Chapter Nineteen
NINETEEN
CHARLIE
The cab driver outside the train station has never heard of Villa Meraviglia, which is just Charlie’s luck. And “Charlie’s luck” means not any.
What was the village’s name? It was on his phone, which is now at the bottom of a well. Much like his hopes of getting back tonight. Alongside his hopes of marrying Dario Cotogna.
The train back left forty minutes ago because he read the schedule wrong—damn that twenty-four-hour clock—and he does not remember the name of the station he parked Dario’s bike at.
It was nice to spend a day in a less touristy city, but he’s sure in Florence or Rome he would’ve found an English-speaking person to assist him by now.
A brilliant idea occurs to him. “Amorina Factory?”
The mustachioed cab driver curls his lips. “Si.”
“We can go there?” Charlie asks.
The driver brushes his hands together. “Non è aperto.”
“Uh, what?” Charlie asks at a total loss.
The driver mimes doors opening, closing, and then locking. “Oh, yes. I know it’s not open. I still, uh, need to go there?”
The driver throws up his hands as if he’s going to drive away. Charlie tries to win him over with what little euros he has left.
Only trouble is, he pats every pocket and none of them contain his wallet. “What the—?”
He has his passport holder, but not his wallet. He scours the ground at his feet, squinting in the dark. Someone, somewhere in the city must’ve stolen it.
The enchantment of Italy fades more by the second. So caught up in the beauty of this place, he let his guard down and now look at him. Guileless and penniless in the street of a city where he can’t speak the language. He doesn’t belong here any more than he belongs with Dario Cotogna.
An Italian woman and her small child weasel between Charlie and the idling cab. She gives clear, concise instructions to the driver, leaving Charlie coughing on a cloud of exhaust.
Around him, hotels advertise on massive, light-up signs. But without cash or cards, he is hard-pressed to find even a hostel that would take him in for the night.
Unsure what else to do, he takes shelter on an uncomfortable bench inside the bustling train station.
An hour passes as arrivals and departures are announced over a loudspeaker. There is no gloomier place in the world than a train station when you can’t go anywhere.
In the distance, two police officers chitchat with one another while passengers pile through to catch their trains.
“It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m safe. Someone will come find me,” Charlie says softly to himself to keep panic at bay. “Someone at the villa will obviously notice how long I’ve been gone and come looking for me,”
Though it felt like Dario barely noticed him at all over breakfast. He was too distracted by Michelle and her designs. Not that he blames Dario, even if a rowdy jealousy ran through him then like a streaker across a football field.
“They wouldn’t let me languish out here all night,” Charlie murmurs more meager reassurance.
“Imagine the lawsuit against the contest and Amorina. Violetta wouldn’t allow it.
” Much to his dismay, he’s thinking like his disowned, selfish uncle Buck.
He shudders at the mental comparisons. “Well, I couldn’t afford a lawyer anyway! ”
The wood of the bench is rough, scratching at his back as he slumps down like his splintering thoughts are sticking into him, turning him into a porcupine of regret.
Is he any better than his uncle?
Didn’t he come out here to marry up and out of a terrible situation?
It wasn’t romance he was after, no matter what he feels for Dario now.
He came to Italy for his family. For the house on Cemetery Street with its sagging foundation and wind-scraped windows and in-need-of-a-replacement hot water heater. For his parents and grandparents who’ve worked to the bone to keep the roof over their heads and the food on their table.
But do plentiful reasons beget dishonest intentions?
An image of talented, caring Dario rolls through his mind. Remorse rages in his gut.
Being stranded here all alone is perhaps what he deserves for being a dirty, rotten gold-digger.
DARIO
At the Magione train station, shiny red trains with blazing headlights barrel by. Charlie’s bike is chained outside, but Charlie is nowhere to be found. Nobody disembarking looks anything like the tattooed American he is in search of. Concern clutches his heart in gnarled knuckles.
Back in the car, not only is Dario fearful for what’s become of Charlie, but he’s panicking over where he must go to find him.
As Fabrizio speeds toward Perugia—the only other place Dario can think to look—Dario taps on the overhead light. Instead of obsessing about the strength of the panic attack that awaits him at the end of this car ride, he reads his nonno’s next letter.
Caro Tesorino,
The true mark of a person is how they act in a crisis.
In business and in love, extreme situations arise without warning, and you have to trust that the people around you are ready to rise to the challenge.
Observe who steps up and who shies away from the difficulties the universe throws at you.
Life, at times, can be hard to swallow. Look for the ones who fill up a water glass for you to make the big gulp easier. Investigate if you would do the same for them.
Many people think finding their life partner is about looking outside themselves for the perfect person. Alas, if only it were that simple. Choosing a mate often means turning inward and inspecting the parts of yourself you would rather not address.
It is unfair to ask your partner to be brave for themselves and to be brave for you, too. While there is give-and-take, that leans heavily toward the latter. To have a balanced union, you must have equal measures of both. You must have harmony— just ask your mother.
You have shown your courage by agreeing to my unorthodox plan to find you a partner, but passively going along with this to inherit Amorina will not lead to the outcome most wanted.
I beseech you, Tesorino, to dig deep and live boldly. The right spouse for you will emerge once you take the leap.
Con affetto,
Nonno
Closing his eyes, Dario visualizes the ideal outcome, like his therapist taught him to.
In his head, Charlie, entirely unharmed and happy, stands outside of the American-owned bar right off Piazza IV Novembre.
A sweating, light beer rests in his hand as he talks with a group of coeds who are taking a summer study abroad.
The nightlife swells around him. People ask about his tattoos, and he talks of his time in the Amorina Factory and at Villa Meraviglia.
The fantasy fades out right as they crest into the lot outside Fontivegge with its high-arched entryways.
At first sight of the mobs of travelers waiting on pickups outside the station, all the adrenaline leaks from his body. The very idea of stepping toward that crowd makes his skin itchy all over, and his chest collapses inward.
He snaps his eyes shut again and attempts to summon Charlie as if he were a patron saint of strength. His racing heart shouts messages at his head, “Run! Hide! Go home!”
This vicious anxiety! How he wishes he could spoon it out of himself and serve it up to Angelo who would scarf it down without tasting it.
Fabrizio opens the car door and Dario captures enough bravery to stick a leg out, but that’s as far as his body will allow.
As soon as the summer breeze crests across his blazing cheeks, he slams the door shut, and clutches the seat belt for safety even though the car is in Park.
Fabrizio pokes his head back in the driver door. “Stai andando dentro?” Are you going inside?
Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a raincoat he must have left back here during the last storm. It’s no suit of armor and it does not match his outfit, but it will have to do. He tugs it on, throws up its hood and heads into the fray.
The outside air is oppressive, especially with the thick coat fabric taut around his face. The beep of the car locking behind him is a whip at his backside, speeding him up so he can return to safety soon.
Please find Charlie here. Please find Charlie here. Please find Charlie here.
It’s a prayer, an incantation, a plea. A call to his father, his grandfather. Anyone who can hear his thoughts and act on his behalf.
One foot after another, he gulps in a breath and focuses on what he sees in front of him.
An arrivals board. A luggage area. A train pulling in. A blue-haired man on a bench. A dog running off its leash. A suitcase spilling open.
He glances back, thrilled he has not imagined it. There Charlie is, in the flesh! Near the far platform, Charlie stares down at his shoes while clutching his passport in antsy hands.
Dario whizzes through the throngs to get to Charlie, who looks up just in time. Dario slides across the bench and crushes Charlie with the world’s most relieved hug. All the anxious energy pounds on top of his skin like an extra layer, donned and zipped and suffocating.
“Grazie a Dio! You are okay.” Dario takes a sharp inhale of Charlie’s scent. That sunscreen fragrance lingers beneath a day’s worth of sweat. It’s a weak balm for his frazzled nerves.
“Oh, good. I thought I was imagining you,” Charlie says, while sagging against him, as if he trusts Dario enough to hold him up when he’s not strong enough to do it himself.
“I am here.” Dario reassures Charlie. But it’s hard to reassure someone when a stampede of anxiety elephants clomps through his chest.
“Are you okay? You’re shaking.” Charlie’s hands splay strong against Dario’s back.
Overwhelmed, he buries his head in the crook of Charlie’s neck and shuts his eyes against the world. His fingers claw at the fabric of Charlie’s shirt, needing to ground himself in this moment, which is impossible when it feels like the bench is sliding out from under him, little by little.