Chapter Twenty-Seven
TWENTY-SEVEN
CHARLIE
When Dario emerges from the bathroom in the hotel room the next morning, Charlie lets out a gasp. He barely recognizes him. “You’re wearing…jeans.”
“Too casual?” Dario asks, checking himself out in the mirror affixed to the wall opposite the bathroom. Charlie gives him his own once-over. He has on a button-up shirt, a seafoam green blazer, jeans and…cowboy boots.
“Not at all, but maybe let’s lose the boots? This isn’t horse country,” he says with an unflattering laugh.
“Will loafers do?” Dario asks, pulling a pair of shiny brown leather shoes from a travel bag inside his suitcase.
“Loafers are perfect. Is the driver outside?” Charlie asks, slipping into his own orange Vans.
He texted his family after his shift last night and his mom offered to bring him stuff if he needed, but he refused, not willing to waste a second of his private evening with Dario.
Today, he borrows one of Dario’s T-shirts that is too short and a pair of his underwear which is too luxe, but who cares?
As the town car pulls away from the chain hotel several towns over, Dario muses, “America looks different than I remember. In my mind, America is the Empire State Building, the Golden Gate Bridge, and that strange Bean out in Chicago that never fails to make me think of a robot’s…
” He blushes without finishing his sentence.
Charlie’s hands turn clammier the closer they get to the house on Cemetery Street. Last night, it was easy to shuck his clothes and reservations, but today his two worlds collide. The results better be warm and fuzzy instead of fiery and devastating.
“What’s in the bag?” Charlie asks to distract himself. Dario brought a zipped-up, designer messenger bag with him.
“You’ll see,” Dario says, the corners of his lips moving upward.
Five minutes out, Charlie psychs Dario up. “Don’t be nervous, okay? I mean, I know that’s bad advice, but seriously? They are such kindhearted people who have been through a lot. I swear they are going to be chill. The house has been cleaned within an inch of its life.”
Charlie hesitates at the door. Never has this happened before. He is unsure whether to knock or check the knob or use his key. Dario decides for him. A swift knock is followed by an opening of the door. “Buon giorno. Is anybody home?”
Rustling is heard from down the hall. Chairs scrape and papers settle and then all four of the Moores appear in the cramped entryway appearing all kinds of excited.
“Ciao. I am Dario,” he extends a hand to Mom first.
“Ellen,” she says.
He goes around, saving Dad for last. Charlie holds his breath. “It is a pleasure to meet you. You have a wonderful home and a wonderful son.”
Dario gives him a firm handshake, which goes a long way. A portion of the judgment Dad was clinging to visibly disappears.
“I’ve brought gifts,” Dario announces.
Charlie shrinks away a bit. His father is skittish about gifts and “handouts.”
Dario opens his bag and produces five custom Amorina Chocolate bars.
The flavor is listed as Amore Moore. Dark chocolate is infused with whiskey and has a layer of caramel inside.
“Charlie said that you two used to carry around pocketfuls of hard caramel candies when he was a kid,” he says to Charlie’s grandparents, then turning to Mom and Dad, “and that you two enjoy whiskey, so I had the artisan chocolate makers in my shop craft these especially for you.”
Grandpa is the first to tear into his, but it’s Grandma who reads the love note inside since she has her glasses on and can see the small text. Immediately, she tears up.
Charlie steps closer to her wheelchair. He asks, “What does it say?”
Grandma reads aloud, “I hear love in every step when I walk beside you.”
“From your card to me,” Grandpa says. “How did you—”
“Charlie shared it with me. I hope that’s all right,” Dario says, bowing with respect.
“This is extremely thoughtful,” Mom says.
“Not to mention delicious,” Grandpa says, having bitten off a big hunk of the corner. He chews around the words.
“I am glad you think so.” Dario beams at them.
“Have you eaten yet?” Dad asks, clearing his throat. He keeps his eyes down on the chocolate bar as if it were a priceless heirloom recovered after centuries.
“We have not,” Dario says.
“I’ll make French toast,” Dad announces before heading toward the kitchen.
Mom follows close behind him to help. Charlie pushes Grandpa’s wheelchair toward the kitchen.
“May I?” Dario asks Grandma Opal, moving in behind her chair and gripping the handles.
“I’d be delighted if you would,” she replies. “You must have made quite the impression. French toast is Charlie’s father’s specialty, but he rarely makes it.”
“What a treat!” Grandpa peers back and winks. “You done good, boy.”
Dario looks to Charlie with an Is that right? expression on his face. All Charlie can do is lean in and kiss his cheek.
DARIO
The next day, Dario and Charlie pile into the truck and drive out to the Slate Heritage Trail. Grandpa Al is in his prosthetic, and Grandma Opal is having one of her good days, so she just brought her cane along.
The blacktop trail runs alongside the old Lehigh Valley Railroad, which Dario learns used to be the primary mode of transport for the region’s slate. They stay to the left of the wooden fences erected along the tall trees. Squeaking squirrels cut across their path.
Every so often a sign marking a historic place or noting an interesting factoid pops up. Dario stops off to read all of them, not out of obligation, but because he is interested. He strives to understand the Moores, and where Charlie came from, despite the tiredness searing a bit behind his eyes.
On top of the jet lag and the time difference, Dario spent the night crowded beside Charlie on the Moores’ couch. It wasn’t planned that way. He had meant to go back to the hotel after a glorious BBQ dinner—ribs and burgers and corn on the cob. The American flavors sang for him.
Afterward, Grandma Opal asked if anyone was up for a game. They taught him how to play gin rummy with a stack of old, weathered playing cards. The competitive spirit possessed them all, and they ended up playing well into the night, all of them laughing despite Dario never winning a single round.
By the time they called it quits, it was late, and Dario was half-asleep, and even the fifteen-minute drive to his hotel felt like too much of a chore.
Halfway through the walk, which runs a little over a mile, Dario turns from a placard at a covered bridge and only Mr. Moore is left standing there. The others have gone on ahead.
“Thank you for being kind to Charlie,” Mr. Moore says, clearly segueing into a larger topic. “He tells us you looked out for him in Italy, and I appreciate that.”
“It was my pleasure,” Dario says. They fall into step with one another.
“I’m sorry if I came across like a hard-ass.
This all comes as somewhat of a shock to us.
Charlie has only ever lived under our roof and has never really dated anyone.
For him to win a contest and suddenly go off to another country, I think we—me most of all—were a bit thrown for a loop,” he says, scratching at his chin.
“If my son had to win a contest to meet the bachelor of a chocolate fortune, I suppose I’m glad you were the bachelor. ”
“Thank you,” Dario says, taking it as a compliment.
Up ahead, Charlie glances over his shoulder.
His lips are tipped into the tiniest smile.
“I understand where you were coming from. I myself did not want to believe my nonno had set this whole scheme up for me, but I discovered it was his way of pushing me out of my comfort zone and back into the world. I can’t run a company from my bedroom.
Charlie has been immensely supportive by helping me find my peace and confidence again. ”
“That sounds like our Charlie. Always helping,” Mr. Moore says with a proud grin. Dario registers the paternal resemblance in the set of his eyes.
“In Italian, we say ‘La famiglia è tutto’—family is everything. I believe that. I lost my father as a teenager, my grandmother as a university student, and my grandfather earlier this year. I think this contest was also a way of reminding me that family means more than blood,” Dario says, ruminating on this.
“That’s quite nice,” Mr. Moore says. He exhales loudly. “I just worry—” He scrapes a hand over his face. “Marriage? You barely know each other. I’m sure Charlie never mentioned about his uncle, but a while back—”
Mr. Moore goes on to tell his side of the story.
Of the lawsuit and the settlement and the stolen money.
Dario takes it in as if this is new information because it feels like Mr. Moore needs to get this out there to someone outside their immediate circle, and Dario senses them connecting on a deeper level as he speaks.
It was something he learned early from his grandfather, that listening is one of the greatest gifts you can give another.
“I’m sorry that happened,” Dario says.
“I’m sorry for ever letting that kid anywhere near that bank account. I can usually smell a rancid fish from a mile away. Suddenly, I was nose blind. Do you see what I mean?” Mr. Moore asks.
“You’re afraid Charlie will get cheated,” Dario says. “That is the farthest thing from my intention.”
“And we don’t want Charlie moving a million miles away and never visiting us again. If there’s even a place for him to come back and visit,” he says darkly, glancing out into the trees that are beginning to change.
The yellowing leaves remind him that seasons come and go like people, but Dario intends to stay no matter the weather.
“I would never dream of separating you all from Charlie. We would work that out. All of us, together. I am about to become the head of a worldwide chocolate operation, I know a thing or two about negotiation and compromise,” Dario says, trying to sound assured but not boastful.
“I could use a lesson or two,” Mr. Moore says reflectively.
“Charlie told me all about the bank and the house. I am fully prepared to assist however I can,” Dario says.
Mr. Moore cringes. “Do you really want to take that on?” he asks.
“To me, it is not taking it on. It is sharing the burden. I have the means to help, so I will help. That is what my nonno taught me to do. Business was never about hoarding wealth. It was about making something that brought joy to the world and enriched people’s lives,” he says.
“While I agree that that’s lovely, it’s not a world I know or understand. Here, in my world, when you do something for somebody, that somebody expects something in return. What do you get from this other than inheriting Amorina with a legal marriage license?” he asks.
“I hope that I get more family,” Dario says from the heart.
Mr. Moore stops in his tracks, really inspects Dario’s face. “This isn’t all some big marketing charade to sell chocolate? You’re not going to make Charlie sign some ridiculous prenup and then piss off in six months?”
“I can assure you, sir. There will be no prenups and no pissing off. I love Charlie, and I’d like to make him—and by extension, you all—my family.
” Dario stands firm behind this statement.
Because love, no matter how it comes about, is a gamble.
Dario’s lost it all before and rebuilt himself.
He could do it again if he needed to. Even when his head replays memories of Preston as warnings, his heart reminds him that he’s safe with Charlie.
Something breaks—in a good way—inside Mr. Moore.
Feelings flood his face until he is crushing Dario in a hug.
A dad hug. The kind of hug Dario hasn’t had since he was a child.
At that, something good breaks inside him, too.
A tiny damn of grief gives way to a rushing river of emotion that he finally has a paddle for.
“Everything okay back here?” It’s Charlie come to check on them.
Dario peels back and looks at the tearstained Mr. Moore. He nods at him. “Va bene,” Dario says. “Lead on.”