The stars are out by the time they emerge from the tent, full and happy. They carry small glasses of ice-cold, electric-yellow alcohol.
“What’s this called again?” Michelle asks, sniffing the rim. Her upper lip curls.
“Digestivo. This is limoncello, a lemon liqueur straight from the Amalfi Coast,” says Dario.
“Salud!” says Selina.
“It’s meant to be sipped,” says Dario, but it’s too late. She downs the drink like a shot.
Charlie tips the glass to his lips. “Tastes like adult Gatorade,” he says. “They don’t sell anything this fancy at Drink Dash, where I work.”
Beau and Ansel smoke nearby. The nubs of their cigarettes look like extra stars in the twinkly, cloudless sky. They all sway to piped-in music. Charlie feels buoyant on his feet for the first time in a long time. The lake glistens beneath the moon high above the village. He’s just arrived, and he already never wants to leave. If only his family were with him.
“What’s that Italian song about the moon hitting your eye?” Beau asks, scanning the group. Then, as he seems to love to do, he breaks into song. Without a lick of self-consciousness, he sings “That’s Amore” in a buttery, melodic voice.
“That’s an American song,” says Charlie when Beau forgets the lyrics and trails off.
“And what horrendous stereotyping,” says Dario with a good-natured laugh that rolls through the entire group.
A little while later, Charlie stands in the center of the downstairs sitting room. The walls are a tan stone, and the ceiling is curved brick. A fan spins overhead, spreading the scent of fresh-cut flowers through the air.
Beneath his shoes, a rust-colored carpet bunches up. Three Negronis, pasta, a tartufo, and a lifetime’s worth of focaccia churn in his stomach. He hasn’t eaten that well in God knows how long. The flavors linger on the length of his tongue. Trying to pick a favorite one is like trying to decide which family member to save in a house fire.
A house fire would not be a half-bad idea if nobody were inside and he were able to make it look like an accident for insurance purposes…
No, that’s the Negronis talking.
“Two of you will have to share a room,” says Violetta, the lawyer overseeing the contest, once all five of the winners venture inside the villa. Earlier, she served them dozens of legal documents to sign before they could touch the aperitivo spread. Charlie was so hungry that he was almost tempted to eat the paper. His initials started to look like wingdings. For all he knows, he signed away his first-born child, eyes glazing over around page seven.
“Not it!” shouts Selina, already dashing toward the exit and up the outdoor stairs. Charlie is impressed she can move that fast in those towering, expensive-looking shoes. And with jet lag and alcohol in her, no less. How did she even know which direction to go?
Beau puts his hands up, looking over at the others. “I already settled my stuff in the bedroom down here.”
Michelle says, “I’ll take the single upstairs, then.”
“How is that fair?” asks Ansel, the oldest of the group and somehow the most immature.
“I am a woman,” Michelle says, concern building a wall behind her thin voice. “You do not expect me to sleep in a room with a strange man I do not know.”
“Macché! Signor Voight, you see the situation,” Violetta says.
“You are here to date a man you do not know,” Ansel argues. “We all won the contest. We should all get the same amenities.” Perhaps the bartender overserved him. Spittle leaps out of his mouth, visible in the lamplight.
“Mi dispiace. There are two twin beds in the last bedroom. That is how the villa is laid out,” says Violetta. Beau, clearly uninterested in further confrontation, backs into the downstairs bedroom and shuts the door behind him. Seconds later, the pluck of guitar strings floats out through the wood.
“I don’t mind a roommate,” says Charlie, hoping this squashes the issue. “I didn’t bring a lot of stuff, so I won’t take up too much space.”
When Charlie was the last to arrive at the meet-up location at the Florence airport, he felt out of place. Everyone seemed glamorous, with their hard-shelled, metallic, rolling suitcases. All he had was a beat-up, blue duffel bag from back when he played basketball. A couple shirts, a couple shorts, enough underwear to get him through the week without needing to do laundry, his sketchbooks and his pencil case.
“You may not, young man, but I am past forty. It is nothing personal, of course. It is a matter of principle,” he says as if any of this is going to get them on his side. As if his words can magically make Violetta carve out a new room in this centuries-old villa and drag one of the beds into it for him.
“Come va?” Dario asks, appearing beside Violetta.
Charlie rights the rug beneath his feet. Dario remains unruffled in his shiny loafers and full suit despite how humid the day was.
“I was telling these men they will need to share a room, and Signor V—”
“I was just telling Violetta here what a beautiful home you have. We have such luck to stay here,” Ansel says, changing his tune and flashing a smarmy smile.
