Page 104 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

Yes.

Yes, fucking yes! He’d done it. Here she came. Aroldo wrapped his arms around Spina and gave him a tight squeeze.

“What a victory, amici miei. Grazie!”

Spina put his hands on Aroldo’s cheeks. “Love her like it’s your last day. Every day.”

“Si, signore. Lo farò.” I will.

When she appeared down below, everyone clapped, and Aroldo rose to the occasion, waved as if he were one of the royals, and took a grand bow. When he came back up, he watched his love come to him, the angel of his life floating his way.

What a hell of an idea it had been.

Leave fucking burn marks! That was the way!

God bless Ione Skye and John Cusack and the whole idea. Forget that it had been overdone. Never once had it been reenacted with an opera man.

That’s when he saw it, the flash on her finger.

A blade found its mark in his stomach. He had to fight not to fold over as he searched her face for an explanation.

“Harold,” she said, shuffling over in slippers, “I’m so sorry I gave you the wrong impression, but I love Renzo. We’re getting married.”

The fifty spectators let out gasps. Cameras clicked louder.

She looked up toward her balcony. Renzo stood there in boxer briefs, nothing else. He wore a shit-eating smirk and raised his middle finger.

And there, in the square, Aroldo died.

During their stay in Salò, Bianca and George hiked up to take in a mesmerizing view of the massive Lake Garda, which had been carved out by glaciers during the last Ice Age and was hugged by the Alps on the northern side. On the way back down to their place in town, they chatted with a couple from Germany who were on a three-month tour of Europe. They’d just come from an island off the coast of Naples called Ischia. Bianca had never been.

As the couple professed their love for the island, Bianca and George both said almost simultaneously, “I guess we’re going there next.”

After a two-day train ride, including a stop in Florence for a night, they’d taken a taxi to a ferry and were now standing on a bus that circumnavigated Ischia. They were headed to Sant’Angelo, a place supposedly a bit quieter. You always knew you found something special when people gave the recommendation, followed by, “Just don’t tell anyone.” They’d heard that a few times since leaving Lake Garda.

They’d been gone almost a week now, and aside from a few bumps, they were both in good spirits. Bianca was still in shock, actually. Italy was speaking to her father, waking him up and giving him a renewed sense of life, and she was experiencing the same herself. How strange that they’d gone through it together.

But how beautiful too.

Though she was absolutely blown away by the beauty of the island so far, palm trees mixing with vineyards and olive groves, all climbing up mountains that rose from a turquoise sea, the current situation was difficult.

She’d always been victim to motion sickness, but this bout was the worst she’d ever known. Clearly, George was going through the same thing. They’d boarded the crowded bus at the port; not a single seat was available so they’d both stood, trying to hold on to their luggage with one hand and their life with the other. The streets couldn’t have been any tighter. Motorcyclists and scooters snuck through tiny gaps in the flow of traffic, as the bus traversed hills with constant jolts and hesitantly descended into small towns packed with jaywalkers.

It was all Bianca could do not to vomit, and by the time they stepped off the bus near their hotel, they were desperate for fresh air. But then they looked at the view: sparkling blue water surrounding a whitewashed, picturesque town nestled up against a giant rock mountain jutting out of the Mediterranean, and she knew it had all been worth it.

Travel was a lot like life, wasn’t it? Ups and downs, learning to find the most graceful way through the downs.

What had started as a seed in Bologna grew more by the day, the idea that she belonged here in Italy, that she’d come home to her ancestors and there was no going back.

They checked into their rooms and met in the lobby. The journey south had worn him out, but George was being a trooper and had agreed to hop in the water before they took a siesta.

Passing houses that were cut into the mountain, they found a steep set of steps that descended to a tiny beach with a restaurant carved into the cliff. People were diving off the larger rocks; others splashed in the shallows. There were a few swimmers a long way out, near several sailboats anchored for the day.

Bianca wasn’t sure whether she’d ever seen a place more beautiful.

Her Italian was improving, and she haggled with a guy and acquired an umbrella and two chairs for €10. Within moments, they had stripped down to their swimsuits and stepped into the water. Despite it being late June and incredibly hot out, the chilly water took her breath away.

“Greatest idea you’ve ever had, this trip,” George said, beaming with youthful delight. He dove forward and came up a few feet away with a shout.