Page 75 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“Sounds like I’ve missed a lot,” Alice said.

“We definitely have a lot of catching up to do.” Not wanting to let her go, he asked, “What are you doing today? Want to sit around and watch movies? Maybe Say Anything?”

She took a bite from her pastry. “I guess I could skip school. Did you work last night? How’s work going? Still busy?”

He hated to lie, but now was not the time to go into detail. “It’s great, actually, but I’ve cut back my hours. Those late nights were getting to me. I have a team, you know. They can run things. I have to keep everyone on track. And pay them.”

“Good. You look good, Harold. Like glowing. Italy’s been good for you.”

“Thanks. Yeah, it’s been a nice run.” He wanted to add that he’d missed her, but he still wasn’t sure where he fit into this whole thing. Aroldo might have seized the moment and made his move, but Harold resisted, feeling like he was a long way from getting her back.

Chapter 19

Bad Decisions

Still red-faced from an hour and a half of tango, Sandy strolled alongside Harold, elbows hooked, her heels clicking on the sidewalk.

“You’re getting better,” she said.

“Really? You don’t have to say that.” Harold was almost unrecognizable compared with the young man she’d first met. Confidence, curiosity. A witty and sometimes dark sense of humor. That silly peach-fuzz beard was gone. Giovanni had certainly done good work. Harold wore skinny jeans and a flashy shirt with a stiff collar. She imagined Alice wouldn’t recognize him.

“Alice spent the night two nights ago,” he admitted, as if he’d read her mind.

“Hold on, what?” How had he not mentioned this yet?

“Yeah, I guess she and Renzo got in a fight and—”

“You guess? They either did or didn’t. This is what we have to work on, Harold. Speak definitively. Words matter. You don’t guess.”

“Okay, sorry.”

“And don’t apologize.”

The little guy seemed to turn into a small deer, whatever they were called. Anyway, Bambi’s feelings were hurt, and dammit if it didn’t make Sandy feel bad. This kid really meant something to her.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to jump on you. I’m just invested, that’s all. You’re like my . . .” She almost said son, but the word didn’t feel right as it wound through the neural pathways toward her tongue.

“Anyway,” she said, “you were saying . . .”

“She came home. I’d had a drink with Moira, walked her home, then found Alice standing outside. Across the street under a yellow umbrella.”

Harold pulled out a pack of Murattis and lit one.

“You smoke now?”

“On occasion.”

Sandy held out her hand. “May I?”

He lit her a cigarette and kept talking. “Renzo was being an asshole, and she walked out, came straight to me.”

“And? God, you tell a slow story.”

“And nothing. She fell asleep in my arms on the couch. I made her breakfast like old times. A flower and a quote, all that. And then we watched a movie, her favorite, Say Anything. And then she left.”

“She left? Where did she go?”

“To a friend’s house. Said she had to figure out what’s going on.”