Page 72 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

They held each other for a long time, a bubble of dry safety, Harold’s heart coming alive for the first time since she’d left. How many nights had he lain awake wondering whether he’d ever touch her again? And here he was, once again with the love of his life, and maybe she knew it now too.

He pulled away and found her eyes. They were close enough to kiss, but even he knew this wasn’t a kissing moment. “What did he do?”

“I don’t even know how it started, but he raised his voice at me. He’d been drinking.”

He touched her cheek, feeling a surge of love run between them. “I’m so sorry.”

As they crossed the street, he started to come to his senses and realized he’d completely forgotten about Aroldo, and like Clark Kent dashing into a phone booth, Harold made the switch.

In an instant, he stood taller. His muscles and calves swelled. She hadn’t yet noticed his new style but surely would. He felt smarter, wittier, more at ease. One of the chapters in Bianca’s book focused on creating reality by visualizing and feeling it. It was true, so true. He felt like a different man, and when he pulled open the large wooden door that led to his—no, their—apartment, he set a hand on the small of her back.

“Let’s get you dry, dear,” Aroldo Megawatt said, the faint yet complex accent suggesting that he’d lived all over the globe, perhaps born in London, then ushered through Copenhagen and Prague in his teens, then his years of study at the Sorbonne before trading commodities in Hong Kong.

Confusion flickered on her face, and he liked what he saw, how the confusion seemed to morph into desire, or something close to it.

Aroldo confidently ushered her up the stairs. He was calculated and caring, whispering that it would be okay. In the foyer, he closed the yellow umbrella and helped her with her jacket. Alice looked him up and down, surely noticing his new waterproof leather boots, and his designer jeans that had cost way too much, and the crisp white shirt that had grown damp in the mist. Not to mention the black-and-white belt that Giovanni had insisted upon.

“Are you cold?” Aroldo asked. “Let’s get you a blanket.”

She nodded, saying, “You look nice.”

“Grazie.” He said it casually, like he hadn’t been trying at all. This was the man she’d left. Nothing had changed. Only everything.

He moved with intent into the living room and found the blanket. Thank God he’d straightened up. Harold had remained slack about cleaning, but Aroldo always picked up after himself.

“It looks so different in here. All the color. You rearranged.”

He wrapped the blanket around her, and she looked like a tulip after a downpour, this wonderful natural perfume rising into his olfactory glands and soothing him, kick-starting his libido, making him miss her more than ever.

And yet, here she was.

“Come sit down,” he said, patting the couch. “Tell me what happened.”

They sat together, his arm around her. She curled into him, melted into him even, and sighed. He petted her strawberry hair, breathed in his fruity love. “Tell me, tell me.”

“Are your shoes new? You seem different.”

“Oh, these? Yeah, picked them up from Giovanni’s place.”

“You know Giovanni?”

“I pop in from time to time.”

She seemed to process the news, then melted even farther into him, two warm candles pressed together, her breath on his ear. He stirred below the waist, a month of desperate longing bubbling inside. “You sure you’re not hurt?”

“He drinks sometimes, gets angry. For no reason. I was out with some friends last night and didn’t tell him, and he got jealous. Snapped at me today when he got home from work.”

“I’m so sorry,” Aroldo said, knowing that he didn’t need to speak much, that what she needed was an ear.

Minutes passed, and he wondered if she’d fallen asleep. He craned his neck and found her eyes open. “What are you thinking about?”

She shook her head, and Aroldo wanted her to say that she was simply feeling the regret of having left him. He had an urge to tell her that he’d been hitting fifteen thousand steps a day, but that was a Harold move. He didn’t need to prove he was worthy. All he had to do was be Aroldo. She’d take it from there.

“Can I get you anything? Are you hungry?”

Another headshake. “I want to lie here. With you.”

Aroldo pressed his eyes closed and felt utterly and deeply that the earth had rediscovered its axis, that the sun and moon had righted themselves, that God had shown himself. Harold had been praying to Him, begging Him to bring her home, and here she was, the angelic presence that was proof of God and love all in one.