Page 97 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

Sandy wondered if stabbing herself in the jugular with a pen would do the trick. They had nice pens with “The Only English Bookstore in Bologna” printed on them. No one ever bought them, so maybe they could be repurposed. Good news was that there would be an opening for another clueless romantic who might think an English-only bookstore in Bologna was a good idea. Even bookstores in Madrid offered other languages. But Sandy couldn’t do that because she’d clung to a name that had seemed clever at the time. It would be an abomination to suddenly offer a Spanish section in the corner.

Moira was still waiting for an answer.

“You’ve never taken a sick day.”

“Which means I’m entitled to one.”

“Of course.” Sandy wasn’t about to start begging or offering more apologies. It was probably best for Moira to learn that the world wasn’t a pretty place. Certainly nothing like the settings of the soulless books she liked to get lost in.

Moira quickly gathered her things, pressed her floppy hat to her head, and started to the door. “See you tomorrow,” she muttered.

Sandy didn’t like how she felt inside, so purely for selfish reasons, she said, “Now, c’mon, Moira, settle down.”

It was too late. Her sole employee was out the door and gone. It had already been so damned quiet after George left. And now she’d run Moira off.

Sandy hated herself even more than she normally did. She took her phone and texted, Okay, I’m sorry for being a bitch. Don’t cancel the book club. You’ve put too much work into it already.

Then she called Jack.

Chapter 23

A Father Out of Water

“May I have some cheese?” George asked, sitting at a table outside of a restaurant on the Campo Santa Margherita square in Venice. Despite the punishing heat of the early afternoon and a mob of tourists bumping into each other while all trying to take the same pictures, this city had an impenetrable charm.

They’d secured an outdoor table draped in a white tablecloth, resting under an awning and roped off from the crowds spilling gelato all over themselves. Italy had a smell to it, a combination of pasta cooking in a pot, coffee, a hint of cigarettes, fresh flowers, and maybe chocolate.

The handsome server, dressed in black, shook his head. “Non capisco.” I don’t understand.

“Queso, I mean. Or . . .” George looked at Bianca, who was immersed in her bowl of squid ink pasta—totally black pasta—quite possibly the most disgusting dish he could ever imagine. “How do you say cheese, B?”

She looked up, oblivious to the conversation he was trying to have with the server. “Formaggio.”

Back to the server, George asked, “Can I get some formaggio, per favore?” How was it possible that these Italian men were all so good looking? No wonder Bianca wanted to live here.

Suddenly paying attention, Bianca mocked him. “Can I get some formaggio? Dad, please never say that again. It’s: potrei avere del formaggio? Try it.”

George mangled it but did his best.

The server shook his head. “No.” Then he said something in Italian. George looked at Bianca for a translation.

“He’s asking why.”

“Why? Because I need cheese.”

“For what?”

Growing slightly frustrated at how difficult this seemingly simple request had become, he gestured toward his shrimp pasta. Or gamberetti, whatever. It was getting cold, that was for sure.

“For my pasta. Why else would I need cheese?”

The server shook his head and spoke more Italian to Bianca. They were sharing a “moment” that George didn’t appreciate for a host of reasons.

“What’s he saying?”

Bianca broke into an infuriating laugh. “You can’t put cheese on seafood pasta. It’s a sin. Like dipping fries in soy sauce. You don’t do it.”

He unfurled his hands. “It’s my pasta. I want cheese.” Was this a fucking Seinfeld bit?