Page 67 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“How’s the turnout?” he asked.

“About fifteen people. Better than I expected.”

Aroldo took a breath, holding on to the man he’d become, then strutted under the arch to the main room, where book clubbers mingled around a table of food and bottles of wine.

He knew he looked good, but the shock on Moira’s face was enough to rattle even Aroldo. “Oh, my God, is that Harold? You look so handsome.” She kissed both his cheeks. “You look dashing.”

“Thank you, dear. As do you.” He’d noticed she dressed in a lot of black and white, a black skirt, white top today, trying to hide in plain sight. Still, he found her adorable, perhaps even titillating in her attempt at muting herself.

“And I appreciate you coming. Not exactly the turnout I hoped, but . . .” She turned back to look at the people gathered. “It’s a start.”

“I’m delighted to be here,” he said. “And proud of you too. It’s something Alice would have done, going out on a limb. I know she’d love to be here. It’s her kind of thing.”

“Yeah, well, I hope one day she walks in with you.”

He thought of seeing Alice kiss Renzo’s lips this morning on his way to work. “As do I.”

“If not, there’s someone even better out there waiting for you.” She adjusted her glasses, a ball of nerves. “Okay, I better get this thing started.”

Chapter 17

The Inaugural Book Club and Other Disasters

George was busy trying to cut through a block of cheese at the table in the bookstore (Why couldn’t they precut slices in Italy?), pondering an interaction with Sandy at the cash register a moment ago. A friendship was brewing, and he wondered whether she might have let it become more if he weren’t leaving. He could understand. He’d been hurt before. Considering his inevitable departure, why set themselves up for it?

Though she hadn’t said much about her own romantic past, she’d glossed over her two ugly marriages. Enough said. As George knew, even one divorce was enough to break you into pieces.

Still, though, he was thrilled to enjoy the spark they so clearly had. He wasn’t sure how old she was, early fifties maybe? Still young, but it seemed that finding sparks grew more difficult as the sand ran through the hourglass. He, for one, hadn’t experienced a sizzle of attraction like this since his ex-wife.

God, that was a long time ago. Motorola had just snagged him fresh out of Arizona State, and he’d jumped into a team refining the Motorola 68000 microprocessor chip, which powered the early Apples and Ataris. And then Faith came along, barreling him over.

He finally maneuvered around the rind and nabbed a couple of cuts of cheese to go with the mortadella he’d piled high. Moira was encouraging everyone to find their seats so that they could get started.

“Can I get you a drink, Dad?” Bianca set a hand on his shoulder, and she couldn’t have known how much the gesture meant to him. He’d been nothing but trouble since he’d first arrived, making things worse with every moment. And yet here she was, still trying.

He glanced at her hand on his shoulder, then met her eyes. “Don’t suppose they have a beer over there, do they? A Moretti?” Look at that, he was speaking Italian after all.

“Coming right up. Want to grab us seats?”

He found two spots in a circle of chairs that felt more like an AA meeting than a social gathering. Right on time, Moira took the floor. She was so clearly eager to have this club. How many times had she stopped George and Bianca on the street to make sure they would attend? When she began to speak, she skipped whole syllables trying to set words free.

“Welcome to the inaugural meeting of The Only English Book Club in Bologna,” she started. “I’m so giddy and nervous all at once. We didn’t know what to expect, turnout-wise. I suppose this is a good start. We’ll have a meeting the first Tuesday of every month. Please tell your friends. You know, we expats might be a bunch of black sheep, so far away from home because we didn’t fit in, but we still need our people. That’s what I envision here. A place where we can connect because life’s not much without connection.”

George took Bianca’s hand for a moment. She lobbed a grin back at him.

When Moira continued, she found her groove. “I don’t want this to be a formal thing. The way I see it, books bring us together. Which is funny, isn’t it? We commit to fifteen or twenty hours, or in the case of Rebecca Yarros or Stephen King, thirty hours alone, immersing ourselves in a book, escaping the world we know. But when we come up for air, we see things differently. We feel more connected because we had the pleasure of slipping into someone else’s skin. Our eyes were opened to another world, another experience. We see that even though we’re miles or even light-years apart, we’re all after the same things: happiness, meaning, love. That’s what I find in books, and that’s what I want to find here in this room—in this community that I so desperately want to build. This bookstore, it means everything to me. I see her as a living, breathing organism, and she wants this community as much as anyone. Let’s give it to her, friends.”

She stopped then, and a quiet took over the bookstore. She seemed to shrink some, unsure of her words. But then a clap came from the back, and George turned to see Sandy standing under the arch cheering her sole employee on. George jumped in as well, and within seconds, everyone was lifting Moira up.

Responding to the warm reception, Moira transformed, growing like one of those bath toys that expands when it gets wet. She sure had a way with words. George felt an eagerness to read for the first time in forever.

“Thank you,” Moira said, as the clapping died down. “My hope is that we can all share in the decision of which book we choose each month, but today, for the coming month, since this is my party, I’d like to nominate a book written by one of our own, a new neighbor: Bianca Briggs.”

She gave Bianca a short introduction, then said, “The first chapter in the book is about being honest with yourself, confessing as if you are both the sinner and the priest in the confessional. I’ve done that a lot lately. If I’m being honest, Peggy Meh, the case study in the book, has nothing on me.”

That drew some laughter, especially from Bianca. Perhaps she could see that her book wasn’t all for naught. It might not have performed as she’d hoped, but it was being talked about. That was something.

“Mr. Briggs,” Moira said, cutting straight to him, “I hate to put you on the spot, but what’s your favorite part?”