Page 101 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“Honey, that was the only hard part about Venice. And I mean that literally. Worst bed I’ve ever slept in.”

“And that’s why we’re in an Airbnb tonight. The reviews promised two great beds.”

“Thank God.”

They had the windows down, and an hour later, George could tell when they got close to the lake. There was a cool and humid bite to the breeze, blowing their hair back.

He turned down the Italian radio station. “You haven’t mentioned Corrado much. You two still chatting?” He’d avoided the subject, partly because he could never get used to her dating men. And even more so, because he was afraid what would happen if she fell in love while she was in Italy.

She shook her head. “Not really.”

“Something happen?”

“He wants more, but I’m not ready.”

That was a relief.

She put her feet up on the dashboard, something Faith had done, too, a practice that wasn’t altogether safe. Still, he bit his tongue.

“But I want to be,” she said. “Add relationship issues to my list of problems I have to work out before I entertain a relationship. I’m the worst kind of girlfriend, which I’ve already shown him twice.”

“How so?”

“It’s not important.”

“He’d be the luckiest guy in the world to have you.” George meant it.

“You know what stinks? I think I love him.”

Huh.

It was all fine and dandy till she’d brought up that word. “You love him? You barely know him.”

“I’ve known him forever. We basically lived together when I was last in Bologna.”

Get. Out. Of. Here. This was news. He knew they’d spent time together, but he’d had no clue she’d been spending the night with him. “How do you know you might love him?”

“How did you know you loved Mom?”

He laughed and cast a quick look at her before returning his eyes to the road. “I knew it in my bones, but I wouldn’t hold your mom and me up as the standard.”

“When you two were happy, it was really good. I have great memories.”

“I wish it was the same for me. It’s hard to see past some of the things I did.” He shook his head, remembering the early mornings and late nights at Motorola and Intel. He didn’t know how else to live. His only mission was to keep the lights on.

“Corrado’s a good man, Dad. I’d be the lucky one.”

“Very much a good man. But a chef. Opening up his own place. You know how many restaurants go out of business in their first year?”

“His won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“And think about his hours. You going to raise a kid with a chef? In a city? I appreciate that you have feelings for him, but be careful. You don’t want to get involved with a chef long term. Trust me.”

“Because you have so much experience?”