Page 68 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

Wait, what?

Heads twisted, eyes fixed on him. A quiet blanketed the room. He hadn’t seen this one coming. Never in a million years. And in the seconds that followed, he made quick moves in his head, trying to figure a way out of it.

He found Bianca’s eyes searching his, maybe curious about his answer, or perhaps mortified that he was about to screw things up (which he was). He decided that he couldn’t lie. Not that he’d lied before about reading her book. He’d sidestepped the truth, offering compliments, but never had he outright lied and said he’d read it. That wouldn’t start today.

“I’m . . . I haven’t . . .” Blood rushed to his head.

“What’s that?” Moira asked.

George cleared his throat. “I’m ashamed to say I haven’t read it.” He glanced over at Bianca, who turned her head. He tried to take her hand, but she pulled it away.

“It’s complicated, but . . .” Oh, God, what had he done? Was no one else going to say something? They were waiting for further explanation, but they certainly weren’t ready for the truth. That he’d been suicidal in the weeks leading up to the book’s release? That the only joy he’d felt in his life since retirement was seeing her succeed, seeing her publish a book, but that he hadn’t been able to get through her words because they’d cut so fucking deep? Peggy Meh’s issues with her miserable excuse for a father had driven a stake through his heart. Bianca could insist all day long that he wasn’t the inspiration, but George saw flickers of what he’d done to his daughter, being so absent, making her the product of a divorce, driving her nuts even when he was trying his best.

He had never asked Bianca about it, because he knew it was true: He’d made it into her book in the worst of ways.

“Before I’m put in front of the firing squad, I guess I should say that it’s been a long year for me. Not that it’s an excuse, but retirement about killed me, and Bianca’s book came out at the same time, and I’m afraid . . . I . . . I haven’t been in the best shape.”

He turned to his daughter, who wouldn’t look at him. “Sorry, B.”

After that, Moira stepped in and invited everyone to go around the room and introduce themselves. George ate more cheese and mortadella and drank another beer. His daughter didn’t make eye contact with him once. Turned out to be the longest hour of his life, and when he left, he left alone, passing by Sandy and offering her a sad smile as he opened the door.

Immediately following the book club, Aroldo and Moira took an outdoor table at Sorso Sospetto and ordered Aperol spritzes. They’d asked Sandy to join, but she’d declined. It looked like it might rain soon, but no one seemed worried about it.

“I can’t believe I put George on the spot like that,” Moira said. “I feel horrible.”

Aroldo crossed one leg over the other and lit a smoke. They were going down easier now. “It’s questionable that he didn’t read his daughter’s book, no? How could you have known?”

“I know, but . . . I can still see the horror on his face.”

“Yeah, he’s in trouble. Other than that, it was great.” He blew out a perfect smoke ring; he’d been practicing.

Moira bit into the orange that came with her drink, then said, “It’s like what that person said to Abraham Lincoln’s wife in Ford’s Theatre. ‘Other than the obvious, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the show?’”

Aroldo took a long sip, studying his companion. Who was this woman who hid behind thick glasses and a floppy hat? She was an onion if there ever was one. She’d spoken so eloquently at the event, her love of books infectious. She seemed far wiser than her years. Clearly, she’d distilled down the many books she’d read, and they’d formed who she was and informed her rich and hopeful perspective. Harold might have noticed had he not been up his own ass; Aroldo was far more perceptive.

With genuine curiosity, he asked about her life, what had led her here, what was next. She seemed surprised by his curiosity, that anyone would ever ask, but once she got going, he could see that she so desperately wanted to share, to connect.

“I was married before, and it failed epically. Like in ways I can’t even talk about.”

“What does that mean, can’t talk about?”

She drew a finger across her lips, then adjusted her glasses. “Legally speaking.”

He stubbed out his cigarette. “Consider my curiosity piqued. And I guess it will never be quenched. You sure you don’t want to elaborate?” He drew a finger across his lips.

“Maybe one day.”

“How about music?” he asked, letting her off the hook. “What’s your favorite music?”

She listed a few bands and artists. He stopped her when she mentioned P. J. Harvey.

“Wait, what? I grew up listening to all that stuff: P. J., Nick Cave, Beck, Jeff Buckley.”

“Get out! Yeah, she’s from right where I grew up in Dorset. My mum knew her.”

“But I thought you were from Bristol—”

“Dorset but spent most of my time in Bristol. Long story.”