Page 59 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

After he’d left, Sandy caught up with Moira for a few minutes, then climbed the steps to her office. She switched on the small lamp and sat in her chair, then dialed a number. When Jack’s voicemail message ended, she said, “It’s me again. Calling from the bookstore that’s going out of business. Unless maybe summer saves us. What’s new in your world? Oh, wait, you can’t tell me.”

She found the coral in her purse and held it as she continued.

“Who me? I’m just trying to live my life amid a sea of helpless people. There’s a guy, Harold, who lives above the store. He’s a mess; you’ve never seen a mess like him. And he had this pretty girl who dumped him, and so I’m trying to help him clean himself up. I somehow feel like his mother. Then there’s a guy named George who’s after me. I keep deflecting him, but he’s nice and kind of needs me too. You know, for a gal who tries to keep to herself, people keep coming at me. And Moira, don’t even get me started. Anyway, that’s it for now.”

She set the phone down and stared out the small window, seeing rain clouds approaching.

Chapter 15

A Relentless Hunter

Bianca sat at a small table outside of a bar Lucio Dalla, a cherished Bolognese musician who first broke into the scene in the seventies, used to frequent. She’d stopped by the bookstore and bought the new Isabel Allende, which was doing a poor job of pulling her away from thoughts of her father.

Thoughts of Her Father. Sounded like a chapter in the next book that she now had to write unless she wanted to spit into the eyes of destiny. Not that Bianca was opposed to proving Donna Bologna wrong. It was either that or willingly leap back into the pot of boiling water.

How was it possible that she could be in Bologna, living this new life, a long way from the world that had pulled her down, book in hand in a bar in the old town of Bologna, and yet still be unhappy, unable to read even a paragraph without her mind going astray?

What Bianca kept trying to do, trying being the operative word here, was find empathy for her father. She could relate to the little boy inside him, the kid raised in poverty by a grieving father. George rarely talked about his childhood, even when urged, so most of what Bianca knew were bits and pieces she’d pried out of him.

She supposed it was understandable that he was this way and was likely never going to change. He didn’t even recognize his constant movement as a problem. For him, it was a badge of honor. I work the hardest of anyone in this room. If he could say that, then he was doing well, a notion with which she could certainly empathize.

Further complicating the matter, Bianca’s Megawatters had been delighted to read about her latest adventure. So many warm messages of encouragement. And at least a few hundred asking about another book. Were they crazy? Were they serious?

One message in particular, from Beth Anne in Wichita, had said: I’m so happy (and jealous) for your Italy adventure. Just tell me one thing. Is this research for Peggy Goes to Italy? Please say yes. Your book helped me so much, but I have a long way to go.

Realizing she wasn’t in the right mindset to read, Bianca set the book down and people-watched for a while: a businessman in a hurry, a mom tugging on her child, saying, “Andiamo, Andiamo.”

Then a familiar voice from the crowd. “Hey, you’re the famous American writer, yeah?”

Slightly excited to be recognized, she searched for a Megawatter in the crowd. Of course, she’d been recognized in Texas and by Moira at the bookstore, but this was a first in . . .

Wait, it was Corrado smirking as he stood over her. He wore a chef’s shirt with his name and the name of his restaurant woven into the pocket.

“Well, look at this. My stalker.”

“Stalker? You’re stalking me. It’s my city, remember?”

“Your city? You’re supposed to be in Paris.”

He shook his head. “Paris didn’t suit me.”

A long quiet followed with some sort of stalled momentum in it, as if they were two tigers in the wild hiding behind tall grass and hunting the same prey. Who would go first?

“I won’t bother you,” he finally said. “Just returning from a meeting. Enjoy your—”

“Would you like to join me?” Bianca interrupted, not wanting him to go.

“Grazie, ma no. You keep reading your . . . Isabel Allende. It’s nice to see you, ciao.” He didn’t wait for her response, but eased back into the crowd.

What? she thought. Her jaw smacked the sidewalk, causing a slight tremor that might have registered on a seismometer. He’s going to walk away?

Desperately she called, “Corrado! Sit your ass down.” Her voice cut through the city noise, causing more than a few heads to turn. She set her book aside and watched him turn back and sit across from her. If he wasn’t careful, she was going to smack that smile off him.

Ready for battle, she said, “Don’t you need to be in a kitchen or something?”

“I was interviewing a sous chef down the street, now headed to the restaurant.”

“To do what? Chop vegetables?”