Charlie hesitates at the door. Never has this happened before. He is unsure whether to knock or check the knob or use his key. Dario decides for him. A swift knock is followed by an opening of the door. “Buon giorno. Is anybody home?”
Rustling is heard from down the hall. Chairs scrape and papers settle and then all four of the Moores appear in the cramped entryway appearing all kinds of excited.
“Ciao. I am Dario,” he extends a hand to Mom first.
“Ellen,” she says.
He goes around, saving Dad for last. Charlie holds his breath. “It is a pleasure to meet you. You have a wonderful home and a wonderful son.”
Dario gives him a firm handshake, which goes a long way. A portion of the judgment Dad was clinging to visibly disappears.
“I’ve brought gifts,” Dario announces.
Charlie shrinks away a bit. His father is skittish about gifts and “handouts.”
Dario opens his bag and produces five custom Amorina Chocolate bars. The flavor is listed as Amore Moore. Dark chocolate is infused with whiskey and has a layer of caramel inside. “Charlie said that you two used to carry around pocketfuls of hard caramel candies when he was a kid,” he says to Charlie’s grandparents, then turning to Mom and Dad, “and that you two enjoy whiskey, so I had the artisan chocolate makers in my shop craft these especially for you.”
Grandpa is the first to tear into his, but it’s Grandma who reads the love note inside since she has her glasses on and can see the small text. Immediately, she tears up.
Charlie steps closer to her wheelchair. He asks, “What does it say?”
Grandma reads aloud, “I hear love in every step when I walk beside you.”
“From your card to me,” Grandpa says. “How did you—”
“Charlie shared it with me. I hope that’s all right,” Dario says, bowing with respect.
“This is extremely thoughtful,” Mom says.
“Not to mention delicious,” Grandpa says, having bitten off a big hunk of the corner. He chews around the words.
“I am glad you think so.” Dario beams at them.
“Have you eaten yet?” Dad asks, clearing his throat. He keeps his eyes down on the chocolate bar as if it were a priceless heirloom recovered after centuries.
“We have not,” Dario says.
“I’ll make French toast,” Dad announces before heading toward the kitchen.
Mom follows close behind him to help. Charlie pushes Grandpa’s wheelchair toward the kitchen.
“May I?” Dario asks Grandma Opal, moving in behind her chair and gripping the handles.
“I’d be delighted if you would,” she replies. “You must have made quite the impression. French toast is Charlie’s father’s specialty, but he rarely makes it.”
“What a treat!” Grandpa peers back and winks. “You done good, boy.”
Dario looks to Charlie with anIs that right?expression on his face. All Charlie can do is lean in and kiss his cheek.
DARIO
The next day, Dario and Charlie pile into the truck and drive out to the Slate Heritage Trail. Grandpa Al is in his prosthetic, and Grandma Opal is having one of her good days, so she just brought her cane along.
The blacktop trail runs alongside the old Lehigh Valley Railroad, which Dario learns used to be the primary mode of transport for the region’s slate. They stay to the left of the wooden fences erected along the tall trees. Squeaking squirrels cut across their path.
Every so often a sign marking a historic place or noting an interesting factoid pops up. Dario stops off to read all of them, not out of obligation, but because he is interested. He strives to understand the Moores, and where Charlie came from, despite the tiredness searing a bit behind his eyes.
On top of the jet lag and the time difference, Dario spent the night crowded beside Charlie on the Moores’ couch. It wasn’t planned that way. He had meant to go back to the hotel after aglorious BBQ dinner—ribs and burgers and corn on the cob. The American flavors sang for him.
