Love on a Lark: an Italian love story Page 6

  Her first grade teacher hated it. The young teacher seemed to think Lark was making fun of her and she often got reprimanded.

  But her Korean friends at the corner store found it endlessly amusing, the way Lark could mimic what she heard and repeat it flawlessly, saying things she had no idea she was saying.

  Korean had been the first foreign language Lark had ever learned. She was six years old when her mother began leaving her alone for days at a time. She learned responsibility early, getting herself dressed and to school on time each morning, telling time by whatever cartoon was on. She would walk down to the corner store after school when she was bored, or when there was no food left in the house.

  Right away Yumi, the elderly wife of the store owner, was feeding her and teaching her words, pointing to everything that was in the store. Yumi had become a bit like a second mom until CPS picked her up, after her mother got arrested. The first time. When Lark took her Korean language exam in college, her professor marveled because she spoke like a native from her small village in Seoul.

  For Lark, English and Korean were virtually interchangeable in her mind, and it took no effort to do the job Di Rossi Textiles was overpaying her to do. $600 bucks a day, not including her stipend, and she was jet setting to boot.

  Yes, this was the therapy she needed after months of slogging through the mud and bowing under the burden of an entire country’s dirty laundry. Perhaps it looked like running away, but she just needed a recharge. After awhile, whether she was sleeping underneath a tarp or sucking down caviar, it seemed she always had her suitcase ready, zipped and in the corner of her room. Ready to move on. “Going home” simply wasn’t a thing. Ten years of foster care certainly taught her that.

  The next morning after their trip to Milan, the trio met on the tarmac. Lark was dressed smartly in another crisp white shirt and a pencil skirt, this one navy. Her hair again pulled back. Dario wore his dress shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up and beige linen pants. He surveyed her appearance that oddly seemed both flat and sharp at the same time.

  “You do realize we will be travelling in a tube for several hours.”

  “That’s one way of describing your private plane.”

  “You are dressed like a stewardess from the 80’s.”

  Lark looked down at herself, evaluating her outfit.

  “I have worn less comfortable clothes under far less convenient circumstances.”

  “Ah yes, I am aware of your time in Haiti. You have all afternoon to enlighten me.”

  Lark squinted in the direction of the still rising sunlight as the gentle wind blew stray wisps of her hair.

  “Not something I’m ready to talk about, I’m afraid.”

  “Pity. Then it will be a long flight.”

  “You could tell me about yourself.”

  “That’s something you would want to know?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “You did not seem very interested the last time we were alone together.”

  His words forced her memory to their late night walk, their cramped, frenzied lovemaking in her extra long twin bed.

  “Alone together? Yesterday, you mean? In front of the bathrooms?” she feigned ignorance.

  “No…” he grinned, “but in fact you did not seem interested in talking to me then, either.”

  “Am I interrupting?” the senior Mr. Di Rossi approached them, grinning.

  “Not at all, Signore De Rossi.”

  “You looked uncomfortable, signorina. You must excuse my son, he has a habit of being a bit blunt. He did not inherit any of my diplomacy.”

  “No, just your charm,” Lark smiled. Dario looked at his old man.

  Luca Di Rossi narrowed his eyes on Lark for a long time before grabbing her hand and kissing it. Lark smiled and laughed.

  “If I were still a young man…” he began.

  “But you are not,” Dario filled in.

  “Roberto, bafangu chooch!” he answered his son, along with an obscene Italian gesture. Lark continued to laugh. “Fuck yourself, jackass!” being what he essentially said.

  Signore Di Rossi devoured much of Lark’s attention on the way, saying the best way to practice his English is with a beautiful woman. Meanwhile, Dario listened as Lark politely engaged with his father, and he couldn’t help but notice how poised and diplomatic she was as she maneuvered his embarrassing flirtations. In contrast, Dario also couldn’t stop remembering the way she had begged to come on his cock. The memory flashed behind his eyes and sent a shudder through him.

  It took some time, but one of his conquests had finally spilled over into his professional life. He’d supposedly walked out of hers, with a measly kiss that only he knew about.

  The whole thing reminded him too much of the goodbye he’d given his own wife as she slipped away. He had been so relieved for the opportunity to say it, until it had passed. Then he was only bitter with anger. He should have never walked into that hospital room. He should have stayed out drinking wine all night after work, only to come back and find the room bare and clean. Then he wouldn’t have had to accept the truth. He could’ve spent these last ten years in blissful denial.

  At least Friday night showed him that it would have always happened the way that it did. He truly did prefer to say goodbye.

  He welcomed the insight, morose as it made him.

  After a half day of traveling they landed in Seoul, South Korea.

  The city was bustling clean and modern, like an amusement park that never closed. The buildings loomed as large as any block of Broadway, and with just as much neon to rival it. They took a taxi to downtown Seoul where the modern, luxury hotel they were staying in was a sky high homage to old world Korean architecture. They approached the counter, eager to settle in.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Di Rossi, but I only see a reservation for one penthouse suite.”

  “Check again. My assistant would have recently booked this.”

  “It looks like two rooms were booked, but they failed to secure the second room with a deposit, sir. The room was given away.”

  “But there should be three,” Dario huffed, rubbing his forehead.

  It’d been a long flight. Now, it was the day after the beginning of fashion week, and they’d have better luck knocking on doors than to find another hotel room in the city.

  “Que fato, Roberto?” Signore Di Rossi inquired at the counter.

  “There’s been a mixup with the rooms, papa. Lenora must have messed up the reservations.”

  “Allora, what is our alternative?”

  “The entire city is booked for fashion week, we have none.”

  “So we have no place to sleep?”

  “Your suite was reserved. The other rooms, however were not.”

  “Sir, we have one cancellation we can give you,” the concierge chimed in, “A single room on the third floor.”

  The senior Mr. Di Rossi wasted no time. “Va bene. I will take the room. The two of you will be sharing the suite.”

  “Signore, no!” Lark insisted, a bit too urgently. “Let me take the lesser room. Please.”

  “Sciocchezza! Enjoy yourself, Signora Chambers. Roberto. Try not to make love to each other,” Signor De Rossi urged them in Italian, relinquishing a sly smile. He found perverse enjoyment in Lark’s stoic mask of panic. Dario returned his attention to the service counter.

  “We’ll take it,” Dario replied.

  * * *

  They entered into a gorgeous suite with polished travertine floors, white furniture and masculine accents of dark mahogany wood. The suite took up the whole floor and had two rooms at opposite ends, each bedroom sleek, modern and overlooking the Seoul skyline.

  “This is too much,” Lark commented. “It’s far too… luxurious.”

  “It is a luxury hotel, Allodola. This is the only way they come.”

  “But this is… clearly for an owner of a renown textile company,” Lark went on, “your father should share this suite with you,
not me.”

  Dario found her sentiment amusing.

  “Fortunately, my father values our relationship over luxury. As do I. And the two of us sharing a room would ruin it,” he assured her. “Relax, cara. Everyone is happy. Especially me.”

  “You’re not going to be a problem, are you Mr. Di Rossi?”

  A bolt of arousal hit him at her words. So dutiful. The differences between Lark and Vanessa were like night and day.

  “Certainly not,” he insisted. “I do not make a habit of seducing women.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No. Especially women who work for me.”

  “Then I am especially safe, according to you.”

  “Certo.”

  “Good.”

  “But… most of the women who work for me are relatives. And, I do occasionally enjoy the challenge of turning on a woman without touching her.”

  She was sure it was a joke until his green eyes met hers, veiled as if for her protection.

  “Che cazzo, how does that help me!” she exclaimed. He only smiled.

  “It doesn’t. Ladies first,” he gestured, urging her to pick a room. They were identical, so she went left. He went right, watching her close the bedroom door behind her.

  * * *

  They only had a half hour to check in and freshen up before they were on the move again. Instantly they were in meetings with a young local designer gearing up for his fashion week slot.

  “Signore Di Rossi, it’s an honor,” the young designer said through Lark, their interpreter, with genuine awe.

  His name was Park Tae-hwan, creator of a burgeoning Korean brand called SALVA.

  “Thank you for hosting us,” the senior Mr. Di Rossi said in Italian, per Lark’s request. She wanted the challenge, she’d said. And to earn her keep.

  “We’ve had many brands scout Korea as a location. Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Versace. The young people here are hungry for any and all things Western culture, especially streetwear.”

  “I’m afraid streetwear is not our specialty,” Signore Di Rossi continued, “but we have relationships with every major Italian brand.”

  “I know, I’ve done the research. I’m pleased that Di Rossi Textiles has considered catering more to the youth market. Korea has been a rich country for many years now, several successful conglomerates have made the country very prosperous, especially the city of Seoul. Lots of disposable income.”

  “The numbers make sense, but we are curious: why is competition so low in such a thriving market?” Dario asked.

  “Unfortunately, none of the notable brands that scout here follow through with choosing Seoul as a location.”

  “Is it the growing competition by counterfeit merchants?”

  Park seemed impressed by Dario’s research as he answered.

  “It plays a factor, but the main reason is a bit complex,” he replied as the men walked. “Korea is a very… homogenous culture. We don’t get an interior influx of perspectives the way it is in America and Europe. It causes a very strict social hierarchy to form, a compulsive sense of conformity.”

  “I don’t understand,” Signore Di Rossi furrowed his brow. “Fashion is about setting trends, no? It sounds like the perfect place for a fashion house to set up shop.”

  “It is. Until the trend becomes something else.”

  “You’re saying Korean fashion values trends to a fault?” Dario asked.

  “Precisely,” Park nodded. “It is simply too volatile for an established brand to set up a permanent place here.”

  “Korea is where innovation comes to die?”

  Park laughed. “That is a bit harsh perhaps, but yes. New designers are at a disadvantage abroad, and unfortunately even more so at home.”

  “Forgive me, it was a joke,” Dario stopped to give a light bowing gesture of diplomacy. “You will grow accustomed to my sense of humor.”

  “Well, it certainly did not lose itself in translation. Your interpreter is exquisite,” Lark heard herself say.

  She smiled, fading further into the background as she lowered her head, mimicking the respectful leanings of the culture itself. So she didn’t notice Dario looking over at her with a slight grin.

  “I don’t speak Korean, but if it is anything like her Italian, I am sure it is exquisite,” she reddened as she interpreted his words.

  “That doesn’t surprise me in the least,” Park said, looking over at Lark.

  He conducted a private conversation with her for a bit. She loosened, politely answering his questions but eager to once again disappear, as if breaking character in the midst of a play.

  The men continued to talk business and Lark was their seamless, invisible telephone in the ear of each man, talking quietly and on a delay behind what the other party said.

  They took a tour through the young designer’s workroom and retail space before leaving, agreeing to convene the following day at tomorrow’s runway show, bright and early. Then, Lark would have the night off.

  They returned to the hotel with plenty of the evening left.

  “What are your plans, Allodola?” he struck up conversation in the elevator.

  “None tonight. Except to cruise the Korean market. I may go and see… an old friend before we leave here.”

  “An old friend?”

  “Yes. Family, really. Family of family.”

  Lark still kept in touch with Yumi, who told her where to go and to stay with her relatives there.

  “Is this ‘family’ how you came to learn Korean?” Dario asked.

  “More or less.”

  “Do you have a favorite language?”

  “Depends on my mood.”

  “And what is your mood today?”

  “Today? It’s Korean,” she replied in the native tongue. She couldn’t wait to get to the street market and taste hot fresh Korean meat from a cart, dripping with sauce and laying on beds of rice and sprouts and fresh noodles.

  They got to the penthouse suite and he opted for the plush living room couch rather than the privacy of his own room. She couldn’t resist an opportunity to be near him, especially one not related to work, even though her frenzied desire was molten underneath her thin- yet sturdy- professional veneer.

  Lark kicked off her shoes, strategically choosing a bar stool off the kitchen island area a polite distance away.

  “May I join you tonight?” he inquired.

  She was startled by the ask. She didn’t want to be rude. She didn’t not want him to go. She didn’t know what she wanted, or how to say it.

  “Tonight? I… of course.”

  “We have a long day tomorrow and I’d like to see more of the city. With you.”

  Lark stuttered.

  “Signore Di Rossi is welcome to come as well,” she offered.

  “Come now, Allodola. I am as professional as you are,” he chastised her.

  “I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “Unless… you are afraid of yourself?” he asked with an alluring stare, one that seemed to be native to Italian men.

  Lark intentionally ignored him, though her brain skipped a few beats. “Doesn’t your father like Korean food?”

  “He does, but if I may be honest, this is more time than we have spent together in many years.”

  “Ah. You could use the break,” she replied.

  “I’m glad you understand.”

  “You may be interested in a break from me once we’re done,” she ventured, trying not to sound obvious.

  “I highly doubt that,” he assured. “Give me an hour to change.”

  Lark rolled her eyes. “Honestly. Y’all are worse than American women.”

  “Y’all?” he teased her.

  “Italian men,” she grinned, amused at her own grammatical slip-up. She was so jet-lagged, she was surprised she hadn’t completely shed her professional dialect. She let out a sigh.

  “Fine, I’ll wait. I’ve only been dreaming about it since we landed, what’s another hour?”

&nbs
p; When they left, Lark too had changed, but only into a flattering pair of jeans, her plain white dress shirt still on as well as her heels. Dario had to eat his earlier words. She could be stylish when she wanted to.

  She relied too heavily on the fundamentals, he theorized as they got in the elevator, out into the night air from the lobby. Mixing and matching the basics among themselves was a hopeless snoozefest, no matter how chic the pieces. He had plans for young Lark. When he looked at her it made him think of silk chiffon.

  The colorful Korean street signs put Time’s Square to shame, stacked up to the sky yet hanging low enough to almost reach out and touch. The vertical Korean script illuminated the tall buildings that lined the street market alley.

  The smells were intoxicating. Lark insisted on trying a little of everything, and Dario played along, not allowing her to use a penny of the stipend they’d given her. They split a steamed roll filled with myriad meat and vegetables as they found a place to sit next to each other on a sidewalk bench among the bustling natives.

  “Truly, I must tell you, Allodola, you surprise me,” he began.

  “How’s that?”

  “On paper, your credentials are very impressive. But it is another thing to see your mastery in person.”

  “Thank you, signore.”

  “I tried not to let my astonishment show. I have immense respect for the amount of expertise and concentration you’ve poured into your work. It is a special person that can excel in a field that functions optimally when it is the least noticeable.”

  That tongue. His flattery and compliments were like a spell. He somehow knew how to zero in on the thing you most wanted to hear from another human. No wonder their company had almost no turnover rate, right down to the janitorial staff. Even if he hadn’t been a Di Rossi, he would’ve made it straight to the top.

  “You embarrass me, Mr. Di Rossi.”

  “Call me Dario. You are not working now.”

  “Okay. Dario. I must compliment your English as well.”

  “You patronize me, signora,” he grinned, showing off his exquisite looks. His jawline looked as though it was drawn, even under his 5 o’clock shadow. His eyes had one setting: devour. It made men fall in line and it made women positively helpless.