Chapter Five #2
A little while later, Charlie stands in the center of the downstairs sitting room. The walls are a tan stone, and the ceiling is curved brick. A fan spins overhead, spreading the scent of fresh-cut flowers through the air.
Beneath his shoes, a rust-colored carpet bunches up.
Three Negronis, pasta, a tartufo, and a lifetime’s worth of focaccia churn in his stomach.
He hasn’t eaten that well in God knows how long.
The flavors linger on the length of his tongue.
Trying to pick a favorite one is like trying to decide which family member to save in a house fire.
A house fire would not be a half-bad idea if nobody were inside and he were able to make it look like an accident for insurance purposes…
No, that’s the Negronis talking.
“Two of you will have to share a room,” says Violetta, the lawyer overseeing the contest, once all five of the winners venture inside the villa.
Earlier, she served them dozens of legal documents to sign before they could touch the aperitivo spread.
Charlie was so hungry that he was almost tempted to eat the paper.
His initials started to look like wingdings.
For all he knows, he signed away his first-born child, eyes glazing over around page seven.
“Not it!” shouts Selina, already dashing toward the exit and up the outdoor stairs. Charlie is impressed she can move that fast in those towering, expensive-looking shoes. And with jet lag and alcohol in her, no less. How did she even know which direction to go?
Beau puts his hands up, looking over at the others. “I already settled my stuff in the bedroom down here.”
Michelle says, “I’ll take the single upstairs, then.”
“How is that fair?” asks Ansel, the oldest of the group and somehow the most immature.
“I am a woman,” Michelle says, concern building a wall behind her thin voice. “You do not expect me to sleep in a room with a strange man I do not know.”
“Macché! Signor Voight, you see the situation,” Violetta says.
“You are here to date a man you do not know,” Ansel argues. “We all won the contest. We should all get the same amenities.” Perhaps the bartender overserved him. Spittle leaps out of his mouth, visible in the lamplight.
“Mi dispiace. There are two twin beds in the last bedroom. That is how the villa is laid out,” says Violetta. Beau, clearly uninterested in further confrontation, backs into the downstairs bedroom and shuts the door behind him. Seconds later, the pluck of guitar strings floats out through the wood.
“I don’t mind a roommate,” says Charlie, hoping this squashes the issue. “I didn’t bring a lot of stuff, so I won’t take up too much space.”
When Charlie was the last to arrive at the meet-up location at the Florence airport, he felt out of place.
Everyone seemed glamorous, with their hard-shelled, metallic, rolling suitcases.
All he had was a beat-up, blue duffel bag from back when he played basketball.
A couple shirts, a couple shorts, enough underwear to get him through the week without needing to do laundry, his sketchbooks and his pencil case.
“You may not, young man, but I am past forty. It is nothing personal, of course. It is a matter of principle,” he says as if any of this is going to get them on his side.
As if his words can magically make Violetta carve out a new room in this centuries-old villa and drag one of the beds into it for him.
“Come va?” Dario asks, appearing beside Violetta.
Charlie rights the rug beneath his feet. Dario remains unruffled in his shiny loafers and full suit despite how humid the day was.
“I was telling these men they will need to share a room, and Signor V—”
“I was just telling Violetta here what a beautiful home you have. We have such luck to stay here,” Ansel says, changing his tune and flashing a smarmy smile.
Charlie turns to Michelle. She looks back with disbelief. But this is only day one, and given the bedroom situation, he thinks it best not to upset Ansel or risk an uncomfortable sleeping arrangement by voicing the truth, so he shrugs in acceptance. His focus is on wooing Dario, not making enemies.
“Grazie mille, Ansel. Are you needing anything else?” Dario asks, appearing more tired than he was when they arrived. All that socializing. Charlie considers himself an extrovert, but international travel can really kill your personal battery.
Ansel shoots Dario with a loaded smile. “Not right now.”
“Let me know if you do,” Dario adds.
“I will,” Ansel says, eyes flecked with mischief. He exits toward the outside stairwell.
Michelle slaps her palms on her thighs. “I’m tired. I’m going to head upstairs to whichever room Selina didn’t claim. Bonne nuit,” she says, proffering a small wave.
A charge lingers in the room once it’s only him and Dario. Charlie blames the slight buzzing of his skin on the limoncello working its way through his system and not the appealing lean Dario does in the room’s arched doorframe.
“I wanted to say thank you for your hospitality. This place is beyond my wildest imaginings. I can’t even conceive what the museum looks like,” Charlie says.
“You’ll get the chance to see for yourself tomorrow. You should rest up before then after all those travels,” Dario says.
“I promised I’d call my family when I arrived.
I got so caught up in dinner that I forgot.
Do you have the Wi-Fi password?” Charlie couldn’t afford the pricey international plan his cell service required for him to make calls out here, but he knows he won’t be able to sleep if he doesn’t update his family.
“Of course. Video call or voice call?” Dario asks.
“What time is it?” Charlie does the mental math. They are six hours behind in Pennsylvania. “Video.”
“The connection is stronger out in the barn house. Happy to let you in, if you’re okay with that,” Dario says.
“Cool, yeah. Thanks.”
They head back out into the yard. The staff at the villa works quickly and silently to pack up the food and take down the tent.
Charlie follows Dario as he weaves through the workers, noting that his gait seems to lack the confidence of someone who has just inherited a global chocolate empire.
From the profile and the pictures accompanying the contest notice, Charlie visualized a broad-smiled, aggressive salesman mixed with European elegance.
Someone more like Ansel. Dario has softer edges than he expected, which is intriguing.
The rounded, windowed doors of the barn house open into a large room with a king-size bed at its center. At the foot of the bed, a tiny white dog perks up from sleep. It yaps immediately upon seeing them.
“Tutto bene, Angelo. Charlie è un nostro amico,” Dario says, leading Charlie inside. “Meet Angelo. The only Cotogna who can’t have chocolate. He’s friendly, just excited.”
Charlie laughs and scratches the dog on the top of his head where his fur is tufted and soft.
In the left corner of the room there is a wooden chair beside a tabletop where a TV rests. “Will this work?” Dario asks.
Charlie nods and sits. There is a piece of paper on the desk with the Wi-Fi password written on it. He keys it into his phone and calls his mom, but she doesn’t pick up. “That’s weird. She should be home from work by now. I’ll try my grandpa.”
“Your grandpa lives with your parents?” Dario asks.
“Both of my grandparents do. They’re mostly homebound for health reasons,” Charlie says. A framed photo of Cosimo Cotogna Sr. catches Charlie’s attention on the bedside table across the room. “I was really sorry to hear about your grandpa’s passing.”
“Que? Oh, grazie.” Dario stands at the propped open doors. The jangle of Angelo’s collar echoes outside as he circles for a spot to pee. Dario stares into the night, but it doesn’t appear that his eyes land on anything.
“You must miss him,” Charlie says. Thoughts of his own grandfather passing invade his brain, but he shuts them down. Grandpa has such strong will that he might outlive Charlie at this point.
“Si. Yes. We all do.” He presses his back into the wood of the door, so it swings and squeaks.
“How is it being the new head of Amorina?” Charlie asks.
Dario’s facial expression fluctuates rapidly.
A loud chime erupts from Charlie’s phone. His mom’s contact photo appears on the screen.
Dario looks relieved to not have to answer. “Take your time,” he says before shutting the door.
An uncomfortableness fills Charlie’s belly. Did he say something wrong?
He answers the call before the final ring.
“Charlie! You made it! Tell us how it’s going!” Mom says, the first and closest face in a crowded rectangle of them. Grandma and Grandpa are in the back peering over. Dad is poking in from the side.
“Yeah!” Grandpa says, hungry for information. “Tell us everything!”
He goes to speak before realizing he can’t tell them everything because in his duffel bag, nestled beside his passport, is the foreclosure warning from the bank he never gave his parents.
His acceptance into the contest happened quickly—a total whirlwind of good news—and he felt it was a sign from the universe that everything would work out.
If he can secure a marriage to Dario over the next week, there is no way Dario won’t pay off their debt before the bank can legally file a foreclosure claim with the courts. “Where to even begin?” Charlie says.