Chapter 5 Romance Is Dead
Romance Is Dead
Aside from Moira the Mouse, the only other person in the bookstore was a woman likely in her early thirties, a curvy brunette with thick eyebrows and lips. Judging by the fact that she’d found the place, she had to be a direct descendant of Sherlock Holmes.
“Are you looking for the mystery section?” Sandy jokingly asked the young woman, who ran her finger along the spines in the barely existent romance section.
As a survivor of two devastating marriages, Sandy loathed romance books of all types and would have preferred to keep her store romance-free, but if she did, she’d likely have gone under by now. Besides, she enjoyed it when these pitiful seekers of love asked, “Is this all you have for romance?”
Sandy wanted to respond, “Is this all I have? Yes, it is. Go read something with some substance. Good God.” But her typical reply was, “Yes, it’s such a tiny store, and I prefer realism.”
In true clichéd fashion, the younger woman turned to Sandy. “Do you have that new Bridgerton book?”
Oh, God, Sandy thought. Another delusional Bridgerton disciple who actually thinks there are men out there like that. She wanted to grab the woman and whisper in her ear, “Wake the fuck up. Love died with Romeo.”
But she didn’t because she didn’t want to eclipse Moira for worst bookseller.
“I don’t,” Sandy replied with only a sprinkle of snide. “Keep meaning to. I’m sorry.”
“Are you the owner?”
Sandy had started to walk away but pivoted. “I am.” If she asks for a Lucy Score book, I will hit her in the head with a hardback of Lolita.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” the impressionable, and obviously Italian-American, woman said.
“I live almost across the street, moved here from Austin, and I was so worried I’d have a hard time finding books.
And not that I’m a big deal at all, like at all, but I noticed you have a few copies of my book. Thanks for that.”
Sandy looked at her deadpan. Oh, great, an author. If this one is anything like the last one, she’ll ask me why I’m not selling more copies. But Sandy played it cordial. “You’re an author? How wonderful.” Her sarcasm dripped off her words like honey.
“Well, author is a strong word. I’ve written one self-help book.” The not-really-an-author-because-she-only-wrote-one-book held up a copy of From Meh to Megawatt: Supercharge Your Life.
“Oh, that’s you?” Sandy turned toward the cash register and called out, “Moira.”
No response.
“Moira! Are you playing solitaire again? Can’t you hear I’m speaking the two syllables of your dumb name?”
After what felt like an hour and a half, Moira appeared from the back and crept up like she was negotiating a sheet of melting ice.
“You won’t believe who this is,” Sandy said.
“Who?” Mousy Moira looked through the telescopes she called glasses. It took her a minute to process who she was looking at, but then light bulbs appeared over her head, and she sprang to attention like someone had shocked her with jumper cables. “No way. Bianca Briggs?”
Surprise hit Bianca’s face like wind from a commercial fan. “That’s me.” It sounded more like a question than statement.
“You have no idea how much I love your book! I’m a total Megawatter.”
Here we go, Sandy thought, recalling the time Moira had chased the famously introverted Fredrik Backman all the way down the street like he was Robert Redford.
“Look what I got last week!” Moira rolled up her sleeve and aimed it at Bianca, then Sandy. A tattoo on her forearm read, Leave burn marks.
“And?” Sandy said, clueless as to what it meant. Also beyond shocked that Moira had this secret Megawatter life—and a tattoo?
“Leave burn marks,” Moira said. “That’s the battle cry of the Megawatters. Live life in such a way that you leave burn marks. I was telling the tattoo artist it’s like the crater after an asteroid crash. Live loudly, you know? Boom.”
Boom? Sandy questioned silently.
Bianca looked to be in her own state of shock. When Moira finally gave her a moment to speak, she said genuinely, “I’m beyond flattered.”
Moira rolled her sleeve back down and whisper-screamed in her English accent, “I’ve been pushing it like crazy. It’s on my shelf of favorites in the back too. What brings you here?”
Sandy thought she better go find some cheese and lure Moira away before she scared their visiting author.
“I just moved here from Texas.”
Moira opened her mouth so wide in surprise that you could have crammed all 849 pages of Stephen King’s 11/22/63 in there. “To Bologna?”
“Here, to Via Giulia,” Bianca said.
The mouth of the mouse opened even wider, making room for the entire Outlander series. “We’re neighbors?” She performed a double fist pump. “Yes! Megawatters unite!”
Sandy looked for a wall to ram her head into.
Bianca explained that she’d done a gap year in Bologna ten years prior.
Moira pointed out that Sandy had opened the bookstore around the same time.
What a coincidence! Then she took over with a barrage of squeaky literary praise, how Moira had been following the steps in the book, how her life was different, blah, blah, blah.
Sandy worried Bianca would run out the door like Backman had, but she held her ground and listened with what could be construed as grace, though Sandy hated to give anyone that much credit.
When Moira finally took a breath, Bianca touched her chest and batted her eyelashes. “I don’t know what to say.”
Sandy wanted to shout, “You just said it. By saying ‘I don’t know what to say,’ you said something.” Bianca and Moira were two peas in a stupid pod.
Starting toward the counter, she decided she better get some work done because Moira would be distracted all day after this celebrity encounter.
“I’m serious,” Moira continued. “Peggy Meh is my favorite. The whole idea is so funny! And the way you talked about lighting the fire . . . the Let Go days . . . and . . . and then your analogy of jumping into a cold lake and how you’re terrified, but the moment you’ve done it, then you’re free.
You won’t believe it, but I took the train up to Lake Garda and jumped into the lake myself.
” Of course, Moira was whisper-screaming all this. Then she added, “Naked. I was naked!”
Bianca lit up and let slip a cackle.
It was the first time Sandy had heard this story, and she wondered whether it was true. Maybe Moira wasn’t as boring as Sandy thought.
Nevertheless, the worst bookseller in history looked like she was about to start humping Bianca’s leg. “I’m trying to follow all the steps, but it’s a lot.”
“Yeah, I’ve received similar feedback. Maybe a bit much to cram into each day.”
“I’m picking and choosing, a choose-your-own-adventure kind of thing. Hey, what if you did a book signing?” Moira whipped her head to Sandy. “What do you think, Sandy? To welcome her to the neighborhood?”
Sandy pretended like she wasn’t listening, but then gave in. In a tone devoid of enthusiasm, she said, “Yeah, that could be good.”
Book signings were hit-and-miss and required a tremendous amount of work, what with the promotion and having to rearrange the store to accommodate an audience, but Sandy couldn’t imagine losing what she and her son, Jack, had started together, and that meant she somehow needed to find a way to start getting people in the door again.
“What do you say?” Moira asked the author.
Bianca took a giant breath. “I . . . the thing is. My book didn’t do that well back home. Part of me is here to escape. I’m still processing that you liked it.”
“What’s not to like?” Moira asked, staring at the book cover like it was a Picasso.
“Peggy Meh, so brilliant—and hysterical. How did you even think of that?” Moira turned to Sandy.
“Bianca’s a therapist, but instead of using different real-life clients as her case studies, she created this made-up, Frankenstein-monster of a client with all the problems. And her name’s Peggy Meh.
By working with Bianca over the course of two years, she turns into Peggy Megawatt.
” Back to Bianca, she said, “A couple of weeks ago, while I was looking in the mirror, I called myself Moira Megawatt. That’s when I knew I had to get the tattoo. ”
Moira stopped there, exhilaration written all over her.
Bianca was shaking her head, smiling sincerely. “I’m so full of gratitude right now. You have no idea.”
Two peas in a pod, for sure.
“You’ve been quiet on your socials lately,” Moira said. “Now I know why.”
“That’s right—busy moving and all that. I’m going to get back to it soon.”
Sandy hadn’t heard Moira talk so much in one day since Ann Patchett’s visit. She felt mortified all over again.
Moira finally gathered her breath and spoke in a more controlled manner. “We haven’t done many signings, but we’re trying to do more. Right, Sandy? Maybe even a talk if you’re up for it. I’d love to hear about your history, your process. What’s next for Peggy Meh. Everything.”
“Okay, Moira,” Sandy said, stepping back toward this car wreck. “Let’s let Bianca be.”
Moira shrank. “Oh, okay. I’m sorry to bother you.” Then she added, “But it would mean so much to me.”
Bianca said with a sprinkle of defeat, “I’d love to do it. Why not?”
“Really?” Moira suddenly looked to be in the full throes of an orgasm. “When could we do it, Sandy?”
Sandy considered the question. They didn’t have any scheduled events next week. Or the week after. Or the week after that. Or the week or month after that. Ugh, people were awful, especially a big group of them fawning all over an author.
Being put on the spot forced her to cave, though. “How about next Thursday, four to six? Would that work?”
Other than setting up her apartment, Bianca had no other plans. “If you guys want to.”
“It would mean the world to us,” Moira said. “Right, Sandy?”
“The world, that’s right,” Sandy replied gleefully. Soooo gleefully. She reached into her pocket and, with the pads of her fingers, caressed the rough coral that she never strayed far from, a pacifier that gave her strength.
Bianca couldn’t quite process what had happened.
It was nice to be recognized, but a tattoo?
Wow. That was a first. Yes, she had her Megawatters, as she called them, die-hard followers who consistently responded to her social media posts and Substacks, and who’d claimed that they’d loved the book, but for someone to have branded themselves was next-level.
The bookstore clerk had likened “Leave burn marks” to an asteroid crash. Bianca wouldn’t soon forget that analogy.
As much as she had wanted to refuse, Moira’s plea had been hard to reject. It would be fine, a harmless hour or two chatting and signing books, a good way to ingratiate herself into her new neighborhood.
She hiked up the three flights of crooked stone steps to her new place, which had turned out to be everything she’d hoped.
It was an adorable flat with abundant light and stark-white stucco walls.
She’d rented the place furnished and loved the owner’s taste: bright colors that popped against all the white.
It had air-conditioning, a Nespresso machine, and some decent plates and stemware.
Of course, she’d have to pick up a few things to make it homier, but it was a good start.
Both bedrooms were cute and had decently comfortable queen-size beds.
A balcony begging for potted plants looked down over the cobblestoned Via Giulia, which was just as Carol had described it: a Bolognese dream.
Last night, her first in the flat, she’d gone out onto the balcony to enjoy a glass of wine and people-watch, and her opera-singing neighbor two buildings down had appeared, setting his hands on the railing of his own balcony and breaking into a haunting aria that brought her to tears.
By the time he finished, his music had filled her heart with hope.
Maybe she hadn’t messed up beyond repair.
Kicking off her shoes, she sat back on the couch to call her mom, who’d been blowing up her phone for two days. “Hey, Mom.”
“You never don’t call me. What’s going on?” Faith was now Faith Morrison and lived with her new husband in his giant palace in Palm Springs. It was no secret that she’d married him for his money. Faith had a ton of endearing qualities, but she’d do whatever it took to never join the workforce.
After some chitchat, Faith broached the subject of Bianca’s dad. She said he still hadn’t found his way in retirement.
“How often are you talking to him, Mom?” Bianca asked with surprise, assuming they spoke every few months. They’d divorced twenty years prior.
“All the time.”
Bianca wasn’t sure what to make of that. “You’re not, like, flirting with him, are you?”
“No, I’m not flirting with George. I’m married, Bianca. But he’s struggling, and I feel bad for him. He’s worked hard all his life, like really hard, and now he has nothing to do.”
“It’s good for him,” Bianca said, imagining her father squirming in the quietude of joblessness. He was way worse than her. “Maybe he’ll finally slow down.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“I know, I know.” And she did. She was experiencing it firsthand. “I’m supposed to talk to him tomorrow. I’ll check in.”
“That would be great. He loves you so much and always values your thoughts. I know you’ll have some helpful advice for him, some daughter psychotherapy. I keep telling him he needs to get out, go take some classes at the community college. I don’t think he’s liking the golf thing.”
Bianca had to laugh at the last one. He’d moved to a gated community on a golf course in Scottsdale shortly after he’d been let go. She’d known that was a bad idea from the beginning. He’d always hated golf.
“I’ll check in on him tomorrow, see what I can do to help.”
Bianca already knew he was struggling from their occasional chats. He’d worked so hard for the last however many years that he’d basically missed Bianca’s childhood and had certainly destroyed his marriage with Faith.
After they hung up, Bianca fell back into her chair and closed her eyes. She’d crossed an ocean to get away from all these things, but already the book and her dad had found her.