms?” Dario asks.
“I assumed a camera crew would be documenting this…” She peers around as if she may spot hidden cameras among the landscaping disguised to look like birds or flowers.
“This is all private,” says Dario with a new firmness. “While the contest did drum up a lot of excitement for Amorina, I do genuinely wish to connect with all of you and see, um, what cooks up.”
Paola and her staff arrive with the final course, Amorina tartufos. Inside a hard shell of Amorina chocolate are tiers of gelato in the colors of the Italian flag. Cherry for red, vanilla for white and pistachio for green.
The conversation veers away from Amorina and the marriage scheme.
Everyone goes around and talks about their jobs and their families.
Charlie stifles several yawns in a row. The time difference and the jet lag are catching up to him, but he will be damned if he lets a bite of this heaven-on-a-plate go to waste even if he is stuffed to the gills.
The stars are out by the time they emerge from the tent, full and happy. They carry small glasses of ice-cold, electric-yellow alcohol.
“What’s this called again?” Michelle asks, sniffing the rim. Her upper lip curls.
“Digestivo. This is limoncello, a lemon liqueur straight from the Amalfi Coast,” says Dario.
“Salud!” says Selina.
“It’s meant to be sipped,” says Dario, but it’s too late. She downs the drink like a shot.
Charlie tips the glass to his lips. “Tastes like adult Gatorade,” he says. “They don’t sell anything this fancy at Drink Dash, where I work.”
Beau and Ansel smoke nearby. The nubs of their cigarettes look like extra stars in the twinkly, cloudless sky.
They all sway to piped-in music. Charlie feels buoyant on his feet for the first time in a long time.
The lake glistens beneath the moon high above the village.
He’s just arrived, and he already never wants to leave. If only his family were with him.
“What’s that Italian song about the moon hitting your eye?” Beau asks, scanning the group. Then, as he seems to love to do, he breaks into song. Without a lick of self-consciousness, he sings “That’s Amore” in a buttery, melodic voice.
“That’s an American song,” says Charlie when Beau forgets the lyrics and trails off.
“And what horrendous stereotyping,” says Dario with a good-natured laugh that rolls through the entire group.