Page 38 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

There it is again, Sandy thought. Life-changing. Despite any evidence. In no way was Moira exhibiting any such characteristics. Still the same Moira who crept into work like a mouse with her heinous black hat, then scurried away at the end of the day to go lose herself in her silly romance novels and God knows what else. Microwave dinners? Dollhouses?

The bell above the door chimed. A potential customer dipped her head in, noticed the signing, whispered “Oops,” and disappeared. Sandy could barely wait to point out to Moira that her event had actually hurt sales!

Never again!

Never. Again.

Ten minutes after Bianca had left, Sandy and Moira were folding chairs and moving the shelves back. Alice’s boyfriend, Harold, lingered, hunkered down in a cushioned chair in the corner with his head in a Japanese manga book. A classic peruser. He’d never bought a thing, despite having lived above the shop for weeks. Not that she was surprised. Kids didn’t even read these days. Sandy made a mental note to get rid of every chair in the place. Meanwhile, Moira would keep beating her build-the-community drum, saying they needed to offer free Wi-Fi, a coffee bar, more events. More chairs!

“That went well,” Sandy said, mildly hating herself for her schadenfreude.

Moira didn’t look up. “I know. You were right. I guess it was a waste of time.”

Experiencing a rare moment of compassion, Sandy felt bad for her. It was like she’d been pulled out of her own hell and stepped inside Moira’s skin, no, her mousy pelage, and felt her pain.

“This meant a lot to you, didn’t it?”

Moira finally looked up, trapped behind her thick lenses, as if she were living in an aquarium. “Yeah.”

The swarm of sadness that came over Sandy was nearly too much. She had to force herself not to cry. This was exactly why she couldn’t start caring for everyone around her.

“I’ve tried these things before,” Sandy said, shocked by the warmth of her voice. “They don’t work anymore.”

Aware that she wasn’t exactly speaking the truth, she said, “The people around here, they’re not looking for community. They’re expats because they’re running from their community. Wait, are you crying?”

Moira shook her head and turned away. Sandy finished folding the chair and set it against the others. Then she approached Moira, who kept trying to turn away and hide her tears. Sandy set her hand on Moira’s bony shoulder. “All that matters is that you tried. I appreciate that you care about this store.” She added under her breath, “More than me sometimes.”

Moira sniffled. “I have this vision of what our store could be. And I wanted Bianca to know how much her book means to me and . . .”

“Will you please stop it? I can’t handle tears.” Sandy hated when her own tear ducts started getting all antsy.

“Sorry.” Moira tried to shake it off.

“No, it’s okay.” Surprising herself even more, Sandy pulled off Moira’s glasses and wiped the warm tears herself. “I think you need a hug.”

“Really?” Moira had appealing eyes; it was a shame she hid them behind bulletproof glass.

“Come here. Before I change my mind.” Sandy pulled her in. She recalled holding her son this way, and it hurt. She felt Moira’s pain and the pain of her son all in one. It was almost too much.

“Why don’t we close early and go get a drink somewhere?” Sandy asked. “We can talk about how awful humans are?”

“You don’t have to do that. I know you don’t like fraternizing with employees.”

Sandy had told her exactly that, and they’d never once gotten a drink after work. Sandy didn’t like fraternizing with anyone. But she was having a moment of weakness. “I don’t feel like I have to,” Sandy said, shocked by her own words. “I’d like to.” Then she added in a tremendous lie, “I could use a friend too.”

What had she just said? She couldn’t use a friend. By God, why was she feeling such pain for the girl? Then she remembered her dance class in the evening. She’d have to make it quick.

“Excuse me,” Harold interrupted, sounding nearly as meek and meager as Moira.

Sandy stepped back from the hug like Moira had turned to fire. “Yes.”

The young man looked slightly terrified. Sandy could do that to people like him. Taking in his appearance, she wondered what anyone could see in this male version of Moira.

“I’m . . . looking for a book,” Harold said.

Sandy was back to her old self. “We don’t have those here. We’re a toy store.”

His forehead flattened. “Um.”