Page 58 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“I’ve never had a food make me cry before.”

“Hang around Bologna long enough, it’ll happen.”

She watched him take in the graffiti that covered doorways and climbed up the columns of the porticoes—bright colors that bounced off the stucco. She could sense his wheels spinning, one foot here in the present, the other stuck in the quicksand of his relationship with Bianca. Though she hated that he was suffering, it was nice to see a man care so deeply.

Back on Via Giulia, George turned to face her. “Thanks for listening. I did most of the talking. Sorry about that.”

Sandy felt a twinge of something dangerous. An attraction. “Sometimes we need an ear. Hang in there. She knows you love her. No more advice, though.”

“Unless she asks for it,” he said.

“She won’t.”

They both laughed.

Sandy turned and headed into work. She could feel him watching her go. Maybe in another life they could have had something.

Inside, Harold stood at the counter with a stack of books. Moira was ringing him up. “Well, look at this,” she said with genuine surprise, eyeing Harold up and down.

His hair was cut high and tight, combed back with a product that had a slight glisten to it. His designer sunglasses were pushed up above his forehead. He wore skinny white trousers with a matching blazer and shiny loafers without socks. A blue shirt with a pronounced collar fit tightly on his skinny frame.

“Giovanni took care of you, didn’t he?” Sandy said.

“Took all my money, and yes, took care of me. Thank you.” He’d allowed a British accent to slip into his words. She’d noticed it last time. How puzzling. But maybe it was working.

“That Alice won’t know what to do,” she said. “What are you buying there?”

She looked past him to the stack. Moira set her hand on it. “I’m sending him home with some art history, an Alda Merini poetry book, Italian for Dummies, and then a few novels: R. F. Kuang, Elena Ferrante, Kazuo Ishiguro.”

Sandy patted his shoulder. “You have your work cut out for you.”

“I’m eager to get started.”

She saw so much of Jack in this young man, more so every time she set eyes on him. “She better be worth it, Harold.”

“What’s anything without love?”

“Oh, God.” She frowned. He might be a lost cause.

He looked like she’d pushed him off a cliff.

Oh, what the hell. The poor boy needed help. “Firstly,” she started, “right now, you need to start acting as if you’ve moved on, because no girl worth her salt will come back to you if you’re sitting around moping. You understand?”

A timid nod.

“How’s your dancing?” she asked.

“My dancing?”

“Yes, Harold. Do you dance?”

Harold looked over at Moira, then back. “Not much of a dancer.”

“I have my tango lesson tomorrow. Meet me down here at six forty-five.”

“Really? I’m terrible, I can’t even hold a—”

“Even you can learn to dance. You’ve remedied your style issue. Let’s focus on your body, how you move.”