Page 28 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

She blushed, hating the idea of being supercharged when it came from his mouth. “Now you’re not allowed to read it.”

He inclined his shoulders. “Fine, then. I’ll have to find another way to supercharge myself. Are you working on another one?”

“No!” she said. “I don’t know what I’m doing right now, but definitely not writing another book.” Bianca wished Peggy Meh had never been born.

“Sounds like you and your father are in the same boat,” Corrado said, moving closer to her. “Two people seeking new identities.”

She shrugged. She hadn’t exactly thought about it that way, but Corrado was right.

“Well,” he said, glancing at their empty cups and plate, “you know where to find me. Let’s get you out of here so you can go on with your searching.” He placed a couple of euros on the bar and led her out for an awkward goodbye.

A block down, she texted Carol: I can’t believe you.

“Deep breaths,” George said as he walked through the airport gangway in Bologna four days after inviting himself. He’d barely slept and was running on caffeine from the bad coffee on the plane.

It had been more than a year since he’d seen Bianca. He’d flown into Austin for a weekend, visited the Continental Club with her and a boyfriend who’d only lasted a few months. Thank God. He was a finance guy that was far too into himself. George and Bianca had done a few touristy things, then he’d gotten out of there before he drove her mad.

He might not make it to baggage claim if he didn’t pull it together. Wouldn’t that be a way to go, a heart attack on the escalator. God, the hospital in Bologna was probably decades behind an American one.

Heart attack or not, he was hurting and worn down. He’d sat upright throughout the night, hoping the Benadryl would kick in while absorbing the awful smells of the other passengers and being jolted by turbulence and unruly food carts.

He wasn’t much of a traveler and had only left the country a few times, all of the trips forced on him by Bianca and her mother. In this moment, he knew exactly why he preferred to stay at home.

Then he found her, her arms open wide. She wore a knee-length floral dress. A smile graced her face. It was a vision to behold, seeing his daughter so joyful, and all the shit that was wrong with his world fell away, if only momentarily.

“There she is,” he said, offering a genuine smile. But it was a smile painted on top of a depressed skeleton of a man, and he hoped she wouldn’t see how badly life had broken him down. What was he thinking, though? She was a therapist because she’d always been able to see inside people. She’d know it in minutes.

“Hi, Dad.” They held each other for a while.

“You look like . . . the best I’ve ever seen you. Someone’s happy.”

“I am.” She pulled away to inspect him. “What’s going on with your arm?”

“Oh, this? War with that squirrel I told you about.” He touched the bandage wrapped around his forearm, wishing he’d worn long sleeves. “Yeah, he won.”

Her eyebrows curled, so he elaborated, ending with, “. . . and while trying to keep him from getting into the house, I fell on a rake. Mr. Nutz 7, George 0.”

She’d covered her mouth while listening to the story. As she pulled her hand away, she shook her head. “I’m not even sure what to say, but I’m glad you escaped with your life.”

If she only knew what she was saying.

“And look at those shiny white tennis shoes. You’re a regular Larry David.”

George looked down at himself, the golf shirt tucked into khakis, his brand-new New Balances with their cushy soles.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said.

He wondered if that were true. “Thanks for letting me barge in.”

His first test on Italian soil came moments later, when the baggage carousel quit working midway through delivering bags. They were forced to wait twenty more minutes as one guy—no, not a crew—one guy brought out two bags at a time. C’mon, Italy, you can do better.

But. But! George did not lose his cool. He wondered whether Bianca even noticed how patient he was, despite his lack of sleep and how he’d never seen a baggage carousel break back home. Some might have even called him a hero for being so easygoing. Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration, but he at least deserved a pat on the back.

They took a taxi back to her place, and George delighted in the excitement that radiated from her. He remembered visiting her here ten years ago, and she’d been the same, playing tour guide, bragging about this city that she’d discovered.

“That’s the bookstore where I have the signing,” she said as they reached her street, Via Giulia. “And that’s my local wine bar and then the pasticceria where Corrado and I had breakfast yesterday. You remember him, right?”

George hated when his daughter talked about the men in her life—they’d never be good enough for her. Before the finance guy, there was a golf pro (far too obsessed with sports), a psychologist (too many therapists in one room), and some sort of AI entrepreneur (he’d been okay but never stopped talking about money). All of them unworthy.