Page 122 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“Don’t even get me started, Dad. Hey, you’re the one who said you wanted to keep her in your life. It’s dinner; you’re not sleeping together. Eww, I can’t believe I said that.”

“Fine, I’ll ask her today.”

She texted Corrado. Please hold my table. Just three of us, but we’ll be there. I’m excited for you.

Two hours later, Bianca opened the door to the bookstore, noticing that the bell that typically chimed was missing. The far bigger news: There was already a crowd of people there.

In normal cases, Bianca would have been thrilled. Today, she decided the only thing worse than people not showing up was people actually showing up. If Corrado was correct, which he was, then Bianca figured that she and her book had unintentionally been building an army of aggro-humans who wouldn’t stop till they’d supercharged the world. Okay, she’d picked that possibility up through some of the horrid reviews, but today was the day she’d finally accepted it.

Corrado had said he preferred Peggy in the middle. What a kick in the stomach.

Her poor former clients back home; she wanted to apologize to all of them, tell them to erase everything she’d told them.

As she walked under the arch, Sandy approached and gave a distracted hello. “Don’t suppose you’ve talked to Moira, have you?”

Bianca shook her head.

Sandy pressed her lips together. “She was here earlier, ran out angry, long story. She’s not answering my calls. I figured she’d be back by now. Hi, George.”

“Hi.”

Bianca watched them hold eye contact for a little too long before Sandy broke away and looked back at the crowd gathered around a table, munching on food and sipping wine.

“Huge favor, Bianca,” Sandy said. “Could you start this thing while I go track Moira down? I’ll try to be back by the time it starts, but if not, maybe do a reading or something. I don’t know.” Then she looked at George. “Would you mind pulling out more chairs from the back? Apparently, we’re going to have a crowd, which is boggling my mind.”

“Happy to.” It was comical to watch George light up at being given a job. Either that, or he was madly and desperately in love.

Maybe both.

Poor guy.

Rushing out, Sandy wasn’t angry. It felt strange not bubbling over with fury, especially when her one overpaid mouse of an employee had abandoned her. She wasn’t mad at Jack, who should be living in Bologna right now. She wasn’t even angry with George for darkening the door of her bookstore with his bothersome interest in her. Not even at the idiot tourist who she nearly plowed into while speeding on her Vespa through the old town toward Moira’s place near Porta San Stefano.

All she felt was guilt at how terribly she’d treated Moira. The sweet girl had put up with Sandy for so long, and maybe she was finally over it all. Who could blame her? Sandy had pretty much abused her for a year.

Ten minutes later, she rang 2B at an apartment building tucked between a dry cleaner and a formaggeria.

“Yes,” came a broken voice through the intercom.

“It’s Sandy.”

A long pause.

“Can I come up?”

Nothing.

“Hello?”

After what felt like forty-five minutes, the main door clicked.

Sandy pulled it back and raced up the steps in her heels to the second floor. Moira cracked open her door. “What are you doing here?” She was in her pajamas, a horrid matching set in yellow. Were those? No. Dear God, they were sheep reading books.

Sandy chose not to comment on the outfit and went straight for the guts of the matter. “Um, did you forget you were hosting a book club?” Sandy looked at her Cartier. “In five minutes?”

“I’m not going back.” She still had her head poking out the door, keeping it barely cracked.

Sandy’s first urge was to scold her. What do you mean, you’re not going back? You made a commitment. You need to follow through. But she didn’t do that.