Page 60 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“No, my Bianca. We’re a month away. I have preparations. Deliveries to take, more interviews, marketing meetings.”

“You sound so grown up now.”

“I suppose so. Happens to the best of us, right?” He held up a finger, then ordered an espresso from the cameriere. Back to her, he asked, “How’s Bologna treating you?”

“That’s a loaded question.” She now remembered his ability to give every bit of his attention to her. “It’s great to be here, but my dad’s complicated the mission.”

“The mission?”

“You know, just my . . .” She considered how to answer. “My journey to reclaim who I once was.”

A warm smile played on his face. “Life gets complicated, doesn’t it?”

A breeze blew by, and she took a moment to enjoy it, then: “You probably won’t, but do you remember the promise I made to you the night before I left? We were at Osteria del Sole.”

“The one where you said you’d come find me, that you’d be back? Before you ravished me in my bed, a goodbye like I’ll never know again.”

A hurricane spun up her legs. “Stop it.”

He bit his lower lip.

“Okay, I guess I broke two promises. The other was that I wouldn’t get pulled back into the whole American thing, working all the time, not taking moments to breathe, not connecting with friends, not really living.”

His face straightened. “Yes, I remember.”

“I let go of everything I learned living here. It was like I drank a big Starbucks drink that swept me back up. If I’m being honest, I felt like the only way was to go kick ass out there in the world, make something of myself. Become an accomplisher. Isn’t that silly? Wouldn’t that be an interesting word on my gravestone. Bianca Briggs died of a heart attack from working too hard; she will always be known as an accomplisher. Then there would be a parenthetical at the bottom. And though it turned out to be a dud, she even wrote a book.”

She pulled back before saying more. He was the last person to whom she should be confessing.

His espresso came, and he took a sip, moaning with pleasure. She remembered that about him too. They could be talking, hanging out, doing whatever, but if he got near something worth tasting, he always paid deep attention to the flavor.

Once he’d set his cup down, he said, “The book didn’t do well?”

“Fine, I guess. Definitely didn’t shake up the world. Let’s just say I was hoping for something that might outsell The Secret.”

A headshake. “I don’t know that one. The accomplishment is enough in and of itself. I have a friend who’s a writer, back in Paris, called Jacques. We worked together. Writes these mysteries solved by a crazy alcoholic blind detective. One time he told me that he became a much better writer when he stopped trying to write a bestseller, stopped trying to become this famous writer. Instead, he wrote for himself, what he wanted to read, and didn’t care whatever the others said. Ironically, that’s also when he started selling enough books to leave his restaurant job.”

What had been her mindset while writing her book? She scrolled through the life of it, from the seed of an idea to print: Donna Bologna telling her she’d write one, the idea fading as she pursued her therapy degree at UT, only to resurface around the time she opened her practice. But she hadn’t put pen to paper till a year after she’d finally established herself, proving that she had what it took to build up a client list. That time in between had been a blur of hard work. If anything, her book was just another product of her obsessive climb to the top of a mountain that actually had no top.

“I do like Peggy Meh,” Corrado said, sticking a crowbar into the spokes of her mind chatter.

“Wait, what? You read it?” All at once, she was flattered and horrified.

“I’m reading it. Found it at that bookstore where you had your signing.”

“I told you not to.”

“Why not? I always loved diving into you, exploring your mind.”

Diving into her. Birds flapped wings behind her rib cage while he sat there so innocently, his gentle (naive?) pursuit of her a glint in his eyes.

“I’m proud of you; you’re a great writer. Not that my English is perfect, but I like your style.”

“You and my mom.”

“My friend Jacques said it took him a few books before anyone discovered him. I’m sure that’s the case here. What’s next?”

“That’s the question.” She smiled to herself. “If there is a next; I’m not sure.”