Page 35 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

Heartless and broken, Harold cracked open the door a half inch. “Can I help you?”

With a black floppy hat drooping down over part of her face, Moira backed up and raised a hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you. Were you sleeping?”

She had a strong accent that required an extra layer of processing. “Uh, yeah. Just a nap. I work odd hours. Clients in Asia.” His speech came out like bubbles from the mouth of a deep-sea diver.

“I wanted to remind you about the signing downstairs. I’m telling all the neighbors. Four p.m. on the nose. The author is going to read for us, then answer questions. Did you happen to get to her book?”

He stopped himself before saying, Are you kidding me? “No, I didn’t get a chance.”

“No problem. I suspect you’ll still get something out of the signing. And invite Alice, too, if she’s around.”

He didn’t bother mentioning that she was probably riding in the passenger seat of Renzo’s Lambo at that exact moment. “Yeah, okay, thanks for coming by.” With that, he clicked the door shut and let his head fall back. No way in hell he was going to a book signing.

Chapter 10

Encounters of the Fourth Kind

Someone please tell me why I let Moira talk me into hosting a book event. Anyone? Hello? Sandy’s mind was ablaze with regret, and quite frankly, shock. Moira, the worst salesperson to ever have attempted to peddle anything in the history of earth, had somehow made this thing happen. Oh, Sandy knew why; Moira had begged and pleaded as though nothing mattered more. Even the most hardened eventually give in.

But as the four o’clock hour drew near, Sandy wished with all of her heart that she hadn’t said yes. She’d have to race to move the shelves back and fold up the chairs in time to get to her tango class.

Moira had taken the liberty of using the store credit card for several large prints of the cover of Bianca’s book, and Sandy was currently staring at one of the two that stood on stands on either side of the table where Bianca would soon be.

The title, From Meh to Megawatt: Supercharge Your Life was presented in an annoying font, like Comic Sans, over a background of a purple that would be better suited for a sex worker’s nail polish. Below the title was an exhausting take on Rudolph Zallinger’s The March of Progress, the drawing of the evolution of man that had been parodied into oblivion. In this version, it showed the evolution of a woman becoming “supercharged” by way of lightning bolts striking each version of Peggy Meh who, as Moira explained, by the end of the book evolved into Peggy Megawatt.

There weren’t enough eye rolls in the entirety of Italy to respond to the cover or the concept. How did one say “Give me a break” in Italian? Dammi una pausa didn’t translate well. Maybe risparmiami. Spare me.

Moira had hung blown-up copies of the cover throughout the store. Not that anyone would see them, because they had no customers, which meant printing them had been an utter waste of euros. Sandy was tempted to take the exorbitant expense out of Moira’s paycheck, especially if no one bought any of the Fifty books they’d ordered for the event.

“Did you get a chance to read it?” Moira asked, appearing out of nowhere with a box from Paolo Atti & Figli Panificio, which was likely chock-full of torta di riso, a soft rice cake that all the tourists clamored for.

Sandy made a note to take the cost of those out of her paycheck too. She wasn’t sure why, but Moira’s excitement always brought the worst out in herself, and she had a dark, ugly hope that no one would show up at all. She wasn’t proud of thinking that way, but it was the truth.

The seating allowed for forty, though they only got that lucky with the big names. They’d once had William Kent Krueger come by, and the forty chairs had filled up an hour before the event. By the time he’d started speaking, they’d had to lock the front doors to prevent breaking the fire code. That was nine years ago, during the golden years of the bookstore, before everything fell apart.

While Sandy tested the microphone, Bianca pulled back the door and entered with an older gentleman whose awful taste in clothing vehemently detracted from his handsome face and well-maintained body. His brutally bright tennis shoes nearly forced Sandy to turn away, as if she were staring at the sun. A pair of readers with the snap magnetic bridge dangled from his neck and further emphasized his lack of style. A bandage wrapped around his arm.

Please say that this isn’t Bianca’s boyfriend. He was twice her age. Maybe he was her dad, but he certainly wasn’t from the Italian side of the family. No doubt of Anglo-Celtic descent.

Moira flew like a bird to welcome them. “We’re so excited to have you,” Moira squeaked. “I’m hoping for a good crowd!”

Once her clueless employee had attacked Bianca like she was Beyoncé, Sandy walked under the arch into the front room to say hello. Bianca wore dark jeans with a blazer over a white shirt that did a decent job of keeping her ample chest in check.

“Hi, there,” Sandy said, splaying out her arms in what had to be the most insincere gesture she’d ever performed. “So glad to have you.” She wished she could be so warm, but she couldn’t and that was that.

“It’s my honor,” Bianca replied with a shaky voice.

Sandy wanted to relieve her nerves by saying it was likely no one would show up, but they’d have to wait and see. The only thing worse than people not showing up would be for a crowd to arrive, proving that Moira had succeeded in her mission. How many useless social media posts had she made to their several hundred inactive followers, how many flyers had she printed, how many hours had she put in walking the city and inviting anyone and everyone who had ever taken an English class?

“I’m George; you must be the owner,” the man said, offering a hand. Though it was silver, he had great hair, thick and wavy. How could a man waste a head of hair like that with such dated attire? If he pulled his khakis any higher, he’d strangle himself. If his shoes were any brighter, he’d knock Earth off its axis. She might even need those eclipse glasses to protect her vision.

When their eyes found each other, Sandy recognized his look—heat-seeking missiles locking in on a target. He was probably in his sixties but thought he had a chance.

“Yes, I’m Sandy.” As he took her hand, she looked away. If he only knew that he’d been born twenty or thirty years too early to ever have a chance with her.

She was about to get back to work when George pressed on. “How long have you been here? You’re American, obviously. Where are you from?”

Oh, God, Sandy thought. Please don’t embarrass yourself. Rejection is my middle name.