Page 111 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“It does sound dumb. And you should have seen me trying to fake steps, sitting on the couch, flapping my arms in the air.” He mimicked himself, flip-flopping his wrist, and she laughed so hard she had to bend over and gasp for air.

It was absurd, wasn’t it? He finally fell into giggles, too, and it was a relief, because even an hour ago, he thought he might never feel anything that resembled joy ever again.

When she finally got a hold of herself, she said, “Seriously, Harold, you shouldn’t have to try that hard. Come on.”

The problem was that he hadn’t tried hard enough. Too much Harold had snuck into his Aroldo.

Going through a door that read Employees Only, they came into a musty storage room filled with boxes of books and other supplies. In the back, she cracked open another door that led outside into a lush patio hidden by tall stone walls covered in ivy. A table and two chairs rested on uneven bricks.

He walked into a quiet that Harold hadn’t known since he’d landed in Bologna, a total escape from the city.

She flipped a switch, and a strand of lights came alive, revealing rows of well-cared-for potted plants and flowers. Several weathered statues of women looked back at them, as if protecting the place.

He lifted his gaze, counting up to the fourth floor and seeing his bedroom window. And beyond the building, the brightest of the stars had started to show in the graying sky as the last of the sun fell away.

“It’s beautiful out here.”

“It’s a favorite spot of mine.”

“I can see why.”

They both sat, and Moira refilled their glasses.

“What’s next?” she asked. “Once you get back to Denver.”

“I don’t know.” He squirmed as the memory of life before Alice came to him. “I didn’t leave much behind.” He shook his head. He had no answers.

“Honestly,” he finally said, becoming less filtered due to the second glass of wine, “I’m not who she thinks I am. I’m not who anyone here thinks I am.”

She cracked a grin. “I bet I have you beat.”

“No offense, but you don’t, trust me.” He thought of how one lie builds onto the next, and then you get to the point where you don’t even know the truth.

“Okay, suit yourself.” She lifted her glass and stared at the bubbles in the light.

“Fine, please. Tell me how you have me beat.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

She set her glass back down, sat back, and crossed her legs. “I shouldn’t have teased you. Besides, you wouldn’t even believe me if I did tell you.”

“Now you have to.”

“No way.”

Something had always seemed off when she’d talked about her past. That time she said legal reasons kept her quiet, and the whole P. J. Harvey thing when she’d stumbled over saying she was from Dorset. “C’mon, you can’t leave me hanging.”

“Not a chance,” she said, a pretty smile filling her face. “Believe me, I’d love to share, but I can’t.”

“At least tell me what you did for a living. Did you work in a bookstore in Bristol or Dorset?”

“Let’s just say I was indeed in the book world.”

“In Dorset?”

“Somewhere on planet Earth.”