Page 24 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

Salvatore was a jazz guitarist that she’d met at Cantina Bentivoglio, the best spot to listen to live jazz in town. A few months ago, he’d slid a chair up to her table moments before his set and made easy conversation. He’d asked her to stick around till he was done, and then he’d strapped on his archtop guitar and torn a hole in the fabric of the night with his magnificent talent. She’d thought for a moment about playing hard to get, but he’d eyed her from the stage, and later, when he’d invited her back to his place, she’d taken his hand.

She’d started sleeping with younger men years ago. They seemed to gravitate toward her, while at the same time, anyone her age and older somehow knew to keep their distance. It was marvelous, as these younger fellows were far easier to deal with. They weren’t looking for anything serious—at least, not most of them.

Salvatore had been living in Bologna a couple of years but performed across Europe in various jazz groups. It was a joy waking in his place in the morning (she kept her apartment off-limits) and hearing him practice a tune in the other room. He was especially perfect because he was on the road so much. They could enjoy a passionate night together, rattling the walls, then break apart for a few weeks. It worked well, because by the time he contacted her again, her fervorous craving for him had returned to boiling.

The only problem was that Sandy had detected a shift in his behavior. He was texting her more from the road and seeking her out the moment he got back into town. Now here they were, together for the first time in a couple of weeks, and he was looking at her differently, something past sexual craving. She’d been around the block long enough to know what was going on.

“What’s on your mind?” she asked, wishing she hadn’t accepted his invitation. She sipped on her G&T and waited.

“So . . .”

Here it comes, she thought, readying herself for battle. They could as easily speak in Italian, but he liked to practice his English with her.

She set down her glass. “No, don’t do it.”

“Don’t do what?” Salvatore smirked, ignorant of the stop sign ahead.

“I don’t like how you’re looking at me,” Sandy said, feeling her attraction for him die.

“How am I looking at you?”

“Like you want something.”

“I do. Naturally. I haven’t seen you in a while. I can barely sit here without wanting more.”

Wanting more. There it was.

He reached for her hand, and all she felt was a cold dead thing. “I know we drew boundaries, but I like you, Sandy. I want more from us. I want to see your place, see your bookstore. I almost came by the other day.”

She jerked her hand back. “Do not do that.”

“Perché no? What are you afraid of?” Frustration wrinkled his brow.

Sandy peeled open her hands. “I’m not looking for anything serious. Simple as that. I told you that from the beginning.”

“You can’t deny we have a very special relationship.”

Sandy shifted her feet. She hated when this happened. “Mi dispiace. Non cerco altro.” I’m not looking for anything more.

“What is that about? Why do you have to be a mystery?”

Sandy reached for her purse and counted out twenty euros, set them on the table.

“That’s pitiful, you know. Sad,” he said.

She looked at him one last time, then: “Please don’t come to the bookstore. I was honest with you from the beginning. Arrivederci.”

Sandy’s apartment was across the street and fifty meters down from the bookstore. Not one person, aside from her son, Jack, and the electrician and plumber, had entered in the ten years she’d lived there. When she’d moved in, she’d thought it would be so nice to have such a short commute. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

She flicked on the light, kicked off her heels, and slung her purse onto a chair. “Nicolo, sono a casa.”

Her mixed-breed cat, what the Brits called a moggy, came racing down the hallway, a flash of gray. He weaved around her legs, and she knelt down to run her hand through his fur. “You’re my true love,” she said in Italian. “There’s no room for anyone else.”

Nicolo’s purr was the sweetest sound in the world, even better than the morning ballads Salvatore played.

“Are you hungry?” Sandy went into the kitchen to prepare his meal. As always, she mixed dry and wet, then shaved some cave-aged Parmigiano-Reggiano on top. Only the best for Nicolo.

While the prince enjoyed his meal, Sandy poured herself a glass of pignoletto and went out onto her terrace. A half-moon glistened in the night sky, and down here in her little part of the world, Via Giulia glowed under the warm streetlights. If she squinted and ignored the scaffolding blocking her bookstore across the street, she might even admit that life was okay. Nicolo and Sandy forever.