Page 57 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

He said no more. Sandy could sense the pain bleeding out of him.

Another step toward him, one parent to another. “Don’t beat yourself up. It’s not easy.”

When he looked up, she realized he was still handsome when he was sad. A sad handsome. “Got any books on how to repair relationships with your kids?”

This was his form of humor, perhaps. “We could order you one. I should have a whole shelf.”

“How old’s your son?”

“Almost thirty.”

“Where is he?”

She took a long time to answer. “I don’t know. He went into the marines, fighting classified wars in foreign lands.”

“I can’t imagine. When’s the last time you saw him?”

She reached into her purse and ran her finger along the coral. “It’s been a while.”

A nod, a reverent moment of silence. “You’re probably rushing into work, but I was going to take a walk. Wanna join?”

Her first instinct was to politely decline, but her pathetic heart betrayed her. “No one rushes to work around here. Why not.”

They found an easy rhythm, wandering west under the porticoes out of the old town. The streets grew wider; modern architecture appeared. He needed no prodding as he opened up about his issues with retirement, then circled back to Bianca.

“What is it you did to upset her?” Sandy asked.

“Isn’t that the question. Now or when she was growing up? You could say I’m a workaholic, which is obviously why retirement isn’t working out. I wasn’t around as much as I should have been, especially as she got into her teens. And it hurt my ex and Bianca. She’s still blaming me for the divorce.”

Sandy let him keep going.

“There’s more to it than that, though. I can’t help but slip in some fatherly advice every once in a while, and it never lands well. No matter what I do, I screw up. She can’t stand that I’m the kind of guy who can’t sit around. I’ve been cleaning up her place, getting her organized, touching up some paint, that kind of thing. Stuff that needs to be done. As much as I don’t like her being so far away, I want her to be happy. And doing all that stuff is the best way I know to show her I love her.”

What a kind man. Back when Sandy’s love radar was on, she should have been looking for kindness. Husbands #1 and #2 seemed to only excel at it during their apologies.

“If you need to expend some of that energy,” she said, “we can always use you at the bookstore. My handyman is currently ignoring my texts.”

“Happy to help any time.”

“She’ll see it, George. I don’t even know you, but I can feel how much you care about her. Maybe watch your mouth, hold back some of that ‘fatherly advice,’ but don’t stop loving her. It’ll break through.”

It was almost refreshing to speak with someone so candidly. She even shared some of her own battered past when he prodded. She didn’t get into specifics, but she spoke some truths, a cathartic release.

As they wandered down Via del Pratello, Sandy said, “This is my favorite place to walk. The best street art in the city. A bunch of hole-in-the-wall food joints. Prices are climbing, but it’s still one of the less expensive areas. Lots of students. And I guess it’s that youth that brings it alive. A lot of Bologna feels like you’re seeing it from behind velvet ropes. Here, you’re right in the madness of it, the truth of the Bolognese spirit.”

George didn’t respond but let his eyes wander, and she could tell that he was trying to see it.

The street was less polished than those of the old town, the shades of yellow, pink, and red buildings showing their age. Paint peeled off the shutters. Some of the wooden beams that held up the porticoes looked like they might be getting close to the end of their life. But between the off-the-beaten-path haunts, the to-die-for takeaway pasta places, the graffiti that rivaled any art in the museums, and the lively nightlife, there was a tangible and vibrant energy here that could make anyone feel like they’d stumbled upon heaven.

Even Sandy.

Twelve or so years in, this town still took her breath away. It would be hard to leave, but a new start had been on her mind lately. She’d been teasing a move to Lisbon, where she could escape some of her ghosts.

She pointed at a restaurant she and the jazz musician used to frequent. “Il Rovescio makes some of the most exciting bio food in the city.”

“Bio?”

“Organic. Their food will make you cry, it’s so good.”