Page 48 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“I hate to have darkened your door, but I was looking for you.”

“For me?”

What followed was a nightmare of stops and starts, coupled with scolding internal dialogue. Get your words out, George! Quit acting like a teenager!

He finally did. “I keep thinking that I’d like to ask you out, so here I am. Would you care to go to dinner with me?” He could have shaken a martini with the tremor in his voice.

She clasped her hands together and cast a glance over his shoulder before finding his eyes. “I’m not sure that would be the best idea, but I’m honored.”

Her words filled the room, the rejection freezing everything, including George’s body. How mortifying. Had he known how badly it would hurt, he wouldn’t have dared an attempt.

He had to chip away at the ice of himself before he could respond. “Okay. Well, I tried.” He almost added, “Let me know if you change your mind,” but thankfully caught himself.

A man must admit when he’d been defeated, and the best way to respond was politely, before disappearing. At least, this was George’s logic. He smiled with respect and started toward the stucco arch that led to the exit. “See you around.”

It was all he could do to move his legs, but he did so with his chest up. Once outside, he sucked in air and started quickly back across the street. He fumbled for his keys and had to focus to open the door leading to Bianca’s apartment. Once he’d made it into the courtyard—the courtyard that hadn’t been swept in a decade—he leaned against the wall and stared down at the gravel.

What the hell had he been thinking?

Later, Sandy and Moira were shelving a new shipment of books when Sandy finally said, “What is it? Out with it.”

“Out with what?” replied Moira.

Sandy slipped a copy of Stephen King’s latest into its rightful place. The American travelers loved King. “Don’t pretend with me. Let’s get it over with. Just . . . please don’t ask for a raise because we’re making no money as it is. We’re right on the precipice of either going out of business or filing as a charity organization.” That last bit was funny, but Moira was too far gone into her own stream of thought to laugh.

“That’s what I want to talk to you about. I don’t mean to overstep, but I have a few ideas to go along with starting the book club—if that is something you’re still okay with?”

Here we go, Sandy thought, pulling out a stack of the new Elin Hilderbrand, another one who killed it with the tourists. She could pick out a Hilderbrand reader right as they entered. They’d rush in like they only had a moment because hubby was watching the kids, then say, “I’m so glad you’re here. I haven’t been able to find any English books, and I can’t stand reading on a Kindle. Do you, by chance, have the new Elin Hilderbrand?” Sandy could potentially mouth the words with them, it was so predictable. Then she’d correct the pronunciation of Hilderbrand’s first name (“sounds like Ellen, not EE-lin”) and point to her bestsellers.

If Sandy had a dollar for every one of those—wait, she did. One dollar was about all she made selling these books, once you took out rent and bills and all. Which meant she needed to sell about three hundred times what she was selling now if she were to return this to a viable business. Okay, maybe a little more than a dollar, but not much more. The downward sales trend hadn’t been such a big deal for a while, as the settlement on her divorce from the dumb-shit real estate agent had been substantial, but she was starting to worry. What if she accidentally lived till she was ninety? If God truly existed, that’s exactly what he’d do to her, sentence her to a long life.

“What do you think?” Moira asked.

“About what? I was doing my best to tune you out.” Sandy immediately felt remorse for her inexcusable behavior. God, Moira needed to toughen up. They both did! “Okay,” Sandy said, “let’s try again. What were you saying in your infinite wisdom from the entirety of your short bookselling career?”

What Sandy liked most about Moira was that she, for the most part, completely ignored Sandy’s attacks. Moira had accepted that Sandy needed to express her frustrations, and someone had to be her punching bag. But Sandy didn’t mean a lot of it. She didn’t dislike Moira. As far as humans went, Moira was fine.

“About this community idea, a book club. A newsletter. All the things that could help us grow. You mentioned last night that you might let me?”

“Is that a question?” Sandy could hear how mean she was being as she gradually gave in. She’d thought about it, too, the book club idea and how Moira was such a soldier and loved her job so much and how she wanted to help. Maybe Sandy should let her. If only to give her some sort of purpose. Some people needed that.

Moira adjusted the windshields that hung over her face. “I’d like to at least try to build a community.”

But people are awful, Sandy thought to herself. Why would I want to bring them together? Nevertheless, she might have to let Moira learn this one the hard way.

“Let’s take it one thing at a time. A book club. What are you thinking?”

“We’d meet once a month, have the first one in a couple of weeks, which would allow me time to get the word out. We’ll choose the books as a collective, a proper democracy. Maybe I could bring in some nibbles.”

“Some nibbles? Is that what you call them?” Sandy put the last of the Hilderbrands in its place, then grabbed the next in the box.

“We could have themes. A few decorations. You won’t have to lift a finger.”

Sandy had a million ways she wanted to respond, but she was weak today and only found one. “Okay, why not.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. I’m feeling very much like I’ll drown in regret in a few months when the whole thing blows up. Or maybe you can prove me wrong. I’d say the odds are in my favor.”