Chapter Twenty
TWENTY
CHARLIE
One day left in Villa Meraviglia, and today is the day Charlie gets his heart broken.
That’s the one thing he is certain of as he stands in his room in only his boxers and opens the curtains. The Italian sunlight dances in for the penultimate time. Tomorrow, he gets on his cramped plane back to America and faces the music of his miscalculations, possibly loses his family home.
Last night, in the train station, sewn up with worry, he berated himself for his senselessness on all counts. First, for boarding flights of fancy. Second, for losing his phone. Third, for dragging Dario into his boneheaded scheme.
That’s what it was. A scheme. To luck his way into a fix for his family whom he withheld the truth from, which makes him no better than his uncle and no good for Dario Cotogna. Apologies are in order and packing needs to be done, so he better get to it before he starts crying.
As he relishes one of his last showers in a private bathroom, a scintillating moan of pleasure seeps through the shower wall. For a moment, Charlie thinks he let it out himself, but then it reprises, and his voice hasn’t gone that high since puberty.
Is that…Michelle?
He shuts off the water, dries himself and dresses. He tries to make as few noises as possible, catching what bits he can.
The moans don’t stop. They grow stronger. A masculine voice enters the mix. Whispered words are muddled by the wall, but there’s an unmistakable Italian accent there.
If Michelle’s not alone, does that mean…
Maybe when Dario went looking for him last night, Michelle went out, picked up a guy and brought him back here. It’s a long-shot theory, given Michelle’s general character, but that has to be the explanation, right?
The sex sounds paint a picture in Charlie’s head that borders on voyeuristic, so he tears the metaphorical canvas and goes down to breakfast.
The back doors are flung open. Morning air traipses through the gauzy curtains like a welcome guest. Dew still clings to the blades of grass in the garden. It would all be peaceful if Charlie weren’t so curious about his neighbor’s escapades.
Upon first bite of burnt toast—mind too preoccupied to pay close attention to the timer—he hears two sets of footsteps creak on the stairs. From his vantage point, Charlie can only see the backs of heads.
Michelle’s hair is unruly. The man she’s with has a hand on her back. He is short and has shoulder-length, chestnut brown hair.
A torpedo of possessiveness zooms through his gut, until the pair turns the corner.
While the man Michelle is with bears a striking resemblance to Dario, he has a rounder face, bushier eyebrows and a stouter figure with no shirt on.
Still, he walks with far more directness and panache than Dario, a man who wears five-piece suits on the regular.
As soon as Michelle sees Charlie at the table, she steps away from the man. “Good morning,” she says, shyly brushing a hair behind her ear.
“Morning,” Charlie says through a big bite of toast. His appetite balloons, with the certainty that Dario wasn’t the person keeping Michelle company in the shower.
“Which one are you?” the man asks with an impolite point.
Charlie wipes his mouth before answering. “Excuse me?”
“Which contest winner? There was the model, the musician, the salesman, the French bombshell—” he nibbles on Michelle’s exposed shoulder, which is still red, so she swats him away “—and…you?”
“The American, I guess?” Charlie says.
“I thought the musician was American.”
“The other American, then?”
The man snaps his fingers. “The gas station one.”
Charlie goes to correct him but decides it’s not worth the breath. It’s not like he’s an astronaut or an engineer. It’s not like he’s going to be Dario Cotogna’s husband either. What’s the point?
“You are?” Charlie asks.
“I see my reputation doesn’t precede me,” he says, extending a hand to Charlie. “Emilio Cotogna, future head of Amorina Chocolates.”
A door opens behind Charlie. He turns expecting Dario, but it’s another man he’s never seen before. This man is carrying a camera, and is trailed by a tall, lithe woman with porcelain skin and blond hair. Where had all these people come from? What had he missed yesterday?
“Why aren’t you rolling? We need as much footage as we can get,” Emilio says.
Michelle backs up. “I should probably change and put my makeup on.” She wears an oversize, stark red shirt, the collar of which is stretched out and askew, making it appear one wrong move away from slipping right off.
“What are you filming for?” Charlie asks. At no point did he sign a release to be filmed. The vibe in Villa Meraviglia is drastically different this morning, and he doesn’t like it one bit.
His question is drowned out by Emilio saying, “Stay. You look sexy right now.” He lets out a purr-growl that makes Charlie uncomfortable.
The woman who recently arrived rushes up to Charlie at the table. “You made it back! Thank goodness. We were worried about you last night. Charlie, right?” She has a musical, American accent that reminds Charlie of home.
“That’s me,” he says.
Paola enters and upon seeing the crowd gathered at the table, turns on her heel and slips back into the kitchen. Charlie wishes he could join her.
“I’m April, Dario’s mom. I’ve heard such wonderful things about you,” she says before quickly switching topics and asking him about his tattoos.
The sound of the doors slamming scares them all into silence.
Dario stands in his swimsuit and a swim cap. Pool water drips all over the floor. “What’s going on in here?” He scans the room and reddens. “Ah, Charlie, I see you’ve met my family.”
Charlie nods as Michelle returns. Still pantless. Still in Emilio’s shirt. “Emilio, have you seen my—” She stops in her tracks when she locks eyes with Dario. Charlie holds his breath.
Dario’s piercing glare skips like a hastily tossed stone over to his brother. “Real nice, Emilio.”
“Ma dai! As if you were ever going to make a move,” Emilio says, fight in his words.
“As if you were ever going to be faithful to your wife,” Dario shoots back.
April intercedes. “Boys! Oddio! Basta! Who raised you?”
“Voi,” Paola says, ever the quick wit as she clears the breakfast spread.
Dario and Emilio snicker at Paola’s remark.
“Grazie, Paola. Very helpful. I did my best!” April calls after Paola’s retreating figure. “Can you two be in a room together more than a minute without fighting?”
Charlie grew up in want of a sibling, but this dynamic seems toxic enough to change his mind. The men glare at each other across the room, fire burning in their eyes.
Dario tears off his swim cap and says, “We wouldn’t be fighting if he didn’t have sex with one of my contest winners!”
Charlie cringes at Dario’s word choice.
Michelle, shocking everyone, says with a fierceness, “I am not yours.” It’s like she’s miraculously transformed into one of her favorite reality TV starlets. Charlie half imagines the gaudy dangling earrings and designer heels, the wineglass in her hand and the plastic plumpness of her cheeks.
Dario flushes cherry red while visibly fighting for words. “Si. No. Of course you are not mine. I didn’t mean it the way— You see, he…” Dario points his finger, voice falling off his breath. It’s obvious his brother brings out the worst in him.
“He, what? He spent the day with me. He was kind to me,” Michelle says. “I can have sex with anyone I choose.” Charlie would cheer for Michelle standing up for herself if it weren’t at Dario’s expense.
“Yeah!” Emilio chimes in. “She can have sex with anyone she chooses, and she chose me.”
“You are not helping,” Michelle says. “My decisions do not need your conditions.” Her hand sassily sits on her hip.
It rings like a clunky catchphrase meant to be turned into a meme, but still, good on her.
Dario opens his mouth, but after a moment of speechlessness, makes the wise choice of not extending this conflict any farther. The tension in the room is already gooey mozzarella strung to its limit.
“This is my house, and I would like you all to leave,” Dario says, slow yet firm.
“It’s Mom’s house actually,” Emilio says.
April pinches the bridge of her nose, crosses the room to her son. “Emilio, let me help you find a shirt that isn’t already spoken for so we can get out of Dario’s hair. We’ve overstayed our welcome.”
“But—”
April waggles a finger in his face and points at the stairs. The three of them exit without further protest.
Uncertain, Charlie follows the crowd.
“Not you,” Dario says. “Please stay. If you want to. I want to finish our conversation from last night.”
Charlie turns back. Dario’s still soaking wet, and now he’s shaking, partly from the cold and probably partly from the emotions running through him.
Despite the scene, Charlie wraps him in a towel he grabs from the lounger outside. “You good?” Charlie asks.
“Better now,” Dario says, stepping in for a hug that confuses Charlie. Isn’t this the part where Dario lets him down easy? Tells him he has no room in his life for gold-diggers?
“You didn’t tell me your family was here,” Charlie says, holding Dario, wondering if this might be one of the last times he does so.
“Between finding you and my panic attack, I am surprised I told you anything. It is all a big blur,” Dario says into the meat of his chest.
“All of it?” Charlie asks.
Dario nuzzles his head, and Charlie’s heart frustratingly flutters. “The part where I told you that I like you is still there, I promise.”
Charlie waits for the inevitable but…
When it doesn’t come, Charlie says, “I leave tomorrow, as per the contest rules,” stating the obvious.
“I don’t care about the contest anymore,” Dario says. “I care about you, and I want you to stay.”
Wrapped in the oversize towel, Dario looks small. He sounds small, too. As if his vulnerability has shrunken him down. Charlie could practically pick him up and stick him in his pocket, carry him around and protect him forever.
“I care about you, too, but I need to get back to my family soon,” Charlie says. “We have…stuff to figure out.”
Charlie can’t name it again. Can’t bring himself to think about the house on Cemetery Street, and how selfish he was for using Dario as his salvation.
“I think we have stuff to figure out, too,” Dario says, pulling back and looking Charlie in the eyes. “Like where I can deliver the check to save your house and what kind of engagement ring you might like.”
Charlie widens his eyes. “Wait, what? You can’t do that. It’s too much.”
“It’s not too much. It’s never too much when you have more than enough like I do,” Dario explains. “I thought about what you said last night, and I appreciate you being honest with me. But let’s face it, whoever I marry was always going to need something from me.”
“But isn’t that wrong?” Charlie asks. “To take like that?”
“I’m taking, too. A marriage means I get Amorina. It was always going to be an exchange. Marriage is an exchange. It’s business. Love is the part that’s personal,” he says with a thrilling intensity in his expression. “I see that now.”
Charlie remains speechless for a moment.
His brain is one long-looping daaaaaaamn.
He didn’t know what to expect upon meeting Dario Cotogna, but the man’s maturity and perceptiveness are beyond anything he could’ve prepared for.
Somebody better find a crash mat and quick, because Charlie Moore is certain he’s falling even harder for the chocolate maker.
“I guess I hadn’t considered that,” Charlie finally says.
“Stay another week,” Dario says, eyes crystalline, voice a sparkler of faith. “Let me show you what this life can be like, just the two of us without the intrusions or the dramatics.”
“You’re not just saying this because I’m the last one left?” Charlie asks, feeling unsteady on his feet. He woke up resolved to be brave in the face of heartbreak. Now he doesn’t know what to do with his fiddling hands and somersaulting heart.
“I would be saying this if there were a million people in this room, because you’re the only one I have eyes for,” Dario says, sincere as can be.
Charlie is a chocolate bar in heat. “You’re sweet. If it was only me to think of, it would be a yes, but my family needs me. It was a hassle to lose me for one week, let alone more.”
“They did not approve of you coming here?” Dario asks.
“It’s not that,” Charlie says, a little cagily. “They need me around more than they’d ever admit. For all intents and purposes, I’m my grandparents’ primary caretaker.”
“I meant to ask, do they pay you for that?”
Charlie raises an eyebrow. “Of course not. As you know, they can’t even afford the mortgage. But they’re family.”
“How many hours a day do you look after them?” Dario asks.
“My parents leave for work around six forty-five in the morning and get back around six in the evening, and my shifts at the liquor store start at seven, so…eleven hours?”
“That’s a full-time job, Charlie,” Dario says.
“A job I’m happy to do.” He is grateful for everything he has and everyone in his life. It’s wonderful that Dario wants to give him more, but judging by the way his fellow contest winners and Dario’s brother acted, maybe more isn’t always better.
“Labor is labor even if it’s a labor of love,” Dario says.
“Think of all you could accomplish if you had eleven hours more to yourself every day.” Dario gives a small smile.
“You could finally apprentice for a tattoo artist. You said you’re the family dreamer.
Why aren’t any of those dreams just for you, Charlie? ”
Back in Charlie’s bedroom at home, there is a bookshelf full of completed sketchbooks.
Each one shows Charlie’s growth, creativity and style as they have flourished over the years.
He knows he has the artistic talent, but he doesn’t know if he can hack the rest. He doesn’t fully believe he deserves to find out.
“If you stayed here with me, we can find you an English-speaking tattoo artist to train under. We can get you the equipment and sanitation tools you need to practice here. The possibilities are endless.” Dario’s words push open several locked doors in Charlie’s mind that he never thought he’d be able to walk through.
“Let me talk to my parents about staying longer,” he says, queasy already over what they might say. He pats his pocket before he remembers yesterday. “Can I borrow your phone to call them?”
“Of course. My bedroom awaits you,” Dario says, gesturing toward the door. His face flushes. “I mean for making the call.”
“Right,” Charlie says, sporting a playful smirk as he goes. “I’m sure that’s exactly what you meant, Candy Man.”