Love on a Lark: an Italian love story

by C. L. Donley

  “Ciao, Bella!” he exclaimed, kissing her on both cheeks. “Please, I make you anything you want.”

  They sat at a small outside table where the owner brought them prosciutto and melon. When Lark ordered in perfect Italian, he suddenly grabbed her by her face and pulled her close to him, his rotund chest eye level to her from where she sat.

  Aside from a cordial smile from the senior Mr. Di Rossi, no one batted an eye. Lark righted herself when he finally let her go, smoothing her hair as she politely smiled.

  With Dario not present, it wasn’t long before the dinner conversation became gossip.

  “Allora, enough business talk, it is boring. What did you think of my son?”

  She laughed, feeling a bit put on the spot. At least she could pretend with Luca Di Rossi that she still had her dignity. She could use the practice.

  “I prefer to keep things professional, signore,” she replied.

  “Certamente, this is what I meant, what else?” he innocently replied. She smiled.

  “He’s… very impressive, Signore Di Rossi.”

  “I have a feeling he also finds you equally… impressive, signorina,” he said with a raise eyebrow.

  Lark merely giggled politely in response before taking another sip of wine. He had no idea that Dario Di Rossi had already had a chance to form an opinion of her. And she suspected it wasn’t so flattering.

  “Okay, va bene, I confess,” he continued, “I think there may be a spark between you two. Did you not feel it?”

  She squirmed under the frankness of the conversation. There were some things about Italians she wasn’t completely on board with.

  “Signore, please, I am far too reserved for this conversation.”

  “I think I have my answer,” he teased her. “Indulge me, signorina. We will never have another chance to speak alone on this trip. I am curious to know an outsider’s impression of him.”

  “He appears to keep his cards very close to his chest,” she volunteered, thinking more of the man she met that weekend, “do you know the saying?”

  “Si, and you are right. You must excuse him, signorina, he seems a little more grumpy than usual. He is not accustomed to beautiful women who are not so easily affected by him, I think.”

  Lark surrendered another laugh. “Oh, not to worry, he was very cordial, more than pleasant. I just hope we will be able to work together in a professional capacity.”

  “Certo, why would you not?”

  Lark stiffened. She felt as though she’d practically confessed to their weekend fling.

  “Well… I just meant… if he is so proud as you say, I hope he can put behind his personal feelings so that we can work closely together.”

  “Oh no, he is not proud. He is in mourning.”

  Lark stopped mid-gulp of her table wine.

  “Mourning?”

  “His wife. It has been many years since she died,” he explained, stirring his coffee with a miniature spoon. “Alessia. She was a Bertello, very wealthy. It was a perfect match, they were a perfect couple. Roberto, he loves very hard. Intensamente, no? But he refuses to move on. He has a son, so he feels justified to waste his youth and not replace his wife.”

  Lark found this new insight into him hopelessly intriguing, and a little scary.

  A son?

  So he did have a family, just not in the way she assumed.

  But was Signore Di Rossi telling her that Dario hadn’t been with another woman since his wife died? No, that’s ridiculous.

  Oh no. What if she had inadvertently ended the drought with her seductive antics?

  She eyed the table as shame flooded her anew.

  She was seriously considering calling LIST and telling them that she couldn’t do this job. It was less than 24 hours away from starting, so that would be difficult. But not impossible.

  But… she’d already told Dario that she could do it, she recalled.

  She couldn’t up and bail now. The way she’d bailed in Haiti. Largely because of another boss she’d crossed the line with.

  Jesus, this was a pattern, wasn’t it?

  She was fucked. She was a mess. It wasn’t Haiti, it was her.

  “Are you okay, signora?” Mr. Di Rossi furrowed his brow in concern.

  “What? Yes, it’s just… I’m sorry, I had no idea. That he was grieving his wife. How did she die?”

  “Heart failure. The best doctors in the world were unable to save her.”

  “How odd. She must’ve been young.”

  “She was. It was genetic. A valve. Very rare.”

  Lark was overcome with sympathy for him. At first sight, she wouldn’t have guessed in a million years that he would ever be married, let alone have a son.

  She shivered, thinking of how they both seemed to be a million miles away from their true identities that night.

  “How old is his son?”

  “Seventeen. Gino is almost a man now, and then Roberto will be alone. It is not good for him. Plus, he works too much, so I worry. His mother, she is crazy,” he said, making the spiral gesture with his finger near his head. “Roberto depends on her and she does not want to lose him. Me, Bennetto, she has driven us all to an early grave over her children. I wonder sometimes if she would even lay in his bed.”

  Ooookey doke, the conversation was getting hella personal.

  Lark had already deduced that the senior Mr. Di Rossi was one of those gregarious, oversharing types. Her direct opposite and occasional nemesis. She thought the best way to handle him was to steer him in another direction, rather than to try and explain that some people would rather stab themselves with letter openers than discuss intimate matters with strangers.

  “What about you,” she volunteered, “why have you not remarried?”

  “Are you curious how you can win my affections, signorina?” he grinned.

  “Commoners like myself prefer meaningless one night stands,” she dared an ironic joke. He laughed aloud.

  “Do not say such things, they break my heart,” he said, holding his chest. “If I were a young man, I would propose to you right here and now. I would make sure you were constantly swollen with a child in your belly. You would be such a glowing mother.”

  Lark squirmed under his completely wrong impression of her that he’d gathered solely by her appearance alone.

  “I’m afraid I’m not very maternal, signore. But I appreciate the compliment.”

  “I loathed being married. Women are too much trouble,” he said, completely changing his position. Lark laughed.

  “You contradict yourself, signore.”

  “Not at all,” he said, “I see a woman like you, and I see a one in a million beauty. Not unlike Alessia, buonanima,” he said, making a Catholic cross gesture. “She also was smart and did not impress so easy,” he said, taking a drink of his wine.

  “But I certainly don’t come from a wealthy family. If it’s possible to come from less than money, then that’s where I come from,” she said, pushing the last of her veal around her plate. “The best I could hope for is to translate for those with money.”

  “Consider yourself lucky, signorina. The poor can make love and marry for love. They are free. I was much too weak as a young man. I am shackled to the pleasure of others,” he divulged. “I should never have agreed to marry Dario’s mother, but what could I do? It was arranged when we were teenagers. Marriage was very strict back then.”

  The old man sighed, giving her a woebegone look. A bit of Dario’s strong features protruded from his countenance. No doubt he was once a handsome man, but he lacked the presence of his son, and certainly all of the mystery.

  “Forgive me, if I make you uncomfortable signorina, it is just that you remind me of a period of my life that I took no part in and then threw away. For this reason I tend to live through my son. He has his mother’s dominance. He could have the whole world with this, so sometimes I have to want it for him.”

  She had to admit that on some level she did pity him. The
wisdom of old age seemed to torture him endlessly.

  “I find your candor a rare amusement, Signore Di Rossi,” she offered diplomatically.

  “If I had lost a woman like you, as Roberto had, perhaps I would not be strong enough to love again,” he thoughtfully offered.

  “So you do understand your son.”

  “Perhaps, but still. I would not be surprised if you become my daughter-in-law.”

  Fuck’s sake, Lark thought. Italian men are off the chain, and not in a good way. Everything was beautiful women and family and birthing babies.

  The tidbit about Dario was interesting, she had to admit, but she wondered how his opinion would change if he knew that they’d already shagged in his ex-wife’s wine cellar.

  “Does it even matter what I think?” she teased.

  “He is a good man. Tall and handsome and filthy rich. What is not to love? He married properly, and it ended in tragedy. The Bertellos have their heir. If anyone in the family tried to deny him true love at this stage, they would disgrace themselves. If he tries to woo you, you will be as powerless as Alessia was.”

  “Your son seems lovely, Mr. Di Rossi,” Lark concluded, ready to change subjects, “but nevertheless, you are my boss, which makes him also my boss, and I would never compromise my professionalism,” she said. Her tongue was thick with guilt.

  “Perhaps, but he will only be your boss for three weeks.”

  “If I may say signore, I think you’re underestimating the power of grief. If he loves as hard as you say, then perhaps he does not want to expose himself to loss like that again.”

  “You are insightful, signorina,” he said, a faint glimmer in his eye, “but I hope, for both your sakes, that you are wrong.”

  * * *

  The next morning they took a train into Milan. Lark wore a gray pantsuit, her hair in a low ponytail. She spent the morning looking out of the train window at the passing countryside. Dario spent the morning looking at the walking contradiction that was Lark.

  If he didn’t know any better, he would think she wasn’t the same woman.

  He had to deduce that the woman he saw that weekend was the Miss Hyde to her Dr. Jekyll. It was still sexy, but now that he was her superior, he was invested in her, and opposed to whatever could hinder her performance. Which, unfortunately, was him.

  She assured him that she could be professional and so far, he was convinced. She meant business. Never mind that her energy around him had gone the furthest it could get from attraction.

  Her headphones made small talk an impossibility. He hoped that wasn’t her strategy for the remainder of their time together. Eventually they would have to talk. She was doing her best to ignore him at the moment, which made him smirk a bit in amusement as he perused the paper, sitting diagonal from her on the train.

  “You are far too distracting,” she’d told him that night. Only to discover that all her discretion was in vain. Poor girl. His smirk widened.

  He looked at his newspaper but the words looked like nonsense, as his mind was now firmly adrift. In two hours, they arrived at the trade show in Milan.

  The Di Rossi team was already there with their own booth setup taking up nearly the entire east floor wing. There were more brands represented than Lark could shake a stick at. She’d never seen so many beautiful fabrics and materials, all in raw form, yet to be realized.

  She’d visited a number of cities in Italy before, but never this one. Despite being at the top of her wish list at the time. Lark had a handful of job offers overseas before senior year was over, and one of them was in Milan, as a teacher. Before Channing had taken the ex-pat plunge, Lark had already pioneered the idea of moving out of the U.S. to live internationally.

  It was a no brainer. She had her eye on Tuscan property when the opening came available at the U.N. She hadn’t expected to reach her humanitarian goals so soon. She couldn’t pass up the extensive training she’d receive over the next two years. Sure, it was domestic, but once she became an official interpreter, she’d never have to see the U.S. again if she didn’t want to. And right now, she didn’t want to. She’d never associated a place with more disaster and heartache than America. With the abandonment that always preceded the look of adults talking quietly in another part of the room.

  She hadn’t expected it, but the instant she left for another country it was as though that feeling couldn’t legally follow her. Had her hard work really paid off? Could she really leave her broken past behind? Be an entirely other human?

  For a while, it seemed possible. But only for a while.

  Lark accompanied Dario as they made their way around the convention center. Dario made introductions and the occasional fabric lesson. Everyone recognized Dario right away as a Di Rossi. They were all in the industry, of course, but Lark couldn’t help but be annoyed with Teresa. Why hadn’t she recognized him on sight?

  “My friend Teresa interned for your company when she was a student at Parsons.”

  “Really? Perhaps I know her.”

  “Doubtful. You didn’t recognize her Friday night.”

  Dario smiled. It was her only acknowledgement of their actual first meeting. He gave her a wicked glare that she tried to ignore.

  “The American or the Frenchwoman?”

  “The French one.”

  “Daphne.”

  “We’ve used those names as our aliases for years.”

  “Years?”

  “We met in college. Studying abroad in Florence.”

  “I understand now. You get together and have hijinx.”

  “Indeed, bravo,” Lark smiled at his use of the word. “We haven’t seen each other since I started at the U.N. after graduation. We’re a bad influence on each other, but we can’t help it. Teresa always gets us in trouble, especially.”

  “Did Teresa work at the factory or the studio?”

  “I’m not sure. I believe I heard her mention the studio.”

  “This also was several years ago?”

  “Four. She mentioned your father, but not you.”

  “We would not have met. Four years ago I was still trying to get my hands on our own source of wool. My father considered anything beyond the retail process a waste of time. Most of the Di Rossis before me also did.”

  “Signore Di Rossi tells me you want Di Rossi textiles to venture into fashion design.”

  “When Di Rossi began, they used to be one and the same. Men’s suits and tailoring. My grandfather was the one to diversify it. We are already in clothing manufacturing. Castillo Collection. A few others. But the brands are… dowdy. On purpose. In other parts of the world, where it sells. Away from Italian eyes.”

  “And this trip. You plan to court the designers yourself?”

  “Si.”

  “Isn’t it usually the other way around?”

  “It is, but we are not exactly a household name to the average consumer.”

  “That’s what you want? To be a household name?”

  “Among other things.”

  “You’re very ambitious.”

  “I may as well be. The company is already built. There is a generation of entrepreneurs returning to their roots, not only in Italy but across Europe and Asia. They want to go back to making things themselves. I want Di Rossi Textiles helping them.”

  On the way home, Lark again resumed her position on the train, looking out of her passenger window. This time, however, her headphones were left in her bag. Dario found an opening.

  “So, Miss Chambers. What did you think?” Dario asked.

  “Of… the show?”

  “Si.”

  “I… didn’t know the difference between a knit and a woven, for starters.”

  “And now you know.”

  “And now I know.”

  “I noticed you couldn’t help touching the brocades.”

  “Hmm… brocade. Como si dice?” she asked, in Italian, to indicate what she was after. How do you say it?

  “Broccato.”


  “Broccato,” she repeated, as though the word instantly joined the mass of her vocabulary. “The Indian fabrics?”

  “Si. You love color, I think.”

  Lark shrugged. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Not everyone. And they are usually dressed the way you are now.”

  His jab garnered an unappreciative look.

  “My job requires me to blend in to the background. The less you realize I’m there, the better I am at my job. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to give you a proper demonstration tonight.”

  “Tomorrow,” he said.

  “Indeed. Tomorrow.”

  “When you are alone you dress boldly,” he dared to assume.

  “Not really.”

  “Come now, Allodola. You may wish to pretend, but you cannot erase my memory. Your skin against every jewel tone that exists is the last sight I want to see before I die.”

  Lark’s shoulders were shaking as he spoke.

  “Why do you talk like that?” she said.

  “How do I talk?”

  “Like some… Italian rogue from a cheap, bawdy romance novel.”

  “You love it,” he grinned provocatively in his thick accent. So provocatively, in fact, that she burst out laughing. He more than proved her point. His grin held.

  Lark finally composed herself, shaking her head.

  “I do,” she dared confess, smiling. She looked at him with timid recollection, which left him further speechless, a distant spike in his heart rate.

  This was going to be a long trip, he thought. He was suddenly glad to have gotten their inevitable dalliance out of the way early. Though he couldn’t decide if their previous anonymity made it more sensual or less.

  She broke her gaze from his and stared awkwardly into her lap while she reached into her bag in the seat next to her.

  He fiddled with the cuff of his shirt, trying to get his smile to wane while Lark retreated back into whatever played between her earbuds, the click-clacking of the train filling in their pregnant silence.

  Six

  Chapter 6

  Early on as a child, Lark had a habit of mimicking people.

  She would hear something and compulsively repeat it, especially when it came to her teachers at school, her favorite place. Everything they said to the class had a certain sing song pattern and rhythm to it. She didn’t even know that she was doing it.