Page 19 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

She FaceTimed him about twenty minutes later. It took him an unnerving couple of minutes to work through an audio issue, but she finally gave him a thumbs-up. One would think a man who’d been building microprocessors all his life could figure out the basics of online communication, but these simple tasks now eluded him.

“Hi, honey,” he said, resting his forearms on the kitchen counter. It looked like she was sitting on her couch.

“You look handsome this morning,” she said.

“I have a date with a squirrel.”

“What?”

“Long story.” Always, when these calls started, the first thing that hit him was how kind she was even after what he’d put her through, what with the constant work and then the divorce. And his tendency to offer up perhaps too much unsolicited advice.

“Tell me what’s new? How’s Boloney?”

Her playful annoyance with him showed through the screen; she looked like her mother. “Ba-lone-ya, not Boloney, Dad.”

“You know, there was a time when you and your mother found my humor charming.” He shrugged.

“And I still do.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. So what’s new?” He went after a smudge on the counter, rubbing it off with his finger.

When she’d texted him, mentioning that she’d found an apartment, it was hard not to hurt inside. His hope that she might return home after a couple of weeks died a painful death in his heart. She’d signed a one-year lease.

He buried his sadness when she told him how happy she was there, how she was finally able to find some quiet and reconnect with herself. Okay, he’d worked a bit too hard all his life, but she was now doing the opposite, not working at all. She needed to find that happy medium before it was too late. Of course he bit his tongue. Sometimes it felt like their relationship was on life support, and whenever he tried to drop a note in the suggestion box, it was like yanking the plug.

He forced even more enthusiasm when she told him about the book signing. Actually, that made him proud. “So are you writing another? Is that part of this taking-time-off thing?” He hoped for a yes . . . but . . .

“No,” she said. “I told you. I’m not doing anything right now. Just seeing what the universe brings to me.”

Dear heavens, all her talk about the universe. The universe this, the universe that. Accountability had died somewhere in the early aughts. Sparing her more advice, he reminded himself for the thousandth time that you can’t teach kids everything; they have to learn some lessons the hard way.

“How about you?” his daughter asked him. “Mom says retirement’s still hell.”

“Nah, it’s not that bad.”

“Dad, it’s me.”

He tilted his head left and right, seeing a clear vision of his retirement party, all the people he’d worked with for so long cheering as he faced a cake with candles. But he no longer saw candles. He saw nails in a coffin.

“I suppose it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, honey. As you know, I’m not good at sitting around. Doesn’t help that they’ve found mold in the air vents, so they have to tear up some walls. And I realized I hate golf more than life itself.”

“And yet you bought a house on a golf course.”

“What else was I supposed to do?” He held up his index finger. “But I am chasing down a squirrel that keeps eating all the birdseed.”

She laughed, a genuine one. “There you go. You better not hurt him.”

“I would if I could. He’s a ninja, though. There’s no catching him. Anyway, forget the squirrel. Tell me more about Boloney.”

“No, no. I’m worried about you, Dad. Are there any charities you could—”

“B, I’ll figure it out. Your mom’s already given me enough ‘talks.’ No, I don’t want to chase cougars in a baking class. Or join a chess club.”

His daughter looked at him for a long time, pondering a solution. “Know that I’m here for you, okay? If you ever want to talk.”

“I appreciate that.” But no, it wasn’t right for a daughter to help her father. Actually, he wished she’d invite him to come visit, give him a place to go while the mold was dealt with, but no way he would poison her Italian journey with his miserable self.

Two hours and two more cups of coffee later, he’d done thirty minutes on the elliptical machine, cleaned the house, folded his laundry, and scanned four newspapers on his iPad. What was he supposed to do now? The same group of guys were about to tee off, but George couldn’t bear another round.