Page 128 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“What’s normal?”

“You know what I mean. Gosh, stop giving me such a hard time. I can understand if you don’t ever want to see me again because I’m a fraud and a liar, but if you can look past it, then maybe we could start again. I could show you who I am. And if that person, the real me, is still someone you want to kiss, then you should probably be certified legally insane—but nevertheless, I’d welcome it with all of me.”

He found her eyes and took her hand again. “You were the first one to ever tell me that I didn’t need to be somebody else. I’m sorry for not listening. Will you forgive me?”

“I might be able to look past it.” She gave him a wink that sent flutters into his heart.

If he was looking for proof of a greater design, he’d found it in her eyes then.

“Hey, you two bozos,” Sandy said, appearing out of nowhere. “Wanna go to dinner tomorrow night? Fancy Michelin place with Bianca and George? It’s his last night. And don’t worry, I’m paying. I’ll buy my way back into your hearts with good food and wine.”

And if Moira’s eyes weren’t proof of miracles and a greater design, then Sandy asking them both to dinner surely was.

Sandy surprised Harold even more by lightly taking him by the arm. “Can I talk to you for one moment?”

Guiding him to a spot between the Mystery and Sci-Fi shelves, she crossed her arms and struggled to get it out—whatever it was on her mind. But when the words finally left her tongue, they seemed to escape easily.

“You’re not the only one to blame for the whole Aroldo thing. I’m afraid I pushed you into becoming him. I see so much of my son in you, wanted so badly to help you to get Alice back, that I got carried away. You’re spectacular just as you are.” She took a long breath. “As you can imagine, I’m not one to sling words around like that often. So when I offer a compliment, consider it gold. If you’re struggling right now to accept that you matter, let my assurance do the heavy lifting until you get there.”

She’d joggled something loose in Harold, and a warmth ran up his spine. If Moira’s eyes and Sandy’s invitation weren’t enough to prove the existence of a higher power, Sandy saying this to him certainly was.

Breathing back tears, he replied, “You have nothing to apologize for, my friend. Even little ole Harold can put some effort into his clothes, into his appearance. And maybe even little ole me deserves a spot on the dance floor.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” Sandy reached up and touched his chin. “You’re a gem, Harold. Like a son to me.”

He matched her shockingly sweet gaze. “You can be my Bolognese madre any day.”

Chapter 30

The Warmth of Blank Pages

George eased out of bed, not wanting to tell Bianca what he’d done, but he knew he had to. He’d put it off last night because she’d been on such a high. She’d made spaghetti Bolognese, and they’d laughed about the book club and their journey around Italy and to-do lists and a million other things.

He couldn’t take that day away from her.

But now, he couldn’t put off his confession any longer, because he couldn’t be the father she deserved if he didn’t come clean. He marched down the hall, ready to tear off the Band-Aid.

She sat on the balcony, her feet up on the table. “Morning, Dad.”

“Mornin’. What are you working on?”

A smirk appeared as she said, “A book.”

“What?” Last he’d heard, she was done writing books.

“I was on Substack this morning, sending out a post that I might regret, when I saw a quote by a guy I know. Kevin Kermes. It was about Van Gogh moving to Arles, a small town in Southern France. He was escaping the rat race of Paris to create in a more powerful way. Not for anyone else, only for him. Anyway, the quote was, ‘When you stop performing for applause, you start creating for eternity.’ How good is that?”

He chewed on the quote as best he could, despite his mind being elsewhere. “That’s powerful.”

“Yeah, an uppercut to my chin. I knew this but forgot it. I have a freaking degree in how to deal with human angst, and maybe I’m pretty good at dealing with others’ but not mine. I’m the slippery one.”

“You are good at what you do,” George said. “I won’t soon forget yesterday. What a powerful couple of hours. I suspect everyone is rethinking their lives now.”

“Maybe.”

How could he tell her that he’d betrayed her when she was sitting here so happy? And finally writing again!

“What are you creating for eternity, then?” George asked.