Page 79 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

Taking his glasses out of his pocket, he read through them. “Loose doorknob, wobbly chair in office, broken wheel on Biography shelf, cracked windowpane, flickering overhead light.” He read a few more. “All seems pretty basic. Want to walk me through everything? I’ll get it done.”

George returned every day, the dreaded pink toolbox in hand—a purchase that had backfired beyond belief—and put in a few hours of work. The joy that his pink tools brought to Sandy and Moira made it all worth it, the way they’d snicker at him like two tween girls gossiping at their lockers. He even waltzed in the door one time donning a pink button-down while wielding his pink hammer, and that had sent them both to tears.

The to-do list kept growing, and he hoped that it might be because Sandy was enjoying his company (and the absurdity of all the pink), but it could have simply been that problems requiring a handyman kept presenting themselves.

As far as George was concerned, their conversations in between his tasks gave him a reason to get out of bed. Sometimes when he stopped by, she was so obviously not interested in talking, but other times, she’d quit what she was doing and make time to chat. Weren’t women the most confusing species on earth? He always arrived with new ideas to recruit expats, such as BBQ sauce, Saltines, and Hot Pockets, as that seemed like the low-hanging fruit of their relationship. One fine day, he even suggested they sell American-flag Speedos. Sandy laughed so hard she’d had to go hide behind the cookbook shelf.

Other than reading Bianca’s book, which he was now doing in secret, drawing a smile out of Sandy became his number one pastime.

Bianca might have held the world record for the number of times she had written a text message to someone and then deleted it. Needless to say, it had been one hell of a week. She could still taste Corrado’s gazpacho, among other things, and she wanted to beg for his forgiveness and have him take her in his arms and look into her eyes and make her feel safe and wanted.

It wasn’t her body that was the problem. It was all of her that she didn’t want him to see. A complete mess.

One night, she told her dad that she was having dinner with friends but actually ate alone at a pizzeria a few blocks away. Two glasses of wine and an on-the-house shot of limoncello successfully removed her inhibitions. On the way back, she snapped a selfie and fired it off to Corrado before she could second-guess herself. She followed it with: I’m sorry. As you can see, I’m a disaster. It has nothing to do with you. I’m a bit lost.

Ten minutes later, she’d never wanted to take back anything more in her life.

George wrapped up his list of tasks at the bookstore around lunchtime on the thirteenth. He felt sad as he set his pink tools back in their fitted places and drew a line through the last item, upgrading a wall plate.

Sandy was crouched on the floor in the main room, creating a new sign for her banned-book section. Looking over her shoulder, he said, “Hey, I didn’t know you were an artist.”

“There’s a lot about me you don’t know, George.”

“Which is one of the great regrets of my life.”

“Oh, please.” She cast a look his way. Her eyes were the most beautiful he’d ever seen.

“I’m serious.” His heart thumped. Inspired after finishing Bianca’s powerful book, he’d decided he was going to ask her out again, but now felt himself turning into a chickenshit. One rejection hurt. Two would kill.

He was well aware of how relationships bloomed. It had to go both ways. He thought he’d done a pretty good job of indicating his feelings for her. But what was she doing? It would be nice if she’d call or text, something to show he occasionally entered her mind.

“I’m all wrapped up here.”

She stood and faced him. “Everything on the list?”

He held up the latest of her scribbled sticky notes. “All done.”

“I hope you’ve been tracking your hours.”

He shook his head. “No, and I’m not too worried about it. Happy to help.”

“Now, that’s not fair. You have to let me pay you.” She stood and faced him. “And feel free to charge extra for giving me the daily chuckle with your pink toolbox.”

“Yeah, yeah. So funny. I’ve an idea. How about you buy me lunch?” There, he’d done it. “I know I’ve tried before, but I’m trying again.”

She crossed her arms but didn’t back away. “You’re relentless.”

He moved closer, unable to determine his effect on her. “Have lunch with me today?”

Unflinching, she said, “I don’t date older men.”

“You don’t know my age. I could be a decade younger than you.”

“I’d hate to hear your guess of my age, then.”

“Late thirties, early forties.”

“Flattery doesn’t work on me.”