Page 110 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“It’s Moira,” spoke the voice on the other side of the door. “I came to say hi.”

“One second,” Harold replied. He dropped his bowl in the sink, scrambled to get dressed, and made a quick effort to clean up, then returned to let her in.

She wore a black top over white pants. The hat she often wore was rolled up and poking out of her purse. Her glasses rested on her nose at a slight angle. A sweet smile lifted her lips. “Sandy said things didn’t go well with Alice; I thought I’d check on you.”

Harold put a hand against the doorframe. “Yeah, sorry I didn’t text you back. I’ve been pretty upset.”

“I can imagine.” She held up a bottle of Lambrusco. “Want to bury your sorrows in bubbles?”

It wasn’t so bad of an idea.

They sat on the balcony and drank a glass as he told her what had happened. As July approached, each day was hotter than the last, but the evening still cooled into something wonderful. Had he the bandwidth, he might have enjoyed the tangerine sun dropping in the west, its rays sneaking around the buildings and painting a hazy glow over Via Giulia.

They talked about the bookstore for a while but eventually got back to Alice. “Still,” Moira said, “even if it didn’t work, I think it’s wonderful. You gave it everything. You’re a rock star, Harold.”

“Yeah, I wish that were true. You’re right, though. The wine does help.” He took another sip, feeling the burn of the bubbles. Aroldo was the kind of man who might have studied wine and food, understood the origins, but Harold had no clue. Still, it tasted good going down.

“So what now? Are you leaving?”

“Yeah, I need to book my flight. The landlord won’t give me any money back, so I have another week here before the lease runs out.”

“You should stay longer.”

“I wish I could.” He wished a lot of things. But he was broke and in debt. His mother would kill him if she knew he’d maxed out his credit cards. He’d made sure that he was receiving paperless statements so she wouldn’t get that surprise in the mail. As far as wishing he could stay, he wasn’t sure. Being heartbroken here probably wasn’t any better than it’d be in Denver.

“At least you have another week; you better start cramming it all in.”

“I’ve barely left the apartment since . . . since all that happened.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Yeah.”

A long silence came over them, and Harold found himself slipping back to the same thoughts he’d had for more than a week. What was next? Was there any point? Not even Bianca Briggs could help him now. Peggy Meh had nothing on him. He’d royally botched his one chance to save himself, and now he’d have to go right back to a life that was barely a life at all.

“You wanna see something neat?” Moira asked, twisting to him.

“What’s that?”

“Come with me.” She stood and grabbed her glass and the rest of the bottle.

“You mean, outside?”

“Yes, outside. You can’t keep hiding, Harold.” She took his hand and pulled him back through the house. He put on his tennis shoes, and they were out the door. Downstairs, she guided him through the scaffolding to the bookstore.

“We’re going to your work?”

“Just wait.”

She lifted up the corrugated metal door that secured the entrance at night, then stuck the key in the doorknob and twisted. He followed her inside as she switched on a few lights, the sconces coming alive and giving the air a golden coat. Though he didn’t say it, there was something dazzling being in a bookstore after hours. Especially this one. He’d never seen one so stunning.

“Did Sandy tell you what happened? That I hit her with my watch?”

Moira shook her head. “Why’d you do a thing like that?”

“Because I’m at war with Duolingo and the step counter on my watch, and I lost my cool,” he elaborated as they entered the main room, where a series of accent lights brought the cathedral ceilings and its frescoes to life.

Her echoing laugh made him feel like he wanted to laugh too.