Page 17 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

She hiked up the three flights of crooked stone steps to her new place, which had turned out to be everything she’d hoped. It was an adorable flat with abundant light and stark-white stucco walls. She’d rented the place furnished and loved the owner’s taste: bright colors that popped against all the white. It had air-conditioning, a Nespresso machine, and some decent plates and stemware. Of course, she’d have to pick up a few things to make it homier, but it was a good start. Both bedrooms were cute and had decently comfortable queen-size beds. A balcony begging for potted plants looked down over the cobblestoned Via Giulia, which was just as Carol had described it: a Bolognese dream.

Last night, her first in the flat, she’d gone out onto the balcony to enjoy a glass of wine and people-watch, and her opera-singing neighbor two buildings down had appeared, setting his hands on the railing of his own balcony and breaking into a haunting aria that brought her to tears. By the time he finished, his music had filled her heart with hope. Maybe she hadn’t messed up beyond repair.

Kicking off her shoes, she sat back on the couch to call her mom, who’d been blowing up her phone for two days. “Hey, Mom.”

“You never don’t call me. What’s going on?” Faith was now Faith Morrison and lived with her new husband in his giant palace in Palm Springs. It was no secret that she’d married him for his money. Faith had a ton of endearing qualities, but she’d do whatever it took to never join the workforce.

After some chitchat, Faith broached the subject of Bianca’s dad. She said he still hadn’t found his way in retirement.

“How often are you talking to him, Mom?” Bianca asked with surprise, assuming they spoke every few months. They’d divorced twenty years prior.

“All the time.”

Bianca wasn’t sure what to make of that. “You’re not, like, flirting with him, are you?”

“No, I’m not flirting with George. I’m married, Bianca. But he’s struggling, and I feel bad for him. He’s worked hard all his life, like really hard, and now he has nothing to do.”

“It’s good for him,” Bianca said, imagining her father squirming in the quietude of joblessness. He was way worse than her. “Maybe he’ll finally slow down.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“I know, I know.” And she did. She was experiencing it firsthand. “I’m supposed to talk to him tomorrow. I’ll check in.”

“That would be great. He loves you so much and always values your thoughts. I know you’ll have some helpful advice for him, some daughter psychotherapy. I keep telling him he needs to get out, go take some classes at the community college. I don’t think he’s liking the golf thing.”

Bianca had to laugh at the last one. He’d moved to a gated community on a golf course in Scottsdale shortly after he’d been let go. She’d known that was a bad idea from the beginning. He’d always hated golf.

“I’ll check in on him tomorrow, see what I can do to help.”

Bianca already knew he was struggling from their occasional chats. He’d worked so hard for the last however many years that he’d basically missed Bianca’s childhood and had certainly destroyed his marriage with Faith.

After they hung up, Bianca fell back into her chair and closed her eyes. She’d crossed an ocean to get away from all these things, but already the book and her dad had found her.

Chapter 6

Candles in a Coffin

Deep within the belly of the Antler’s Reach clubhouse in the gated community of Red Hawk in Scottsdale, Arizona, George washed his face at one of the ten sparkling-clean sinks. An abundant selection of shaving lotions, mouthwash, disposable toothbrushes, toothpicks, toothpaste, cologne, and Q-tips lined the back of each sink. To many, this was the glory of retirement. A counter with endless options, a clubhouse full of golfers cleaning themselves up after eighteen holes so that they could sit around a table and shovel out the winnings from the day while arguing current events and trading golfer gossip.

George was one of the club’s younger members, and certainly the new guy. The whole thing was a travesty, this life he was living, but at least he was trying.

More than two months ago, on that day in March when he’d swallowed those pills, it was Bianca’s text that had saved him. Well, her text and also cramming his index finger down his throat.

Maybe the only thing that was getting him out of bed now was the Zoloft that Faith had talked him into when she’d swept in on a rescue mission a few days after his near-death experience.

In a moment of weakness, George had confessed the truth about his sudden onset of depression and how he’d come close to ending things. Despite her husband complaining about it, Faith had immediately flown in from Palm Springs. Was there a better ex-wife on earth? The last thing he’d said when he’d taken her back to the airport, after he thanked her for the hundredth time, was, “Promise me you won’t tell Bianca. I’ll get through this. I swear to God I will.”

Faith had gripped him tight and kissed his mouth. “I know you will.”

George cupped warm water in his hands and splashed it on his face. Looking in the mirror, he could almost see the young man he used to be. He shaved every morning because he had so much damn time to kill, so his face glistened. His walnut-brown hair had turned silver but was still thick and wavy. His tanned skin showed how much he’d been golfing lately, despite not enjoying it.

A guy two sinks down asked no one in particular, “D’you know some of the members—an anonymous group—are trying to push through a rule to keep us from driving the cart close to the green?”

“If they want to do something good for this club,” another replied as he slid a razor down his face, “they need to stop booking so many damn tee times. That’s why the greens are looking shabby.”

George thought of the bottle of pills he kept in the medicine cabinet. Not the Zoloft. The other ones. He was not meant for this life. But here he was, trying, and trying was his big win every day. It’s what had kept him alive the last two months.

Joining his foursome at a table by the window that overlooked the driving range, he slipped into his seat and poured a handful of trail mix into his hand. A Michelob Light waited for him.