Page 145 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

George was still tasting that kiss, thinking about how long he’d wanted it. Now he couldn’t stop thinking about how there was promise of many more of those. Maybe he had done something right along the way.

“Nicolo will probably try to kill you,” she said, as she jiggled the keys in the lock.

“Nicolo? You have some sort of Russian bodyguard up here?”

“He’s my cat, remember?”

“Oh, that’s right.”

She led him in, and the cat came running.

“Hey, Nicolo,” George said. He’d never been much of an animal person but ran his fingers through his fur and made short conversation. The cat kept swerving around and coming back for more.

“How about that?” Sandy said.

“He’s got good taste in men,” he said.

She took his hand to show him around. The place was as classy as she was. Remarkably clean. Wonderful art. Sharp furniture. A stack of jazz records in vinyl next to a pair of large speakers in the living room.

They stood on the rug, and she folded into him. “About that coffee.”

George tasted her again, wondering where any of this was going to go. The morning. The day. Tomorrow. The next.

“Sugar and cream,” he said, feeling his nether regions come alive.

“You drink it black here.”

“Fair enough.”

He ran his fingers up her sides, then went in for another kiss, and maybe it was him, but the lights flickered and the walls shook.

An hour later, someone rang the bell.

“Si?” Sandy said into the intercom.

“It’s Bianca. Can I please come up?”

Sandy looked back down the hall. George was in the shower. “Um, yeah, okay.” Somehow his daughter knew where he’d ended up. Had he texted her?

Sandy opened the door to find Bianca standing in a near fighter’s stance. “Can I say something to you?” she asked Sandy.

“Yeah.”

“You just let a great man leave this city without you. You let a great man walk out when you know damn well he loved you. When you know you’ll never find another like him.”

Sandy started to reply, but Bianca didn’t let her.

“You’re a cliché, a classic wall builder, who lets the good things pass you by because you’re too afraid to open yourself up to them. And I’m sorry about your son. I can’t imagine, but the idea that you refuse to let love into your heart ever again, it’s moronic. You push Moira around like she’s nothing. Same with everyone in your life. And yet people still try with you. George tried, and he would have been the best thing that ever happened to you.”

Sandy attempted to interrupt, but—

“He might not be perfect, but who is? What I can tell you is that he’s loyal and sweet and loves harder than he can handle; that’s why he messes up sometimes. But let’s be honest, there’s nothing perfect about you. I guess I’m here to say that you messed up, and you better know it. He’s such a good man, a great father, a—”

“B?” came George’s voice from over Sandy’s shoulder.

The two women turned to find George standing in a towel, his hair soaking wet.

“Dad?” Bianca looked to him, then to Sandy.