Page 71 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

She wiped her eyes. “It’s not that. It has nothing to do with you.”

Actually, she’d admitted a moment ago that all issues had seeds in maternal and paternal issues, so it did have to do with him. It certainly wasn’t her mother; Faith had given her all to Bianca from day one.

He wasn’t going to argue, though.

Trying to keep his chest from caving in and focusing on what mattered, he said, “What can I do for you? I mean, other than get out of your hair. Let’s go inside; the rain’s picking up.”

“I’ll be in shortly.” Her voice cracked.

After a long minute of silence, he said, “How about a glass of wine? Let’s start there.” He stood, kissed the top of her head, and went into the kitchen. He felt dead inside, riddled with regret for coming here, for failing her for all those years, for ruining his marriage, for fucking up in a thousand ways. A tear dripped out of his eye, and he felt the warmth of it as it trickled down his cheek. At least he was still alive. That’s what a tear felt like, a reminder that he was still breathing.

You can do better, George, he told himself. Don’t let her see you break.

When he pulled open the cabinet to take out two glasses, he saw small brown pellets on the plastic sheets with which he’d lined the bottom of the cabinets a few days earlier.

Mouse droppings.

Like a soldier called to battle, he gritted his teeth and searched for the enemy. “You have to be kidding me.” Before lining the base of all the cabinets, he’d scrubbed every inch with disinfectant. What could they possibly have wanted in here?

Stomping back out to the balcony, he found Bianca still sitting out there in the rain. “B, you won’t believe it. You’ve got a mouse. I’ll go down to the store and grab a trap. Is it still open?”

She looked at him with exhausted eyes. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll find something one way or another. Can you believe it? Right after I cleaned every last inch. Mr. Nutz, and now this.”

A shrug. She apparently had no problem living in rodent filth. Or sitting in the rain.

“Okay, be back in a few. Get inside before you catch a cold.” Half of him realized he was leaving an important conversation, but it would have to wait. It would simply have to fucking wait.

Chapter 18

Eager for the Night

Through a soft rain, a mist really, Harold escorted Moira under her umbrella back to her apartment about ten minutes away, then offered her a hug and headed home. The night had an edge to it, busier than normal for a weekday, despite the rain. There was something magical about how the misty glow of the streetlights lit up all the colorful umbrellas bobbing along the sidewalks.

He was back on Via Giulia, an escape from the madness of the rest of the city, when he heard a door kick open across the street. Bianca’s father slipped out onto the sidewalk and opened an umbrella. They exchanged a quick wave, then George swiftly marched the other way, clearly a man on a mission.

Once Harold reached the scaffolding surrounding the bookstore, he heard the opera singer across the street break into song. The man stood in his robe, also uncaring of the falling mist, his hands on the railing, his eyes tilted upward, his voice echoing into the evening.

Harold paused to listen, something he’d never done before. Perhaps Aroldo had an interest in the opera. What a city, he thought. So perfect in so many ways. Where else could you happen upon a man giving everything he had to the night, belting out a song in the rain as if he were on a stage.

When the man finished, shaking the city with a long-lasting vibrato, Harold clapped his hands. “Bravo! Bravo!”

The opera singer bowed, causing Harold to smile.

When he lowered his eyes back down, he saw her, his strawberry love, standing under the cover of a bright-yellow umbrella.

“Alice?” he said, taking in this angelic form, this being that he’d been studying from afar, this being that had come back to him . . . No, don’t get ahead of yourself, Harold.

She wore a khaki jacket that covered all but her legs. The streetlights gave her skin a warmth that was enough to make him shiver. Her strawberry explosion of hair was still a mess, with beads of rain stuck in it, sparkling like gemstones, and she was still as beautiful as ever.

He crossed the street, hoping that this was it, the moment he’d dreamed of. Cobblestones under his feet, he stopped and peered into her eyes. Only then could he see that she’d been crying.

“What’s going on?” He was hesitant to hug her, to step closer. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” He wiped the rain from his face.

“I’m fine, it’s just . . . We got in a fight. I didn’t know where else to go.”

She needed him and it radiated out from her, that need. He stepped closer, testing the waters, slowly raising his arms. She didn’t back away, didn’t hesitate. As he inched even closer, she moved into him, and suddenly he was under the protection of the umbrella as well. He wrapped his arms around her, and she wept into his shoulder.