Chapter 1 The Porcupine #2
Sandy had written one or two lines on her cards, whereas Moira filled every possible space with the results of her exhausting contemplation, elaborating with turgid prose on how the book had changed her life or opened her eyes.
And where Sandy’s choices were of a more serious ilk, realist works such as A Little Life, Hamnet, and All My Rage, Moira’s were uplifting, harmless, and unrealistic, like the newest Emily Henry, Eat, Pray, Love, or The Five People You Meet in Heaven.
The Only English Bookstore in Bologna was one of the most beautiful bookstores that had ever come to life, but Sandy had a hard time appreciating it when the headaches involved brought her to blindness.
She wasn’t surprised to find the store empty today, other than Moira.
Oh, that poor girl. Sandy knew she herself wasn’t the best bookseller in the world—let’s just say she’d lost her mojo about eight years ago—but she also knew she wasn’t the worst. Because Moira held that crown, unquestionably the worst bookseller on planet Earth.
Maybe the worst salesperson of any product in the multiverse.
She had a squeaky, British-accented voice, and often Sandy had to tell her to speak up. “No one can hear you, Moira!”
Why didn’t Sandy fire her? She didn’t know. Maybe it was because she wasn’t as mean as she let on. Perhaps it was her way of seeking forgiveness for being so awful half the time. Keeping Moira around proved that Sandy had a heart.
Moira poked her head up from behind the counter.
She dressed and applied makeup like she’d learned at a morgue.
She kept her hair in a short boy’s cut and wore purple glasses with lenses so thick it was like looking into a fishbowl.
And don’t even get Sandy started on the big floppy, black hat she donned when she left the building.
Moira was a mouse and, as touched on earlier, a terrible bookseller, but she loved books and read more than anyone Sandy knew, including Sandy. In theory, she should have been good, but she was terrified to speak up. In fact, she interacted with people as if they were about to lunge at her.
Moira was Sandy’s only friend, though, and vice versa, if only because of forced proximity. If push came to shove, Sandy might admit that she liked talking with Moira, but it would take a hard shove off a steep cliff into boiling water.
As far as what brought Moira to Bologna from Bristol, Sandy wasn’t sure.
The couple of times Sandy had asked her, Moira had flushed red and mumbled something about inheriting money from her aunt and starting over.
Sandy guessed she was either in the witness protection program or the black sheep of a wealthy British family.
“I’ve been thinking . . .” Moira said, half hiding behind the computer screen.
“Please don’t do that,” Sandy replied, straightening several postcards that some numbskull had messed up. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
Moira ducked lower behind the screen.
“Oh, toughen up. You won’t make it another year if you let me start hurting your feelings now. Go on with it. What have you been thinking?”
Even Sandy hated how she treated people sometimes, but her tongue often had a mind of its own, spewing out the muck of what this world had done to her.
Like an astronaut jabbing her flag into the moon, Moira stood taller and finally revealed what had been stewing in that mind of hers. “I think we should start a book club.”
“A book club? For all seven of our clients.”
“I think it would be fun.”
“Oh, sure. A bundle of joy.” Sandy reached into her pocket and felt for the piece of fossilized coral that always brought her comfort. “Moira, the glory days of this bookstore are long gone. I’m not trying to create more work.”
The mouse twirled what little hair she had. “May I say something?”
“You are saying something.”
“I know you don’t see it anymore, but this bookstore is magic, and I believe we owe her more than what we’re giving her.”
“Her?”
“Yes, her. To me, she’s a living, breathing entity. And I don’t want her to be just meh. I want to supercharge her.”
The makings of a headache started. “Does this have anything to do with the advance copy of that self-help book you’re reading?” Sandy already knew the answer, of course.
Moira came alive like someone had tased her. “Yes, it’s so good! From Meh to Megawatt! Bianca Briggs is an international treasure!”
Already tired of hearing about this stupid book, Sandy crossed herself. “Dear God in heaven, please spare me from even ten more seconds of living on this hell ball.” She let go of the coral and came around the counter to stow her purse.
Moira backed away as if Sandy were a leper.
“If this bookstore is living and breathing,” Sandy said over her shoulder, “she’s on a respirator.
No one wants a book club in this town. No one even wants to buy books!
Don’t burden yourself by trying to build something out of nothing.
I tried the whole community thing, creating a place to gather, to share thoughts, to meet people. It was fun while it lasted.”
It was fun. Those first two years had been wonderful.
Perusers bought books. Humans actually read books.
That time felt so distant that it was hard to believe, but opening the bookstore had given her such renewed hope and joy in life.
She’d given her all, creating a profitable bookstore that had not only emulated Shakespeare and Company but also rivaled it.
Gone were those days, though. Finito!
Sandy straightened up around the computer. “All I want is to come into work, sell enough books to keep the lights on, and then get on with my life without any other interference. Capisci?”
Standing at a safe distance on the other side of the postcard stand, Moira said, “You might fire me for saying so, but I disagree, with all of it. There are a ton of expats in this city. We might all be running from something, but we crave connection too. People might find that here if you let them. Though you may not know it, even you might be craving connection.”
Sandy put her hands on her waist. “Moira, I’d fire you but then I’d have to get used to putting up with someone else’s shit.
So you’re stuck with me and this godforsaken place till you smarten up and realize you’d be better off scooping gelato.
The good news is you don’t have to overthink all these things.
There will be no supercharging my bookstore.
Come in, sell your six books a day, turn off the lights, and lock the door. That’s the perfect life. Got me?”
The mouse shook her little mousy head.
Self-loathing Sandy started feeling bad for her.
There was nothing more miserable than feeling pity for someone.
Especially when you’re the cause of their misery.
She almost—almost—asked whether Moira wanted to go get a glass of wine, but she’d managed to avoid fraternizing with her employees for ten years.
She sure as hell wouldn’t start today. The girl would have to pull up her big-girl panties and get over it.
It’s a good thing you could hide your internet history, because even after he was gone, George Briggs didn’t want people to know how meticulous he’d been in researching the best way to extinguish his life.
The last thing he wanted was to survive a failed attempt.
He couldn’t shake the picture he’d seen of a man who’d blown his jaw off, only to have to face the world after waking up in the hospital.
The guy couldn’t even kill himself properly.
George would not make that mistake.
What had shocked him was how easy it would be to buy a gun in Arizona.
No waiting period, no permit. A background check that would only take a few minutes.
According to ChatGPT, a Glock 19 would be the wisest choice, as it was both dependable and easy to operate.
He’d driven by the gun stores right off the Black Canyon Freeway several times but hadn’t found the courage (if that was the right word?) to go through with it.
A gun felt so damned violent. Well, of course it did, especially for a guy who’d grown up in a gunless household in South Phoenix.
Hold on, household was a strong word. An exaggeration.
He’d grown up in a single-wide trailer in poverty.
His mother had died when he was nine, leaving his father, Mason, to go it alone.
If they gave grades for overcoming grief, let’s just say Mason would not have made honor roll.
He likely would have had to repeat a grade.
George kept thinking of Bianca, his only child. She lived in Austin, so it wasn’t that she would discover the body. It’s that the image would haunt her. The gore from a gunshot seemed far more terrible than something like . . .
. . . what he’d settled on now.
It was a Tuesday in March, and George sat in the living room of his apartment in Midtown Phoenix, the place he’d lived since the divorce.
He held a bottle containing twenty-five pills of Percocet, which the internet had confirmed were well beyond a lethal dose.
A much less dramatic way to go. All he had to do was knock them back like Tylenol, a few at a time, washing them down with the glass of ice water that he’d set on a coaster because even though he wouldn’t live to see it, he still couldn’t imagine leaving a ring on the coffee table.
Maybe Bianca would want the table for her place in Texas.
Twisting off the cap, he poured the first few in his hand, white pills that would take him away from this living nightmare.
Most of his things were in boxes all over the apartment, packed exceptionally well and labeled appropriately.
In a burst of naive inspiration shortly after his dismissal from Intel, he’d decided he’d try to embrace his forced retirement by cashing in his stock and buying a house in Red Hawk, a gated golf community in Scottsdale. The movers were coming in three days.
It was a move that he couldn’t face, though.