Page 2 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

The Only English Bookstore in Bologna was one of the most beautiful bookstores that had ever come to life, but Sandy had a hard time appreciating it when the headaches involved brought her to blindness.

She wasn’t surprised to find the store empty today, other than Moira. Oh, that poor girl. Sandy knew she herself wasn’t the best bookseller in the world—let’s just say she’d lost her mojo about eight years ago—but she also knew she wasn’t the worst. Because Moira held that crown, unquestionably the worst bookseller on planet Earth. Maybe the worst salesperson of any product in the multiverse.

She had a squeaky, British-accented voice, and often Sandy had to tell her to speak up. “No one can hear you, Moira!”

Why didn’t Sandy fire her? She didn’t know. Maybe it was because she wasn’t as mean as she let on. Perhaps it was her way of seeking forgiveness for being so awful half the time. Keeping Moira around proved that Sandy had a heart.

Moira poked her head up from behind the counter. She dressed and applied makeup like she’d learned at a morgue. She kept her hair in a short boy’s cut and wore purple glasses with lenses so thick it was like looking into a fishbowl. And don’t even get Sandy started on the big floppy, black hat she donned when she left the building.

Moira was a mouse and, as touched on earlier, a terrible bookseller, but she loved books and read more than anyone Sandy knew, including Sandy. In theory, she should have been good, but she was terrified to speak up. In fact, she interacted with people as if they were about to lunge at her.

Moira was Sandy’s only friend, though, and vice versa, if only because of forced proximity. If push came to shove, Sandy might admit that she liked talking with Moira, but it would take a hard shove off a steep cliff into boiling water.

As far as what brought Moira to Bologna from Bristol, Sandy wasn’t sure. The couple of times Sandy had asked her, Moira had flushed red and mumbled something about inheriting money from her aunt and starting over. Sandy guessed she was either in the witness protection program or the black sheep of a wealthy British family.

“I’ve been thinking . . .” Moira said, half hiding behind the computer screen.

“Please don’t do that,” Sandy replied, straightening several postcards that some numbskull had messed up. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Moira ducked lower behind the screen.

“Oh, toughen up. You won’t make it another year if you let me start hurting your feelings now. Go on with it. What have you been thinking?”

Even Sandy hated how she treated people sometimes, but her tongue often had a mind of its own, spewing out the muck of what this world had done to her.

Like an astronaut jabbing her flag into the moon, Moira stood taller and finally revealed what had been stewing in that mind of hers. “I think we should start a book club.”

“A book club? For all seven of our clients.”

“I think it would be fun.”

“Oh, sure. A bundle of joy.” Sandy reached into her pocket and felt for the piece of fossilized coral that always brought her comfort. “Moira, the glory days of this bookstore are long gone. I’m not trying to create more work.”

The mouse twirled what little hair she had. “May I say something?”

“You are saying something.”

“I know you don’t see it anymore, but this bookstore is magic, and I believe we owe her more than what we’re giving her.”

“Her?”

“Yes, her. To me, she’s a living, breathing entity. And I don’t want her to be just meh. I want to supercharge her.”

The makings of a headache started. “Does this have anything to do with the advance copy of that self-help book you’re reading?” Sandy already knew the answer, of course.

Moira came alive like someone had tased her. “Yes, it’s so good! From Meh to Megawatt! Bianca Briggs is an international treasure!”

Already tired of hearing about this stupid book, Sandy crossed herself. “Dear God in heaven, please spare me from even ten more seconds of living on this hell ball.” She let go of the coral and came around the counter to stow her purse.

Moira backed away as if Sandy were a leper.

“If this bookstore is living and breathing,” Sandy said over her shoulder, “she’s on a respirator. No one wants a book club in this town. No one even wants to buy books! Don’t burden yourself by trying to build something out of nothing. I tried the whole community thing, creating a place to gather, to share thoughts, to meet people. It was fun while it lasted.”

It was fun. Those first two years had been wonderful. Perusers bought books. Humans actually read books. That time felt so distant that it was hard to believe, but opening the bookstore had given her such renewed hope and joy in life. She’d given her all, creating a profitable bookstore that had not only emulated Shakespeare and Company but also rivaled it.

Gone were those days, though. Finito!

Sandy straightened up around the computer. “All I want is to come into work, sell enough books to keep the lights on, and then get on with my life without any other interference. Capisci?”