by C. L. Donley
C. L. Donley
Love on a Lark
Copyright © 2018 by C. L. Donley
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
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Contents
Acknowledgement
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
Haven’t Joined the Mailing List Yet?
Mama Needs a Review!
About the Author
Also by C. L. Donley
Acknowledgement
To the random Italian guy who said “Questa nera,”
to his friends on the street,
when I walked past him fifteen years ago…
Thanks. I wrote a book about it.
If this book inspires more African American women to
get passports, then I have done my job.
C.L. Donley
One
Chapter 1
Lark Chambers was positively spent.
After training two years with the U.N. as an interpreter in Libya and Haiti, after only nine months in the field she was done.
She was a failure. She’d let down all the people who’d stretched out their many hands over the years to keep her from dying, the U.N. who’d paid her tuition, only to find that she did not have the stomach for it all.
Or perhaps she did, but her fragile and fragmented hell of a childhood kept bubbling up to the surface no matter what she tried to do to stuff it back down. In fact, she didn’t try. She couldn’t. Where was there a shoulder to cry on, or a quiet corner to weep in? In Haiti, for God’s sake?
And who the hell cared about her aging out of the foster system when you were working in a country that didn’t have toilets? No one, that’s who.
She was a wreck, deep down. In no state to help anyone else, apparently. She built herself into a monster overachiever, but her shallow-built foundation couldn’t hold up the towering facade. She had no family, no roots, and years worth of faking it until she made it had garnered no interested parties.
She thought for sure she’d be strong enough to interpret witness testimony for the victims of war-torn and corrupt countries. She could give back the way that she had received, give the voiceless all a voice. But she could no longer bear to hear the atrocities from their lips hour by hour, let alone be forced to process it, and then repeat it in another language, in a palatable fashion.
Lark had been a child prodigy, but no one noticed, since finding a family to stay with took precedence over everything else. And as a foster kid, Lark hadn’t been a huge fan of standing out. It wasn’t until high school that anyone bothered to note that she was already a polyglot, with six languages under her belt. And that was only because her home life was so tumultuous that she nearly failed her entire sophomore year— including her second language courses— so she was sent to a counselor.
She had to credit her many foster homes for pointing her in the direction of the Spanish, Korean and Arabic— but if it hadn’t been those, it would’ve been others. Lark’s mind was a tangle of signs and symbols and their many verbal forms. Her tongue had a never ending thirst to master whatever strange linguistic quirk it heard. She graduated high school with an armful of scholarships to the school of her choice, which was Syracuse. Before she graduated, the U.N. was courting her and she jumped at the chance.
Lark sat at her impossibly long table in the dining room, butted tightly up against the small country kitchen of her Tuscan Airbnb— windows open, a line of laundry hanging a story high, overlooking the old cobble pavement below in the courtyard. A simple white mug with its steamy contents rested between soft sinewy hands the same color as her macchiato.
Her features were dainty and sharp, her movements fluid and purposeful. Her eyes were an arresting copper color. Her lush brown hair was a bit past her shoulders, fine enough that water was no real threat to it— it only needed a little heat to make it shine with smoothness. She kept it pulled back in a demure low bun or a ponytail out of habit, her long bangs hanging down and framing her face. They blew in the wind of the open window. She smiled and breathed the free air, smiling at the sound of Italian out of the mouths of children on the street below.
Armed with a handful of glowing recommendations and a still otherwise stellar resume, she was back in Europe within a month. The U.N. had given her a tidy severance package, and though she was advised to take the vacation, she preferred to work.
And there was no better therapy in the world than having Italian food and words on your tongue.
She had her pick of the litter at LIST, the linguistics agency through which she moonlighted. She initially courted a job at the embassy in Saudi Arabia. But when the last minute job in Italy came available, she canceled her plans and had her flight itinerary changed to a standby seat bound for Rome. A connecting flight later she was back in Florence, her favorite city.
Italy was a country that understood Lark Chambers fully, while it may not have always respected her way of doing things.
It was leisurely instead of conscientious, lecherous instead of discreet. It settled matters with passion instead of logic.
But it accepted her, more than her own country and everyone in it. She felt an unbiased kinship, that anyone who loved Italy as much as Italy itself did was inherently Italian. And when she spent any time there, it was inevitable that she always succumbed in one way or another.
The Italian job was interpreting Korean and Italian for Di Rossi Textiles, the 4th largest textile company in Europe. There’d be some traveling, a stipend, and of course, working closely with the CEO.
She tried to console herself with the idea that working for a wealthy Italian company could also be a noble cause. “People need sheets and towels,” she told herself. But Di Rossi Textiles was a billion dollar company, the Di Rossi family one of the wealthiest in the world. They didn’t get that way by dressing naked orphans.
Suddenly her phone warbled. It was a text from Channing.
“Be there by 2-ish, your time,” it said.
It gave Lark a warm feeling knowing she, Channing, and soon Teresa would be in their old stomping grounds together.
Lark’s former college roommate Channing was a translator at Sotheby’s, an international woman of intrigue now, currently living in the UK.
Teresa and Channing were coming down for the weekend to help Lark settle in, process the last year of her life, and hopefully get into some mischief as well.
“Teresa will be here before you,” read Lark’s reply.
“Keep the drinking to a minimum until I get there!”
“No paying for booze tonight,” Lark wrote.
Tonight she was busting out the gold dress, plus Teresa. Teresa reeked of sex. She always attracted the most interesting guys. She’d been saving the gold dress for a special occasion, a wrap dress she’d purchased in Brazil six months before. After six months, however, there wasn’t a special occasion in sight, so she was wearing it tonight. There was always an occasion to turn heads on a Frida
y night in Italy.
The ogling, whistles, comments, and spontaneous songs that a single young African American woman walking the streets of Italy inspired took some adjusting. Lark hoped she never got used to it. Channing’s blonde hair, big boobs and Southern accent coupled with Lark’s brown skin practically made them celebrities when they walked the streets of Italy together back in college. Lark had always been a pretty girl, a fact from which she spent her early life drawing attention away, in order to survive. But in Italy, she had been proposed to more times than she could count. By men who looked like they’d gotten bored of heaven and began roaming the streets.
It was during this international sausage party that Lark and Channing met Teresa in Florence six years ago, all of them in Italy doing study abroad trips from their respective schools. The three became fast friends. And tonight, Lark was going to do her best to let loose. Teresa was French and had done an internship with Di Rossi for her degree from Parsons in Paris. She trusted Teresa to give her the lowdown.
“I never met Misseur Luca Di Rossi personally, but he did visit the studio quite often. He’s a hot grandpa. Stylish,” she confessed over a cocktail in her beautiful accent later that night.
She balanced a long cigarette between her fingers, the smoke mingling in her longer than average brunette curls. She had thick brows and full lips. Her eyes were dark and mysterious, a French cliche.
Each of them was in cocktail dresses, Channing’s a pin-striped halter and Teresa’s midnight blue velvet and spaghetti straps.
“I think that letter of recommendation gave me the edge I needed to get this job.”
“I told you,” Teresa grinned.
Lark laughed, shaking her head.
“I wish I was there to see you ask him for one.”
“I couldn’t do it. I just sent him an email.”
“And he sent you a completely professional and unbiased recommendation??” Channing asked skeptically.
“Oh shit, I can’t believe I didn’t tell you.”
“What?”
“He just said, ‘write it and I’ll sign it.’”
Channing died laughing.
“Wrote myself one hell of a letter,” Lark giggled.
The best thing to come out of that shit show in Haiti was the dissolution of the bizarre, pseudo-romantic arrangement between her and her boss. Embarrassing. She cringed as she remembered unloading her baggage to him, almost immediately. And then the moment she realized… he didn’t care. He couldn’t possibly have cared.
The more she thought about how manipulative he was, the deeper her embarrassment grew. As if she wasn’t already relationship phobic.
Back to meaningless hookups it was. She’d never had an Italian one. She had a sneaking suspicion those were the best.
“I’m glad I could pass my expertise onto you,” Teresa smiled with a confident air.
“And here I thought nothing good would come out of that hot mess.”
“Now ladies, keep calm,” Channing lilted in her charming southern Georgia accent, “but two of the hottest Italian men on the planet are about to walk past us,” she crossed her legs as she spoke. The women were sitting at an outdoor table at one of Florence’s small, charming street bistros.
Channing, a loud mouth yet brilliant blonde, was known for two things: mixing strong drinks and exaggerating. But knowing this was Italy, and smelling the intoxicating scent of sandalwood from their table, they figured she probably wasn’t too far off.
Lark prepared to feast her senses on the first appetizer of the night, craning her neck ever so slightly to catch a glimpse of them.
While Channing was already in full ogling mode, Teresa took a drag of her cigarette as she assessed them, as if beautiful men were cheap where she lived.
Lark could barely believe her eyes, and though she wasn’t conscious of it, her mouth was probably agape.
“Chow…” Channing drawled more than usual.
“Ladies,” the dark-haired one cordially spoke.
Cruelly they kept walking.
They had some better place to be.
There was a first for everything, Lark supposed. She’d never seen an Italian man be standoffish around them, especially a pair of them.
But these men were older. Distinguished. The dark haired one with the light eyes looked to be the oldest upon first glance. The other was dirty blond, exquisite, not quite old enough to be her father, but close enough to still be her weakness.
“Questa nera,” he said to his friend, his low voice a force of nature.
Instantly Lark’s heart was in her throat and she felt the blood traveling her body, her nipples. She quickly took a sip of wine, as though it were a chaser.
Helplessly they watched as the two continued to saunter away. The dark haired one took a glance back in their direction, as if he just needed one more memory of Channing’s boobs to make it through life. And then they were gone.
“Money,” was all Channing said when they were down the street.
Teresa was smiling with her eyes on Lark, her chin resting on the open hand that held her cigarette. The two women locked eyes.
“What?” Lark said.
“I’m not fluent in Italian, but I understood that.”
“Understood what?” Channing looked between them.
“You didn’t hear the other one talking?”
“No, what’d he say?” Channing grinned mischievously, eyes wide.
“What did he say, Lark?” Teresa teased her, blowing out a puff of smoke.
“Nothing,” she dismissed, rolling her glowing hazel eyes.
“He said, ‘the black one,’” blabbed Teresa.
Channing looked over at Lark, indignant.
“You have to sleep with him for us,” she said. Teresa chuckled.
“He’s gone,” Lark argued, as if that was her only objection to the idea.
“They’ll be back,” Teresa predicted.
“I hope you’re not suggesting that we sit here all night and wait for them to return.”
“Don’t be silly, they’ll be back within the hour,” Teresa assured them.
They were, in fact, back within ten minutes. This time, Lark was the first to see them coming from her side of the table, and from quite the distance.
“Trouble’s back,” Lark divulged.
Channing instantly whirled her head in their direction. Lark and Teresa laughed.
Subtlety wasn’t Channing’s style. But Lark couldn’t fault her. If there were any two men that deserved to know fully the effect they had on women it was these two.
“Real names or fake?” Teresa grinned.
“Definitely fake,” Lark answered.
“She’s in rare form tonight,” Channing giggled as the men drew closer.
“I asked for a sign and I think…this is it,” Lark trailed off as she and the handsome stranger locked eyes. He walked up to the bistro.
Channing gave her the nudge.
“You know what to do, girl,” she whispered, slowly nodding.
She did. Lark was the only one of them who spoke fluent Italian at the table and typically served as the spy.
Channing already ensured they wouldn’t suspect that the girls spoke much, if any, of the language. It was an extra measure of safety that served them well on at least one occasion when a group of guys tried to drug some of her friends senior year.
The two men sat at an empty table across from them, conspicuously. The women nonchalantly continued talking and Lark listened as the most handsome of the two summoned the waiter and bought another round of drinks for their table. Channing didn’t know a lick of Italian, but she knew what a man looked like when he was buying you a drink.
The waiter came over and interrupted the girls’ conversation with another round, compliments of the adjacent table, just as they’d suspected.
The black one, he’d essentially said. Lark’s body tingled all over at the thought, especially down below. She’d just gotten dumped by her b
oss, and this guy was an Italian mirage. Late 30’s, early 40’s, impeccably dressed and wearing an expensive watch like a boss. A brooding expression and a jaw like a marble sculpture in the Uffizi. Light brown hair that curled at the edges and what looked to be olive green eyes from what she could tell without gawking, olive to match his gorgeous skin.
He was a work of art, a human ode to Mediterranean masculinity. If he showed any remote interest in sleeping with her, she was a goner. His handsome companion with the black hair and light blue eyes had been noticeably silent once the drinks came.
“Grahtzee!” Channing drawled to the men at the table. They raised their glasses in response.
“Americana?”
“Si,” Channing replied, Lark nodded. They waited for Teresa’s reply.
“Non,” Teresa accommodated them.
“Ah, Francia. What part?” the dark-haired stranger asked Teresa in French.
“Paris,” Teresa replied in her accent.
“May we join you?” the green-eyed one wasted no time.
Teresa and Channing looked over at Lark who gave a simple shrug with one shoulder.
“Of course,” Lark offered matter-of-factly.
“My name’s Jane, this is Delphine, and this lovely young thing is my friend Vanessa,” Channing began, gesturing toward each of the girls.
“Vanessa,” the handsome stranger repeated, eyeing Lark carefully.
“Si,” Lark confirmed.
“And you?” Teresa piped up.
“Moi?” the dark haired one stalled.
“Oui,” she drily confirmed, briefly raising her eyebrows.
“Bill,” the stranger answered, with a long ‘e’ in place of the short ‘i’ sound. Lark snickered.
“'Beel’?” Teresa repeated.
“Yes,” he replied. The girls exchanged glances. It seemed they were all on the same page.
“What about you handsome?” Channing asked.
The handsome stranger was in the midst of sipping his drink when she asked.
“Bob,” he finally answered when he was done, with a long Italian ‘o’. The girls chuckled.