Page 16 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“I’m serious,” Moira continued. “Peggy Meh is my favorite. The whole idea is so funny! And the way you talked about lighting the fire . . . the Let Go days . . . and . . . and then your analogy of jumping into a cold lake and how you’re terrified, but the moment you’ve done it, then you’re free. You won’t believe it, but I took the train up to Lake Garda and jumped into the lake myself.” Of course, Moira was whisper-screaming all this. Then she added, “Naked. I was naked!”

Bianca lit up and let slip a cackle.

It was the first time Sandy had heard this story, and she wondered whether it was true. Maybe Moira wasn’t as boring as Sandy thought.

Nevertheless, the worst bookseller in history looked like she was about to start humping Bianca’s leg. “I’m trying to follow all the steps, but it’s a lot.”

“Yeah, I’ve received similar feedback. Maybe a bit much to cram into each day.”

“I’m picking and choosing, a choose-your-own-adventure kind of thing. Hey, what if you did a book signing?” Moira whipped her head to Sandy. “What do you think, Sandy? To welcome her to the neighborhood?”

Sandy pretended like she wasn’t listening, but then gave in. In a tone devoid of enthusiasm, she said, “Yeah, that could be good.”

Book signings were hit-and-miss and required a tremendous amount of work, what with the promotion and having to rearrange the store to accommodate an audience, but Sandy couldn’t imagine losing what she and her son, Jack, had started together, and that meant she somehow needed to find a way to start getting people in the door again.

“What do you say?” Moira asked the author.

Bianca took a giant breath. “I . . . the thing is. My book didn’t do that well back home. Part of me is here to escape. I’m still processing that you liked it.”

“What’s not to like?” Moira asked, staring at the book cover like it was a Picasso. “Peggy Meh, so brilliant—and hysterical. How did you even think of that?” Moira turned to Sandy. “Bianca’s a therapist, but instead of using different real-life clients as her case studies, she created this made-up, Frankenstein-monster of a client with all the problems. And her name’s Peggy Meh. By working with Bianca over the course of two years, she turns into Peggy Megawatt.” Back to Bianca, she said, “A couple of weeks ago, while I was looking in the mirror, I called myself Moira Megawatt. That’s when I knew I had to get the tattoo.”

Moira stopped there, exhilaration written all over her.

Bianca was shaking her head, smiling sincerely. “I’m so full of gratitude right now. You have no idea.”

Two peas in a pod, for sure.

“You’ve been quiet on your socials lately,” Moira said. “Now I know why.”

“That’s right—busy moving and all that. I’m going to get back to it soon.”

Sandy hadn’t heard Moira talk so much in one day since Ann Patchett’s visit. She felt mortified all over again.

Moira finally gathered her breath and spoke in a more controlled manner. “We haven’t done many signings, but we’re trying to do more. Right, Sandy? Maybe even a talk if you’re up for it. I’d love to hear about your history, your process. What’s next for Peggy Meh. Everything.”

“Okay, Moira,” Sandy said, stepping back toward this car wreck. “Let’s let Bianca be.”

Moira shrank. “Oh, okay. I’m sorry to bother you.” Then she added, “But it would mean so much to me.”

Bianca said with a sprinkle of defeat, “I’d love to do it. Why not?”

“Really?” Moira suddenly looked to be in the full throes of an orgasm. “When could we do it, Sandy?”

Sandy considered the question. They didn’t have any scheduled events next week. Or the week after. Or the week after that. Or the week or month after that. Ugh, people were awful, especially a big group of them fawning all over an author.

Being put on the spot forced her to cave, though. “How about next Thursday, four to six? Would that work?”

Other than setting up her apartment, Bianca had no other plans. “If you guys want to.”

“It would mean the world to us,” Moira said. “Right, Sandy?”

“The world, that’s right,” Sandy replied gleefully. Soooo gleefully. She reached into her pocket and, with the pads of her fingers, caressed the rough coral that she never strayed far from, a pacifier that gave her strength.

Bianca couldn’t quite process what had happened. It was nice to be recognized, but a tattoo? Wow. That was a first. Yes, she had her Megawatters, as she called them, die-hard followers who consistently responded to her social media posts and Substacks, and who’d claimed that they’d loved the book, but for someone to have branded themselves was next-level.

The bookstore clerk had likened “Leave burn marks” to an asteroid crash. Bianca wouldn’t soon forget that analogy.

As much as she had wanted to refuse, Moira’s plea had been hard to reject. It would be fine, a harmless hour or two chatting and signing books, a good way to ingratiate herself into her new neighborhood.