Page 69 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“Must be part of your”—he once again drew a finger across his lips—“shady past.”

She downed the rest of her drink. “How is your pursuit of the redhead?”

“The subtle change of subject, huh?” He eyed her, wondering what secrets this young woman held, what layers were yet to be peeled back. “The redhead is still clearly in love, last I checked.”

“You’re checking? How are you checking?”

He laughed quietly. “You think you’re the only one with secrets? Actually, I’ve been like . . . How do I say it without sounding like a stalker? I’ve walked by their place a few times, watched a little, seen them interact.”

Her brow furrowed. “That is actually stalking. You’re the definition of it.”

Harold looked into his drink, studying the melting ice cubes. Aroldo had clearly dipped into the loo.

“Don’t worry. I’m not judging.”

“It’s not like that, though. I’m . . . We’re meant to be.”

“I get it. And you’re a long way from home and trying to figure out if you can stay.”

“Yeah, well, I only have three months, then I have to leave.” He raised air quotes with a sly grin. “Legally speaking.”

She acknowledged his callback, then: “I bet Sandy would give you a job. She can help you get a visa. Well, I know you have a fancy computer gig and all that, but maybe you could work a few hours a week and find a way to stay.”

Light bulbs switched on in his head. “You think she’d do that?”

“What? She loves you. I mean, as much as she loves anyone. Do you think she’s ever invited me dancing? No, not once. She mentioned that she kind of felt like your Bolognese mum.”

That made him feel all warm and cozy inside. He could suddenly see Sandy—his Bolognese madre—on the dance floor, shaking the chandeliers with Tommaso. “She’s good, by the way. As good as the teacher.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. No one knows anything about her. The sales reps always try to get stuff out of her—before she bites their heads off, of course. You might know more than any of us.”

“I doubt that. But she’s great, seems to care about people in her own way. She’s helped me, you know. Find some confidence.”

“I do like your transformation. Very handsome.”

“Thank you.”

A soft rain began to fall. Under the protection of the table umbrella, Moira sat back and took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “But I also hope you know that Alice should love you for who you are. I hate to see you trying to be someone else.”

“I don’t think it’s that. I’m just trying to be a better version of myself.”

Moira nodded, slipping her glasses back on. “I appreciate that. In Bianca’s book, toward the end, which you’ll discover if you ever read—”

“I am reading it,” Harold interrupted. “I’m about a quarter of the way through, and it’s good. Lots of wisdom.”

Moira glowed, enough to light their section of Via Giulia. “It’s great, right? Deep messages delivered with a comic edge. And I don’t want to give anything away, but—”

Harold, with a sprinkling of Aroldo, jumped in. “It’s self-development. Not supposed to be a page-turner.”

“That’s true. Well, long before she transforms to Peggy Megawatt, which I think is hilariously brilliant—and brilliantly hilarious—she ends up trying to save her marriage and pondering what she might do to make her husband love her again. What she’s doing is misconstruing Bianca’s message to either change or accept your circumstances. It’s sad, really. Because we’re lovable as we are, aren’t we? We deserve love simply by being the product of the miracle that’s life. We, the people who made it this far, to make it to the womb, to develop lungs, and then to breathe air. That’s a miracle. And as miracles, we’re all worth loving.”

The hairs on his arms rose. “That’s beautiful. It’s in the book?”

A nod.

His arm hairs stood taller.

“What I’m saying is that I see the way you love her, and it’s wonderful, but I don’t think you need to convince her. Just as Peggy doesn’t need to become someone else, neither do you.”