Achocolate maker and a soon-to-be tattoo apprentice walk into a courthouse.
This sounds like the start of a joke, but rather, it is the start of a lifetime.
The late-August heat gives way to strong air-conditioning as they march, hand in hand, toward the Marriage License Office. They have an appointment, both with an official there and with their future.
Mr. and Mrs. Moore along with Grandpa Al and Grandma Opal all come as witnesses wearing their best dress. Emilio, who dashed off to New York for most of the week to meet with some friends and begin the legal process for his divorce, returns in the nick of time to hold up his phone; his mother shines on video chat from a bustling dressing room in some other country, looking the part of the happy diva, exclaiming, “Please don’t make me cry too much. I don’t want to have to redo my show makeup before the opening scene.”
The plain room and the monotoned officiant do nothing to mire the happiness sparkling within his chest. How could they when he’s entrapped by Charlie’s already gleaming eyes?
His tattooed American cleaned up nicely. There was no time to rush-order him a Gabriele tux or get Michelle’s design custom-made, so Charlie borrowed one of his dad’s old black suits that somehow fits him perfectly. He dyed his hair back to blond. Crouched over the bathroom sink, he said, “I don’t want to cringe when I look at our wedding photos ten years from now.”
A warmth seeped through Dario at that. Charlie imagined revisiting photos from this day ten years from now, and envisioned them still happy and in love. That meant the world to him.
Even he had to settle on whatever he packed for what was meant to be a brief trip to America. Never did he imagine wearing jeans to his wedding, but the casualness seemed all too fitting, for he was done keeping himself always buttoned up and cordoned off. From this day forward, he shows the world the Dario underneath it all.
“Do you, Dario Cotogna, take Charlie Moore as your lawful, wedded husband?”
“Si. Lo voglio. I do,” Dario says with a smile.
“Do you, Charlie Moore, take Dario Cotogna as your lawful, wedded husband?”
Charlie grips Dario’s hands tighter. “I do.”
“And now, with the power vested in me by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, I pronounce you partners. You may kiss.”
The pronouncement may come out lifeless, but their kiss is anything but. It says everything they would’ve said to each other in vows they didn’t have time for in the fifteen minutes allottedfor the ceremony. Who cares? This no-frills, no-flash wedding rings more authentic than any big party ever could have.
Sometimes, the simplest recipe yields the sweetest results.
EPILOGUE
CHARLIE
Two years later
The house on Cemetery Street no longer stands on Cemetery Street.
Board by board, window by window, it was deconstructed, driven, sailed and shipped to a scenic hilltop in the village of Montecolognola, in the province of Perugia, Italy. The Moore family’s new address.
After Dario settled affairs with the bank and permanently moved back into Villa Meraviglia, they tore down the barn house and replaced it with an utterly American-style home with origins in Slatington, Pennsylvania. Of course, it looks a little different now since not every piece could be salvaged, and all the appliances are now in tip-top working order, but it has the same bones, the same heart.
Turns out, it was never the house Charlie was determined to save when he entered that contest years ago. It was home, and home always will be wherever his family is.
Today, they all gather in a tent staked into the lawn between the two houses—both alike in dignity—to celebrate their second wedding anniversary.
The table is laid with an impressive spread. Paola and her staff ensure no dish is ever empty. Charlie gives her air kisses as she flies past. He still does not understand how such an old woman can move so speedily.
Mom and Dad sit near the head of the table still in their Amorina polos. They would not dream of early retirement—both making quips about idle hands—so they settled on factory floor manager and tourism admin roles respectively.
Grandpa comes out from the house in his new prosthetic, fitted and more high-functioning than any he has had before. “Did you start without me?” he asks.
“We got hungry,” says Grandma, who feeds herself a hearty arancini. After the move to Italy and with the right care team, Grandma’s symptoms have abated. No more bibs or Charlie cutting up her food. Her restored autonomy has made her happier than ever.
“Can somebody pass the olive oil?” asks Michelle as she takes a piece of fresh bread from the basket Emilio hands her. They reconnected post-divorce and post-graduation, and she might be wearing one of her own wedding dress designs down the aisle in the near future.
Populating the far end of the table are Beau and Selina. Bygones are bygones.
Beau gave up his obsession with challenges and job shifts as soon as he started playing the blues. He became a permanent member of the band he performed with two years ago and comes to stay at Villa Meraviglia any time a European tour passes through.
