“Que sera, sera,” Grandpa says.
“Huh?” Charlie reaches for a tissue from the box on Dario’s bedside table.
Grandma starts to sing in her shaky, sweet voice the Doris Day song she taught him a long time ago. They’d sing it every time they did the dishes together. Standing at the kitchen sink as she washed and he dried, their voices floated higher than the soap bubbles.
He wipes away the last of his tears, joins in for the last line and internalizes the lyrics about accepting the future, whatever it may hold.
DARIO
At the front gate of Villa Meraviglia, the town car idles. The last of Dario’s guests are fumbling about behind him, making sure nothing is forgotten. Zippers rise and wheels rattle.
Dario takes a moment to open the last letter from his grandfather.
Caro Tesorino,
I have no more stories to tell, advice to share, or lessons to impart.
As with all good mentorships, eventually, the student becomes the teacher. It seems as if I blinked one day, and you surpassed me in knowledge and skill.
Each one of these letters has been a reminder for your head of something you already knew in your heart.
You have a good heart. It won’t steer you wrong.
Ti amo, tesorino.
Until we meet again.
Con affetto,
Nonno
Dario turns the paper over again in his hands.
That’s it?
There has to be more. This can’t be the last—
His guests pile through the door behind him—except Craig who hangs back, still recording. As if Dario’s life weren’t already an embarrassing display. He withers, wondering how he’ll be portrayed in whatever heinous edit comes out of this footage.
Before it got that far, would Violetta help him sue Emilio even though she’s also his lawyer? No, that’s too messy and too time-consuming. Time is a commodity he swears not to waste anymore.
Emilio slides inside the car without a glance back at Dario, which is fine for now. Theirs is not the kind of strain that can be healed in an afternoon.
Before Michelle can pass, though, Dario stops her to say, “I am deeply sorry for my behavior earlier. It has been a privilege getting to know you. I hope you will take only fond memories with you as you go.”
Michelle nods, not quite meeting his eyes. “I am sorry to have hurt your feelings. It was not my intention. Your brother, he is—”
“I know,” Dario says, hurt feelings nowhere to be found. His brother is charming. He is sweet when he wants to be. He is winning. He always has been. Facts are facts are facts. “Apology accepted. Safe travels.”
“Before I go…” She rips a page out of her design book. It is the one with the nontraditional wedding outfit she was showing him yesterday over breakfast with the tuxedo detailing. “I want you to have this.”
“Are you sure?” Dario asks, taken aback and somewhat confused. She added beading to the vest and a veil to match the train.
“Sometimes, when I am designing, I put myself in the shoes of the woman who would wear that dress. I pretend I am her. I think like she would think and do like she would do to createthe most perfect dress I can come up with that will make her feel beautiful.” She brushes stray hair from her face. “I think, this week, while I was drawing this, I was walking around as ‘woman you would marry.’ It was not until I finished the illustration this morning that I realized, she is not me. Maybe ‘she’ is a ‘he’ or a ‘they.’ Maybe you can use parts of it. Maybe you should throw it away. J’sais pas. It is a gift, to you.”
Dario holds the paper to his chest, understanding flitting between them. “Thank you.”
“Au revoir.” She rolls her purple suitcase down the front walk.
