Dario’s stomach begs for even the tiniest morsel, but it would be rude to start eating before his guests arrive, so he picks up the day one envelope and unfolds the stationery he has handled a million times before.
Caro Tesorino,
Today begins your new adventure. Bravissimo for agreeing!
Love, in the stories I’ve been told and the one I lived with your nonna, is a matter of time, place and spirit.
I have given you a time: one week rolling into one year rolling into forever.
I have given you a place: Villa Meraviglia, the site of many fond memories and a million more to be made.
Unfortunately, unless I am now un fantasma favoloso, I cannot provide the spirit.
That must come from within you, Dario.
Strangers can only become friends and friends can only become amanti if you possess an openness of spirit, a joy for the possibilities.
Now go. Greet your guests with a smile, a hug and a delicious meal. See what cooks up between you.
Con affetto,
Nonno
Despite having sworn his tear ducts were depleted over the last couple of months, he softly cries. His nonno was always looking out for him and his well-being, even if he chose the strangest ways to do so. Dario has to trust that this is going to work out for the best.
Moments later, a musical horn blares out front. So engrossed in the letter, Dario didn’t even hear the big car coming up the drive.
From the outer pocket of his jacket, he produces a tan handkerchief to wipe away his tears. The handkerchief is monogrammed CCS. He runs his thumb over his nonno’s initials. It’s a small way to keep his nonno close to his heart through this wacky plot.
A sleek black Mercedes van idles a few feet away from the side gate. The bartender from earlier appears behind Dario with a tray of champagne flutes. The driver—Fabrizio, a favorite of his nonno’s—comes around and slides open the back door. Dario’s heart climbs up into his throat and backflips off his Adam’s apple.
He has seen these people in photographs and read their ruminations on love, but meeting them in person still makes hishands clammy and his back sweat. Good thing he remembered to put an undershirt and deodorant on.
The first guest to step out of the van wears board shorts, a blue T-shirt advertising his own band called California Storm Clouds, and Velcro sandals. His skin is dark, and his hair is free-form dreadlocks. His easy, charming smile is tinted with melty chocolate. An Amorina wrapper is balled in his right hand and a sticker-covered guitar case is gripped in the other.
“Hey, man. I’m Beau Garner. Oh, shit. Sorry.” Laughing, he shoves the candy wrapper in his pocket, then pulls Dario in for one of those very bro-ey greetings: part handshake, part hug, all awkward.
Dario stumbles backward. “Ciao. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Beau wrote lyrics to a song as his contest entry. He fronts a relatively new, modestly popular indie group back in the States that Dario enjoyed listening to online even if he’s unfamiliar with most popular music. He favors opera and classical over other genres. Perhaps his nonno should’ve been more specific when he said Dario liked music.
The bartender waves the tray of champagne before Beau in offering.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Beau says and then, clearly perked up by the bubbly, breaks into a song about landslides and supernovas that Dario has never heard before.
“Bravissimo! Did you write that?” Dario asks.
“I wish! That was ‘Champagne Supernova’ by Oasis. Do you guys not have Oasis over here?” Beau asks. Dario doesn’t have a moment to respond before Beau barrels on by singing a song about a woman named Sally that he also doesn’t recognize. “Oh, man. Let me play for you later. There’s so much music I can introduce you to.”
He ventures into the yard singing yet another song Dario can’t identify.
The next guest is short, white and pale. She wears red lipstick that matches her red hair, which hangs down in long waves that clear her rib cage. She’s dressed in an unassuming floral shirt and a light tan jacket. She introduces herself as Michelle Trottier. “Lovely to meet you. You’re a fashion student in Paris, yes?”
“Aix-en-Provence,” she corrects, demurely shaking his hand. “Have you seen the latest episode ofThe Luxurious Ladies of Provence?”
Dario curls his brow. “What is that?”
The demureness evaporates into the air. Her wide eyes go wider, making her look like a Walter Keane painting. “Are you joking? Only the best French reality show on TV!” She whips out her phone to show him her wallpaper. A gaggle of women in lavish gowns pose before a glittery background. They are all attractive, if somewhat plastic-looking.
Dario Cotogna is as pansexual as a person can be. His first kiss was with a guy, his first time was with a woman, and his first real relationship was with a nonbinary person. Like with all the best chocolates, the wrapper does not matter so much as its contents.
