Page 40 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“Do I want to hear this?” She rounded the counter and handed him his glass.

“I don’t know. Just trying to help.”

She sat and took a long sip. “Okay, get it out.”

Go easy, but say your peace, George. She needs you.

“B, you can’t wait for something to fall in your lap. It’s not like I woke up dying to go into hardware engineering. I had a sense that I had that gift, and then I went for it. You’ve already found your gift as a therapist. But you’re running from it.”

Her jaws moved like she was chewing nails.

Tread carefully, George.

“All I’m saying is . . . don’t fall out of the habit of working. Don’t lose your groove.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a recalibration. People change paths.”

“Sure, they do. But walking away, I don’t know. I don’t want you to get caught running out of money and regretting this whole thing. You know I’ll always bail you out, but . . .”

He could recall his younger years in South Phoenix so clearly, his blue-collar father trying to get past losing his mother to Hodgkin’s disease, barely able to get out of bed some days to make it to the steel mill. Skipped meals. Spoonfuls of peanut butter for dinner. Sometimes George would give his sister his portion because her ribs were showing. Besides, he was lucky enough to have a kind baseball coach who’d often take him for fast food after practice. Soup kitchens. Food stamps. The generous people at their church always stopping by to lend a hand, delivering casseroles and hand-me-down clothing. The electricity and water had been shut off so many times in their trailer that they kept flashlights and jugs of water at the ready.

Bianca brought him back to the present. “It’s noted that you want me to come back home. It’s noted that you disagree with my move.” She had her eyes on the wall opposite her, where some sort of Dalí-esque painting hung. She was chewing even harder.

He let his head fall. How could someone possibly know what it was like to be broke unless you’d lived it? He’d never told her much about his upbringing. Didn’t want her knowing too much about her origins. It might have held her back.

“You know this is all coming from me loving you.”

She set her glass down on the coffee table—a little too hard. “You have to let me live my life. Tomorrow morning, I’m going to see a fortune teller, and I can only imagine how stupid that sounds to you. But it’s not to me. I’m trying to find some sense of meaning. I have no idea if I’m staying here. It’s only been a month. But I can tell you that I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time, and it’s not because I’m getting closer to figuring out my next move. It’s because I’m finally living, enjoying the space in between moves. I want to keep doing that.”

A fortune teller? He’d heard nothing past that.

Chapter 11

The Misfits

What had led Sandy to be sitting with Moira and Harold at a table in one of the back rooms of Sorso Sospetto? Stupidity?

The name of the centuries-old wine bar translated to Suspicious Sip, quite a fitting name. It occupied a spot near her apartment and the bookstore, but she didn’t frequent it often. She preferred to keep pleasure far from business and spent her free time a long way from Via Giulia.

Sorso Sospetto was one of the most elegant spots in the city. Day or night, no matter the weather, if they were open, people filled the outside tables. The equally busy inside made Sandy think of a Victorian house with multiple small rooms often divided by a few steps. Each was overdecorated to the point of being deliciously gawdy, abundant velvet and gold against uneven brick walls. The chairs were super comfortable, and the sturdy tables had loads of character, having collected carved initials and other etchings for God knows how long. They always kept the lights low, relying mostly on candles. It smelled of hundreds of years of cigars and cigarettes and spilled wine, and they never strayed from playing esoteric Euro-jazz.

When the cameriere appeared, Sandy fired off a request in Italian for a bottle of Lambrusco and a charcuterie board, then returned to prying words out of these mutes who were behaving like this was an eighth-grade dance.

“Okay,” Sandy said, unable to take it. She pointed at Moira. “You first. You thought you’d get a good turnout, put some effort into it, only to find that I was right all along.”

Moira shrank into herself. Any more and her head would collapse into her neck like a turtle. “It can’t happen overnight, building something. We have to keep trying.”

“I thought you were great,” Harold said. “Asked solid questions. Bianca’s super smart. I got a lot out of it.” His voice had a softness to it. Not feminine but slightly nasal. Both of her table companions desperately needed confidence, to start living with some spirit.

“Did you read her book?” Sandy asked him.

“I’m . . . I haven’t read much since Alice left.” He scratched his face. The poor boy was broken.

“Then maybe we should start with you,” Sandy said. “How old are you, by the way?”

“Twenty-three.”

Though her son, Jack, couldn’t have been more different when he was Harold’s age, she recognized the struggles of coming into adulthood, attempting to figure out the world. Jack had always had a chip on his shoulder after his father went to prison for hurting Sandy, and as a single mother, she’d struggled mightily to help him find his way. Then he discovered the marines and there was no turning back.