Page 141 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

Ashamed.

Gutted.

Words couldn’t capture Bianca’s inner turmoil as she watched the scene unfold. Moira chucking bread across the restaurant, Harold throwing a punch, the man going down. An enraged Corrado racing from the kitchen and seizing Harold by the arm and escorting him out of the restaurant. An army of servers tending to the assaulted man on the floor and offering apologies to the redhead and the other nearby diners.

Once Bianca regained some clarity, she looked at her table compatriots. “We better go. Right now. I’ll take care of the bill.” Quiet nods rounded the table. The four of them stood and wordlessly moved toward the exit.

Corrado was just returning from the hotel lobby. He shot sharp looks at the retreaters.

Bianca stopped him in the reception area. “I’m so sorry. I don’t even know what to say. That was freaking awful.”

His jaw tight, he gave a sharp nod.

She dug into her purse and found her wallet. “Let me give you my card. We didn’t get a chance to pay the server. I just wanted us out of there.”

He stopped her with his hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No way, Corrado. I’m paying.”

“Please,” he said with grating patience, “just take your friends a long way from here. I have to deal with this.”

Fighting him on it now would only make things worse. Deciding she’d pay him later, she stuffed her wallet back in her purse. “I really am sorry.”

He gave another nod and raced back into the dining room.

Sandy was the first to reach Harold outside on the sidewalk that ran along Via dell’Indipendenza. “Are you okay?” Pedestrians weaved around them. Cars whizzed by.

He was pacing in circles. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Sandy held up his hand to inspect his raw knuckles. “You’ll need to take care of that when you get home. Wash and put some Vaseline or something on, then Band-Aids.”

“Don’t worry about me. God, I feel like such a fucking idiot. I just hate that guy.”

“Didn’t I warn you about love?” Sandy asked. He made no comment.

George and Moira joined, and Harold made the first of a dozen apologies. When Bianca exited the hotel, he said to her, “I am so sorry, Bianca. He was such an asshole to me, and it happened so fast and—”

She stopped him. “It’s okay.”

“Seriously. I’m mortified. I had too much to drink, and he was taunting me, then pushed me . . . I’ll pay the bill.”

“Corrado covered it.”

Harold dropped his head, defeated, cursing himself. Sandy’s heart broke for him. He’d been beat up enough in this life. At least he’d stood up for himself. There was that.

Moira slipped an arm around his waist. “Why don’t we get you home?”

He nodded, offered another apology, and the two of them disappeared into the night. Sandy saw it for the first time, that Harold and Moira had a chance at love if they had the nerve to give it a try. You couldn’t find two better people, that was for sure.

“I guess this is it,” George said, appearing next to Sandy. She giggled to herself. She, on the other hand, did not have the nerve.

Sandy crossed her arms, knowing she was leaving something on the table here. As if she had a choice. “I can’t believe you’re going back.”

“What a way to go out, huh?”

“A night to remember. I feel so bad for Bianca. I know she’s devastated.”

“And Corrado,” George added. “On opening night.”