“Not at all.” Whatever lightness he had felt out on the veranda is gone.
“I’ll call the driver.” She wraps him in a hug. “Don’t worry. We’ll find him.”
NINETEEN
CHARLIE
The cab driver outside the train station has never heard of Villa Meraviglia, which is just Charlie’s luck. And “Charlie’s luck” meansnot any.
What was the village’s name? It was on his phone, which is now at the bottom of a well. Much like his hopes of getting back tonight. Alongside his hopes of marrying Dario Cotogna.
The train back left forty minutes ago because he read the schedule wrong—damn that twenty-four-hour clock—and he does not remember the name of the station he parked Dario’s bike at. It was nice to spend a day in a less touristy city, but he’s sure in Florence or Rome he would’ve found an English-speaking person to assist him by now.
A brilliant idea occurs to him. “Amorina Factory?”
The mustachioed cab driver curls his lips. “Si.”
“We can go there?” Charlie asks.
The driver brushes his hands together. “Non è aperto.”
“Uh, what?” Charlie asks at a total loss.
The driver mimes doors opening, closing, and then locking. “Oh, yes. I know it’s not open. I still, uh, need to go there?”
The driver throws up his hands as if he’s going to drive away. Charlie tries to win him over with what little euros he has left.
Only trouble is, he pats every pocket and none of them contain his wallet. “What the—?”
He has his passport holder, but not his wallet. He scours the ground at his feet, squinting in the dark. Someone, somewhere in the city must’ve stolen it.
The enchantment of Italy fades more by the second. So caught up in the beauty of this place, he let his guard down and now look at him. Guileless and penniless in the street of a city where he can’t speak the language. He doesn’t belong here any more than he belongs with Dario Cotogna.
An Italian woman and her small child weasel between Charlie and the idling cab. She gives clear, concise instructions to the driver, leaving Charlie coughing on a cloud of exhaust.
Around him, hotels advertise on massive, light-up signs. But without cash or cards, he is hard-pressed to find even a hostel that would take him in for the night.
Unsure what else to do, he takes shelter on an uncomfortable bench inside the bustling train station.
An hour passes as arrivals and departures are announced over a loudspeaker. There is no gloomier place in the world than a train station when you can’t go anywhere.
In the distance, two police officers chitchat with one another while passengers pile through to catch their trains.
“It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m safe. Someone will come find me,” Charlie says softly to himself to keep panic at bay. “Someone at the villa will obviously notice how long I’ve been gone and come looking for me,”
Though it felt like Dario barely noticed him at all over breakfast. He was too distracted by Michelle and her designs. Not that he blames Dario, even if a rowdy jealousy ran through him then like a streaker across a football field.
“They wouldn’t let me languish out here all night,” Charlie murmurs more meager reassurance. “Imagine the lawsuit against the contest and Amorina. Violetta wouldn’t allow it.” Much to his dismay, he’s thinking like his disowned, selfish uncle Buck. He shudders at the mental comparisons. “Well, I couldn’t afford a lawyer anyway!”
The wood of the bench is rough, scratching at his back as he slumps down like his splintering thoughts are sticking into him, turning him into a porcupine of regret.
Is he any better than his uncle?
Didn’t he come out here to marry up and out of a terrible situation?
It wasn’t romance he was after, no matter what he feels for Dario now.
He came to Italy for his family. For the house on Cemetery Street with its sagging foundation and wind-scraped windows and in-need-of-a-replacement hot water heater. For his parents and grandparents who’ve worked to the bone to keep the roof over their heads and the food on their table.
