Charlie’s blush deepens. “I think my Pennsylvania is showing. A ‘bumpkin’ is somebody from the countryside.”
“Is Pennsylvania the countryside? I’ve only been to America a handful of times, and never to Pennsylvania,” Dario says, surprised by this easy conversational rhythm they fall into.
“You’re not missing much,” Charlie says. “Especially in Slatington. It’s a bit of a one-stoplight town.”
“We have no stoplights here in Montecologna,” says Dario. Flashes of his father’s untimely end emerge from hissubconscious even after twenty years. He elbows them back down.
Charlie, having clearly caught Dario’s far-off expression, looks away out of courtesy. “It’s more of a phrase that means it’s a small town with not a lot going on in it. This—me winning the contest—is the first exciting thing to happen to someone from Slatington in years.”
“Is this your first time in Italy?” Dario asks as they cross the pool deck on their way to the tent where the others are already snacking away.
“This is my first time out of the country. It was my first time on an airplane ever,” Charlie says. “I knew they gave you in-flight pretzels or whatever, but they served me a whole meal! It wasn’t very good, but it was still cool. Eating in the middle of the sky like that.”
Dario is taken by the innocent wonder radiating off Charlie. “Why don’t we get some good food in you here? There’s plenty to choose from.” He gestures at the impressive spread Paola and her team have whipped up.
Charlie’s eyes brighten. “Grazie, Dario.”
“That was it! Exactly right,” Dario says, clapping Charlie on the back in an overly familiar way. He steps back, afraid he’s gone too far, but Charlie flashes him a big, bright smile as they enter the tent together.
FIVE
CHARLIE
Charlie downs the last drops of his Negroni as an old woman who barely clears five feet shuffles out into the night. She wears a spotless apron over a short-sleeved shirt with lemons on it. Her hair is as white as her apron and mostly tucked back into a bandanna, and from her droopy ears, two pearl earrings dangle. She does not speak a lick of English, and nobody expects her to.
“Buona sera, a tutti. Mi chiamo Paola. Per il nostro primo piatto abbiamo un’insalata di rucola condita con finocchi e pomodorini all’olio d’oliva e limone,” she says. Charlie understands none of it, but he politely accepts the plate of greens coated in a citrusy dressing anyway.
At first bite, dormant taste buds on his tongue galvanize. Pleasure centers he has never accessed in his brain flicker on. He thought the focaccia was mind-blowing, but this? A whole cherry tomato bursts with freshness between his in-need-of-a-checkup teeth. The dance of flavors is divine, and he eats faster, almost as if he’s afraid his plate is going to get taken away before he’s finished. He audiblymmms through his chews.
A soft chuckle comes from across the table. Dario, their gracious and well-dressed host, has his fork set aside. Is he overheating in that dapper, seafoam green suit in this over-eighty-degree weather? His shoulder-length, chestnut brown hair curls a bit at the edges, yet there’s not a single bead of sweat on his face. Only a charming smile. Directed right at Charlie.
“Am I being too loud?” Charlie asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “My manners are a little rusty.” He remembers the cloth napkin on his lap and wipes his mouth again to save face.
First impressions are important. They seemed to click when he got out of the van, but any number of uncouth quirks could turn Dario off.
There’s too much riding on this for him to not put his best foot forward.
Marriage, as a concept, has never really appealed to Charlie. While he understands the legal and economic benefits, it’s a bit archaic, and he’s never seen it as the ultimate declaration of undying love the way some of his peers do. In equal quantities, he knows miserable married couples and blissful unmarried couples. Signing his name to a piece of paper alongside a wealthy stranger doesn’t seem like such a bad trade if it gets his family out of the early grave they’ve dug for themselves.
“Not at all. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Dario says. His eyes crinkle slightly with his growing smile.
“I’ve never met a salad I actually liked,” Charlie says. The wilty, premade bagged stuff from the grocery store makes his stomach sad and leaves him hungry all afternoon.
“Typical American,” says Michelle with an over-the-top eye roll.
Beau chuffs at this from the other end of the table. “You think all we eat is McDonalds, don’t you?”
“No,” Michelle says. “I’m sure you eat Chipotle, too.”
Selina lets out a spicyooh.
Ansel chimes in. “Care to comment, Charlie?”
“I’m more of a Burger King fan myself,” he says earnestly.
Everyone laughs, even though Charlie didn’t think he said anything funny.
“Who can talk about fast food when we’re eatingthis?In Charlie’s defense, this is a really good salad. How long has Paola been cooking for you?” Selina asks, even though she’s barely touched her food. She is far too busy taking photos of it from every angle, poring over them to decide which one to post on her social media story so she can rack up impressive numbers of views.
