Page 50 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“That’s nice of you.” She refused to commit.

“How is the search for Bianca coming? Have you found her?”

She gave him a playful look. “So far, I’ve found the bottom of a lot of pasta bowls, and that’s about it.”

“I see. Just not my pasta bowl.”

She refused to match his devious smile. “That’s right, Corrado. Now behave.”

Noticing her group leaving, she said, “Devo andare.” I have to go. She almost suggested they meet for coffee again, but there was no “friend zone” with Corrado. Whether it was coffee or tea or an afternoon mass, all things would lead to the bedroom, which wouldn’t be so bad if sex didn’t always come with baggage.

Backing away, she said, “Arrivederci, Corrado.”

“Ciao, amici.”

Someone had shoved Energizer batteries into Moira. She was scampering around at twice her normal pace, doing her daily chores while brainstorming this so-called “community” she wanted to bring to life. She’d not simply mentioned the book club to every visitor, buyer and peruser alike, but she’d also aggressively pushed it on them as she pressed flyers into their hands. She’d even spent her lunch break composing a newsletter to their small list of email subscribers. Afterward, she’d positioned a sign-up sheet by the register so that they could further grow their list.

The poor girl would likely learn her lesson soon, that it just wasn’t meant to be. She’d put in all that hard work, and whether or not anyone showed up, they wouldn’t sell enough books to pay for the effort. Oh, well; Sandy couldn’t bring herself to let her down, so she let the Energizer Mouse run rampant with her new ideas.

They were closing shop when Harold walked in. Or more like crept in.

“Moira’s in the back, turning off lights,” Sandy said, standing behind the counter.

He inched forward. “Actually, I was hoping to talk to you, if you have a few minutes.”

“Me? Don’t ask for a job. I already can’t afford Moira.”

“No, not a job.” He looked around to make sure no one was within earshot. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said, how I need to up my game if I ever want to get Alice back.”

Oh, God, what have I done? This is what happens when I open my mouth and engage with others. And this is what I deserve, having invited Moira out for drinks. Note to self: stay wicked.

“Do you think you could help me?” Harold asked.

“Help you what?” Sandy peered through the arch to the main room as the lights switched off. She could see Moira’s head bobbing over the shelves as she moved their way.

“Help me dress better, I don’t know. Whatever it takes to make Alice want me.”

What could possibly make anyone think Sandy was interested in becoming a life coach?

She was about to respond when Moira appeared. Though he did his best to make small talk, the kid shut down, clearly embarrassed about why he’d come.

Sandy jumped in, sparing them from the awkward quiet. “I was chatting with Harold about books. You’re free to go, Moira.”

“Oh, okay. You guys have a nice night.”

A collective “You too” followed her out the door.

Once she was gone, Sandy said, “I don’t know what to tell you, Harold. Go down the street to see Giovanni; he can help you dress. And look at your hair. Get a haircut. Shave your face. That’s a start.”

Harold nodded, somehow eliciting even more sympathy from Sandy, who asked, “What’s the guy’s name she’s with?”

“Renzo.”

“Be a better Renzo, Harold. Do you read poetry?”

He shook his head.

“Speak Italian?”