Page 39 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“What book?” Moira asked, saving him. “Don’t mind her. Sandy, this is Harold, by the way.”

“Yes, we’ve met before.” Sandy shook his hand.

Moira thanked him for coming. She was still sniffling but pretending to be chipper. “Where’s Alice been? I haven’t seen her in a while.”

Sandy crossed her arms, slightly curious herself.

Harold swallowed something, maybe sadness—or an egg. He had one hell of an Adam’s apple. Looked like a snake that had swallowed an egg. “We broke up, actually.”

Concern painted Moira’s face. “Oh, no. I’m sorry. And here I am bringing her up.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s . . . Well, I almost said, ‘It is what it is,’ but I hate when people say that. I’m pretty sad about it.”

Moira extended a hand to the guy, petting his shoulder. Was he a dog? A guppy and a puppy walked into a bar.

“My heart breaks for you,” Moira said. “There’s nothing worse. Is there, Sandy?”

Why was Moira bringing Sandy into it? She looked at one moron, then the other. “Of course not.” With that, she returned to her work, reaching for the next chair.

Then Moira opened her big fat mouth again. “We were about to grab a drink. Wanna join?”

Sandy nearly had an out-of-body experience. She’d already regretted inviting Moira out, and now the mouse had opened the invitation to the whole world.

Racing to put out the fire, Sandy said, “I’m sure he has other things going on.” Please, Harold, take the hint.

He stared into the eyes of Moira, seeking a lifeline. “Actually, I guess. Maybe. If that’s okay.”

George sat in the living room across from Bianca, both scrolling through their iPads. They’d had to pull one side of the blinds to keep the last of the sunlight at bay. An unopened bottle of wine stared at him from the counter; he was ready to go, tapping his foot to bluegrass music that she’d gotten into since moving to Austin, a Billy Strings guy.

Keeping it light, he said, “What’s the story with the bookstore owner? Sandy?”

It took a moment for her to respond. “She’s cute, isn’t she? You should ask her out.”

Though he’d considered exactly that, he faked a chuckle. “I’m too old for that, honey.”

Bianca barely acknowledged his answer, keeping her eyes on whatever she was reading, moving her mouth to make it clear she was busy. He went back to his own chore: cleaning out his inbox. An empty inbox wasn’t sex, but it was as close as he got lately.

Ten minutes later, the quiet was getting to him. “Don’t beat yourself up for the turnout.”

In a display of exhaustion, at either him or life in general, she closed her iPad and rested it on her lap. “It’s embarrassing, you know. I should have said no from the get-go.”

“You’re in a different country,” he said slowly, searching for the right words. “Nobody knows you. It’s an honor your book is selling in other countries.”

“Dad, we sold two copies.”

George sighed. He wanted to lob over an I-told-you-so. What did she expect?

In the open kitchen, she jabbed the screw of a wine opener into the cork. Thank God! “I’m done with writing books,” she said.

“There you go, then. It’s good you figured that out.”

“I knew that before coming here.”

“Then what are you doing? What else are you trying to figure out?”

Red wine flowed from the bottle into two glasses. “I don’t know yet.”

Here was his chance. He cleared his throat. “If I may . . .”