Chapter Fourteen
FOURTEEN
DARIO
At breakfast the next morning, Dario’s three remaining suitors sit around the covered outdoor table picking at fresh fruit and sipping from tiny white espresso mugs. There are more empty chairs than claimed ones at this point.
Last night, reading Beau’s note, which was as poetic as his lyrics, caused rejection to swarm Dario like hornets with their stingers at the ready.
In the morning light, however, when he read the note again—the reasoning, the apology, the desire to be friends—he realized Beau had paid him a kindness.
Instead of sticking around, making a good show of it, and potentially allowing Dario to fall for him, he bowed out as soon as he realized it wasn’t going to work.
So Dario faces the option to stew and curse the blues band that stole Beau away from his villa, or to focus on the positive. Now he only had to divide his attention three ways!
He chooses to carry on, and carry on he shall. Keep calm, however, as the Brits say? Not as likely.
“Anyone up for a bike ride around Lake Trasimeno?” Dario asks. The shed is full up with bikes of all sizes and sport speeds. Bicycles are how the Cotognas got around the village most days in childhood. It was the one form of family exercise they could all agree was fun and enjoyable.
Michelle pulls off her round sunglasses and shrugs her wrap down off her shoulders. Her skin is as red as a freshly caught lobster. “I forgot to reapply.”
“I have some aloe in my bag if you need it,” Charlie offers. His tiredness is visible in the slouch of his shoulders.
Michelle covers up again. “I am okay. I have some. But I do not want to hurt any more than I already do, so I will stay back from the bike ride if that is all right.”
“Me, too,” Selina says. “Not because I hurt but because I don’t want to. Bicycle seats are extremely uncomfortable, and I was hoping to steal you away, Dario, to Solomeo for the day to visit Cucinelli’s hamlet and boutique. I am in desperate need of some quality cashmere.”
Acidic anxiety coats Dario’s throat, thwarting any type of response.
While many people travel far and wide to the charming hamlet that billionaire fashion mogul Brunello Cucinelli rebuilt to house his empire and revitalize craftsmanship, Dario has never been, even though it’s so nearby.
He adores menswear and admires Cucinelli for his factory practices and his “humanistic capitalism” but new places ratchet up Dario’s agoraphobia, so he would much rather stick to his predetermined schedule.
Bike ride. The lake. No more deviations.
“You two won’t mind if I take Dario for the afternoon?” Selina asks, barreling on, uncaring of any answers. “I would invite you both, but Cucinelli’s pieces are expensive. I would not want either of you to feel pressured or out of place.”
“I know about Cucinelli,” Michelle says. “I am a fashion student.”
“Do you think you can pull off beiges, grays and browns in your present condition?” Selina asks.
“I guess not.” Michelle raises her wrap and slinks back in her seat, clearly unwilling to argue more.
“I would still be down for the bike ride,” says Charlie. “Maybe it will pep me up. The espresso doesn’t seem to be working.” He tap-tap-taps the side of his mug with his pointer finger. “Is this thing on?” he jokes.
“Excelente. Charlie will ride, Michelle will stay here, and we will shop,” Selina says, racing a long nail up Dario’s silky tie. He swallows, and it sounds like a gunshot in his own ears.
Solomeo is a tourist destination, and Cucinelli’s enterprise and factory employ hundreds. Going there is another recipe for a panic attack. God, how he wishes he weren’t such a prisoner to his own thoughts.
“I would prefer to stick close to the villa today,” Dario says, even though what he should really say is every day.
Selina’s catlike eyes narrow, obviously not used to being told no in any form. “Solomeo is not far. I checked. It is only fifteen minutes by car.”
“I know,” Dario says, sensing his pits start to sweat. “Truly, I only wear Gabriele’s creations these days. A visit to Cucinelli’s boutique would be a waste for me.”
“Could you not use a little variety in your wardrobe?” Selina casts her disapproving gaze over him.
She must be tired of his five-piece, colorful suits, but it’s what he feels best in.
If she can’t accept that, then she’s probably not the person for him.
Right? Or are his resistance to change and his anxiety going to be the death knell to his tenure as the head of Amorina?
He feels like he’s tied to three separate horses who have been sent running in different directions.
Dario withholds a flinch and takes charge of the day the only way he knows how, with logistics. “I’ll arrange a car to take you to Solomeo. Michelle, is there anything I can do for you?”
Her eyes flick toward the TV mounted on the wall inside the propped open doors. “Leave the streaming passwords?”
“Done deal,” he says.
Selina, looking pissed, retreats to her room to get ready.
Dario hopes he has made the right decision.
A little while later, with helmets on and bikes rolling at their sides, Dario and Charlie arrive at the marked trail in Torricella Peligna. In Charlie’s bike basket, he has water bottles and protein bars. Dario turns his into a doggie bed for Angelo who appears thrilled to be away from the villa.
The sun is blazing, but the sweat is welcome as soon as they take off. Dario’s muscles relish the push and stretch of sole to pedal after being stitched up with worry last night over Beau’s departure.
As they pass vegetable gardens and small beaches, he keeps a slower pace than usual, so he and Charlie remain side by side.
“Sorry if I was awkward last night,” Dario says, sounding sheepish.
“Oh no, I’m sorry that Beau didn’t tell you himself. I shouldn’t have agreed to get in the middle of it,” Charlie says.
Dario shakes his head. “You were only doing what was asked of you. There’s no harm in that.”
Charlie’s eyes flick his way. “You’re not upset Beau’s gone, then?”
“I’m quite the opposite. I’m happy he was honest.” Dario pedals a little harder, enjoying the breeze on his cheeks. “Honesty is not a quality I’ve come to expect given my history.”
Their tires crunch on the gravel, kicking up rocks as they go.
“Are you talking about Preston Browborn?” Charlie asks.
That name makes every muscle in Dario’s body cramp up. An overgrown olive tree hanging into the path nearly topples him off his bike.
“Sorry,” Charlie says. “I googled you.”
“You have no reason to be sorry. I’m the one who made a fool of himself in front of the entirety of Amorina and all our competitors,” Dario says. The aftermath of the situation is a halting set of chains wrapped around his bike tires, slowing him down and causing him to struggle for breath.
“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad,” says Charlie.
“Oh, it was,” Dario says, thankful they hit a slight downhill slope so he can coast for a second.
“I pushed for my grandfather to sponsor a special chocolate festival in Castiglione del Lago with a focus on fair trade and sustainability efforts. I knew if he did so, many of our competitors would invest as well. It would be a sign that the chocolate industry was listening, and a way to tell the world that we care about our effect on the planet.”
“That’s really admirable,” says Charlie.
“I knew for my grandfather it was about optics, but for me, it was part of my vision for Amorina and my overall mission,” Dario says.
“The mission I shared with Preston. I met him when we were classmates at the University of Perugia where we both studied Food & Sustainability. After two years of dating, I thought we shared much more than a mission. I was very wrong.”
Dario pulls over when they reach Sualzo Beach. They park their bikes to the side of the path and venture out into the sand. The heads of swimmers wobble in the lake water. A few red pedal boats cruise along the surface. Birds squawk overhead.
“I know there is this stereotype of Italian men being suave and charming, but my brother inherited all of those qualities. I’m confident in business, but not so much in love,” Dario says.
“I’d beg to differ,” Charlie says, sitting beside him in the sand beneath a pre-stationed umbrella. He hands Dario one of the water bottles, which he cracks open. Angelo trots ahead, splashes into the water.
“You’ve only known me for a matter of days,” Dario says.
“Yeah, but you’re juggling and entertaining five potential spouses in your gorgeous villa. What’s more suave and charming than that?” Charlie asks.
“One lied to me, and one just wants to be friends. It’s not going so well. I would’ve never done this on my own,” he says.
“But look at you! You’re doing it.” Charlie smiles, and it’s enough fuel for him to share more.
“I suppose that’s true. I wasn’t sure when or if I’d be ready to get back out there after Preston,” Dario says.
“He must’ve really hurt you,” Charlie says.
“Preston and I were together for almost two years when the festival came up. By that time, I think we all knew my grandfather wasn’t going to live much longer, so I got this idea in my head that I’d propose to Preston at the festival after giving the big keynote speech.
I knew it was almost like my audition to be the face of Amorina, and I nailed it.
I was rehearsed and confident and clear-voiced.
Everything went perfectly, up until I called Preston onto the stage, got down on one knee, and he rejected me in front of the huge crowd.
There was shock and laughter. I was humiliated,” Dario says.
“Couldn’t he at least have pretended for the audience? I’m sorry it went down like that,” Charlie says, clearly hanging on every word.