Page 42 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“Look,” Sandy said, “I appreciate what you’re trying to do with the shop—supercharge it and all. I tried that long before you were here, and I failed too. It’s not a community kind of place. We’ve discussed this ad nauseam.”

Okay, maybe that wasn’t exactly true. She’d tried and succeeded for two years, the golden years. Then she lost faith, and the bookstore and Sandy had given up on each other. She reached for the coral in the pocket of her pants.

“But it could be,” Moira replied, running a knife through the Parmigiano-Reggiano, a mouse going after her dinner.

Stop it, Sandy. Quit being such a bitch! She’s not a mouse. What would your son say if he knew who you’d become?

All of Moira’s desperation, the pure frustration. Sandy recognized it because she’d been a victim of it too. Things didn’t work out how you hoped. Ever. And the sooner you came to acceptance, the better.

Sandy couldn’t believe she was about to say it, but Moira’s hopelessness made her want to leap off her balcony. “If your skin is thick enough to take it, you can try again. Start the book club you keep going on about. Build a community. Resurrect my bookstore.”

Moira sprang to life. “Really?”

Sandy slowed the mouse’s roll by wagging a finger. “But let’s not forget how long it took for you to get over what happened with Emily St. John Mandel. You better thicken up that pale British skin of yours.”

“Who?” Harold asked, with his mouth full. He’d been going after the mortadella like he might never eat again.

“You want to tell him?” Sandy asked.

Moira set the cheese down on her plate. “She’s one of the most exciting working writers right now, almost genre-less really. She started out writing crime, but she’s more into postapoc, spec, and time travel now. All quite literary, though. Breaks all the rules. Expertly plays with time. Everybody needs to read—”

“Okay,” Sandy said, “let’s move along, or we’ll be here all night, listening to you go on about Station Eleven.”

“That’s not even my favorite. Sea of Tranquility was a masterpiece.”

Sandy dramatically slapped her forehead. Someone should pay her to keep these kids on track.

“Sorry, okay.” Moira collected herself. “Emily came in one day, randomly popped in while on holiday. I knew exactly who she was and perhaps overpraised her.”

“Understatement of the millennium,” Sandy couldn’t keep from saying.

“Anyway, I asked her to sign her books, so we went over to the shelf. I’d filed them under St. John and not Mandel. Apparently, this is her pet peeve. She was nice about it, and I moved them that second, but it was a dark moment for me, considering how much of a fan I am. A few days later, I jumped onto Instagram to send her an apology, and her bio read: File under Mandel. St. John is my middle name. I think I’m the reason she did that.”

Sandy cracked a smile. Moira brought this stuff on herself. A clueless romantic floating through life.

“That doesn’t seem like that big of a deal,” Harold said.

Sandy reached for her wine. “To Moira, the end of the world. She barely spoke for a week. Didn’t eat. Couldn’t look me in the eyes.”

“Oh, gosh,” Harold said. “You care that much, don’t you? You must be the best employee.”

Sandy wasn’t sure whose eyebrows shot up higher, hers or Moira’s. Holding back the snarky response that first loaded into the chamber, she said, “She’s by far the best I’ve ever had.”

Moira perked up like God had appeared to share with her the secrets of the universe. “You don’t mean that. I know you. You’re messing with me.”

Sandy laughed, an honest-to-God laugh. “Though I do enjoy the occasional prank on your behalf, I’m serious. You’re pretty amazing, Moira.” Sandy’s own words made her squirm some, but a sensation of warmth rose up her spine.

Moira had already launched into planning. “What would the book club look like? What would we call it? What books?”

“No, no, no. I want nothing to do with it. I’m giving you permission to run it. And I bet Harold here would be your first member. Right, Harold?”

His pupils dilated. “Uh, yeah, okay.”

Sandy polished off her wine. “Okay, I’m going to leave you two to get to know each other. I have a dance class and a hungry cat waiting for me.”

“Wait, but . . .” Moira had frozen in place.

“You’ll be fine,” Sandy said and then leaned toward Harold. “Be nice to her. She’s a good one.”