Page 21 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“Absolutely, Dad. I’d love for you to come.”

“Really?”

Another pause.

“Yes. You shouldn’t be breathing that stuff for another minute.”

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

She smiled. “You wouldn’t be. I’d love it.”

“You sure about that?”

She perked up, maybe faking it. “You’ve got nothing on my clients. Bring it on. And you know, I could use the company—and some fatherly sage advice, the wisdom wrought from your sixty-five years on this planet.”

In his mind’s eye, he saw hammers driving nails into coffins and rakes coming down on evil squirrels. And he saw flashes of Bianca when she was first born, her first word, her first steps. Then she was in middle school, exhibiting her mother’s sassiness, then high school where he had to fight off suitors, and then she was crossing the graduation stage and moving her tassels from right to left, and then off to face the world.

“I know you’re messing with me,” he said.

“I’m not.”

Tears pricked his eyes. She could never know how much he loved her. Forget the Zoloft. Bianca was the only thing keeping him alive.

After a long breath, he said, “You sure?”

He thought he detected something that looked like terror hiding behind a smile, but maybe that was his own fear mirroring back on him.

“One hundred percent,” she finally said. “Italy will be good for you.”

He didn’t know about that, but seeing her, getting a chance to redeem himself, might be enough to keep him fighting another day.

Chapter 7

Without a Story to Tell

Harold stayed a safe distance behind, watching the couple stroll through serpentine alleys, dash across streets, hand in hand, sharing the occasional kiss under the shade of a portico. May had brought with it the first tastes of what he imagined to be a Bolognese summer: hot days, tourists in shorts bumping into each other, lines to churches and museums extending out into the streets.

He’d been following the couple for a week now—not as a stalker, but more as a concerned citizen, a man looking out for his former lover—and he saw no signs of decay yet, no cracks in the foundation of Alice’s relationship with this man known as Renzo. It wasn’t love, though. He knew that. The guy was way too old for her. She’d been deceived.

The couple stopped into Il Gelatauro, a busy gelato shop near the university, where scents of fresh waffle cones and vanilla and summer berries wafted out onto the street. Harold hid behind a column to watch them. They each tried a sample, giggling, sharing the same spoon. A pang burned in Harold’s chest.

After Renzo paid, the couple stood outside the entrance to enjoy their dessert. Two spoons and one cup, exchanging saliva, Renzo stealing kisses, as they delighted in a scoop of stracciatella. Harold cringed when they took a moment in between bites to have a sword fight with their spoons.

Renzo was no doubt an ex-lover’s worst nightmare, not too far off from the image Harold had painted in his head while he played the heartbroken vampire trapped in his castle post–Alice’s departure.

After a week’s worth of reconnaissance, Harold had determined that Alice’s new lover was an architect. Likely about thirty years old. He dressed like he was off to a magazine shoot, a far cry from Harold’s normal attire: tennis shoes, jeans, and one of his various polo shirts.

Compare that to Renzo up ahead, holding Alice’s hand. He wore dark slacks paired with freshly polished leather shoes and a crisp lavender shirt. It was always a similar outfit, always exceptional. Harold’s snooping (remember: concerned citizen) had also revealed that Renzo went to the gym five days a week before work, most often running on the treadmill, but sometimes he’d opt for the exercise bike.

Harold hadn’t spoken to Alice once since The Great Abandonment. She’d left him a note with contact information for the landlord, who was happy to allow Harold to take over the lease. It was a surprising amount of money, and Harold considered finding a place that was less of a rip-off, but it would have been a blatant retreat from battle. He had to hold his ground, so the place was his now, no matter what it took. Thank God for Mom!

Had Harold been in better shape emotionally, he might have snuck up ahead and pretended to run into them. “Hey, what’s up, guys? Yeah, was out for my afternoon run. Training for a marathon in Rome later in the summer. Did seventeen yesterday.” He might have even said, “You two look so good together. I hope you’re so happy, Alice.”

If he’d been more together, Harold might have even realized he’d left the protection of the column and was now gawking at them from the middle of the street!

He wasn’t aware of his exposed position until he heard Alice’s voice. “Harold? What are you doing?”

Harold woke from his stupor like he’d been dunked into an ice bath. Scrambling to collect himself, he wondered if he had any chance of escape. Maybe she was saying his name but not actually sure it was him. He eased backward toward the column he’d been hiding behind earlier, as he considered his options. No, he had to face them. It was time to meet his enemy.