Page 99 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

She poured them both more Pellegrino. “That’s what your generation does, hides it all. What are you afraid of? You know what I’d tell you if you were on my couch? That you don’t need another job. You don’t need to beg Intel for another chance. Nor do you need consulting work. You don’t even need to hunt Sir Parm as if he were Bin Laden. You need to find another purpose, a real one, not hunting mice and squirrels.”

It’d be funny if it weren’t true, he thought.

“Let’s look at it another way,” she said. “I agree, you’re not a golfer. You don’t need to get into baking sourdough boules or playing the flute.”

He set his fork down with a clang. “The flute? If I were to play an instrument, it wouldn’t be the flute.”

“What’s wrong with the flute?”

He shrugged. “I’m more a trumpet guy.”

“Okay, trumpet then, Louis Armstrong. What I’m saying is you have to find purpose in the present moment. And I’m the pot calling the kettle black. I’m working on this too. But what if we both simply gave each moment the reverence it deserved? It’s not about choosing a hobby. It’s about choosing life. What’s that thing Alan Watts said about how you should measure your days by the degree of presence, not productivity?”

“Yeah, but I still have to do something. I can’t sit around waiting to die, present or not.”

“That’s a matter of perspective: waiting to die versus enjoying each precious breath.”

Bianca plowed ahead. “Even the simplest moments, like being rejected when trying to get cheese for your seafood pasta, are all one needs to find purpose. No matter your religion, I can’t think of a better way to give back for being gifted life than to be fully engaged in the now.”

She took a moment to enjoy a bite, then: “It’s difficult to put into practice because we all have our fears. Our doubts. Our insecurities. Why do you and I both work so hard? Why do we have to-do lists? Why can’t we sit still? Why are my career goals moving targets? Why have I spent the last ten years going nonstop, trying to become someone?”

George reached for a slice of bread from the basket and swiped it across the oily sauce on his plate. “Because you have gifts that you want to share with the world.”

“Thanks for that, but no.” She counted on her hands. “Two reasons: One, I have a desperate need to prove myself. Why? I don’t know. But also because staying busy keeps me from having to sit in my own mess. Retirement may be the best thing that ever happened to you, because you’re being forced to sit with yourself, to get to know yourself. You’ve been stripped of your biggest excuse for not being present. Sure, find something new to do. But don’t find it from a place of desperation. That’s all I’m saying.”

George grunted and mulled over what she’d said. Part of him resisted her advice, maybe because she was so much younger, and even more to the point, he was the one who was supposed to give her advice. But a bigger part of him knew that she’d hit the bull’s-eye.

He rested his elbows on the table and waited for her to look at him, then: “You have it figured out, don’t you?”

“Far from it.”

He stared into the eyes of this woman that he and Faith had created. “Thank you. You give me hope.”

Two days after his latest scheme took hold, Aroldo prepared to approach the opera singer. He’d gotten pretty good at stakeouts and knew the man left his house at exactly two every day, likely going to lunch. He was methodical about it.

Aroldo had gone by the bookstore to run his idea by Sandy, but once again, she hadn’t been in a talkative mood. She wasn’t exactly mean, but he could tell she had other things on her mind. He had spoken to Moira, though, and she loved the idea, said it was the sweetest thing she’d ever heard.

So here Aroldo was, standing under the portico, watching the clock. Precisely at two, the opera man exited his building, glanced up to the cloudy sky, then started to stroll, his hands clasped behind his back. He had a Super Mario quality about him: a pudgy body with short legs, a honker of a nose, big blue eyes, and a mustache and eyebrows that could use a trim.

Aroldo padded across the street and called out, “Mi scusi, posso parlarle?”

Take that, Duo.

“Si,” Super Mario said, pausing his waddle.

Aroldo had translated and printed out his request. As he reached for the folded sheet of paper from his pocket, he said, “I don’t suppose you speak English . . .”

“I speak a little English. What can I help with?” His voice was as rich and vibrative as his singing.

Aroldo gave him the sheet of paper—several paragraphs explaining his plight. He let Super Mario read for a while, then said, “It’s a strange request, but it would mean everything to me.”

Super Mario folded the sheet and handed it back. “It would be an honor.”

On their last day in Venice, Bianca and George sat in the back of a gondola navigating the Venetian waterways with a gondolier named Luca, who wore the classic red-and-white-striped shirt. There was no way they weren’t going to give it a go, despite the brutal sun and absurd price tag.

As far as Bianca was concerned, you couldn’t put a cost on how much fun they were having, how much fun George in particular was having. They’d meandered to Piazza San Marco, stopping for an arancino along the way, and even toured the Doge’s Palace, and her father hadn’t shown any signs of rushing. He’d moved slowly, soaking it all in. It seemed to her that he was trying hard, and trying was a whole lot like loving.

Here he was now, donning a new wide-brimmed hat and leather man bag, his eyes scanning the views, seemingly immersed. He put his arm around her, and she loved the feeling. It had been a long time since she’d seen him so relaxed.