Page 123 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

Enough was enough.

She wanted to offer an apology, but she hadn’t had much practice in a long time. There were rocks in her mouth.

Moira waited, glancing about the hall.

Sandy finally said, “I’m sorry, okay. I’m awful. Dreadful. And I made you the butt of it. All year. Can we please move on, and you come back and host your darn book club? By the way, there were already like forty people there when I left. Your whole thing worked out. Do you hear me? You proved me wrong. Surely, that’s worth a smile.”

Nothing.

Sandy reached deeper because she knew Moira deserved it. “Okay, fine. You want more? You’re my best friend, Moira. Believe it or not, I don’t have anyone else. And you not showing up today, the idea of you quitting, that’s not an option. I can’t handle it. Actually, I can’t handle the idea of not seeing you. Who else is going to laugh at my stupid jokes?”

Still, nothing.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ.” She stretched out her arms. “I’m sorry, my friend. I want you to come back. I’m not selling the store. I was being stupid. And I want a second chance to prove to you that I’m not the Wicked Witch of Bologna.”

Moira looked more surprised than anything.

“My arms are getting tired.”

Moira finally let out a sigh and pulled open the door. “You know, you really are a handful.”

“Oh, I do. You ought to live in this skin.”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Right? By the way, those pajamas are absolutely abysmal.”

“I think they’re adorable.”

Moira finally let Sandy wrap her arms around her, and when she did, she kissed Moira’s neck, then squeezed hard, never wanting to feel as lonely as she had this morning again.

“Now, might you get dressed and we go deal with this mess you’ve made?”

She felt a nod on her shoulder, then: “Are you reading Outlander?”

Sandy pulled back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ. That’s what Claire says. Is Sandy Cooke reading a love story?”

Sandy started to deny it but halfway surrendered. “I’m just skimming through it. A bookseller needs to know what she’s selling.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh, wipe that smile off your face. Yes, it’s good. The series is good. And we can talk about it later. For now, we have somewhere we need to be.”

Moira snickered as she disappeared into the back, and Sandy looked around the apartment. There were far too many books, random stacks of them. A video game was frozen on the television screen. A worn copy of Bianca’s book with sticky notes protruding from the pages rested on a glass table. Above a velvet couch hung a collection of twelve small modern paintings, all in bright and bold colors, all by the same artist.

“You have great taste,” Sandy said. “Not in pajamas, but I like the art.”

Moira appeared, tugging on a white shirt. “Forty people?”

“And maybe more by now. A horde of perusers. All sitting there waiting. I left Bianca in charge.” She looked back at her Cartier. “Time’s a tickin’.”

After Sandy left, Bianca inched her way into the crowd and made small talk till someone recognized her and realized she was the reason they’d all gotten together. Suddenly, everyone was circling around her, prodding her with questions. She answered kindly, trying not to beat herself up for writing a book that had missed the mark.

Simply put, there were bigger problems out there in the world. She didn’t have much to complain about, when here she was doing a stint in Italy while trying to figure out her next moves. She had money, a degree, a client base that would likely take her back.

So what if she wasn’t the next Brené Brown.