Chapter 10 Encounters of the Fourth Kind
Encounters of the Fourth Kind
Someone please tell me why I let Moira talk me into hosting a book event.
Anyone? Hello? Sandy’s mind was ablaze with regret, and quite frankly, shock.
Moira, the worst salesperson to ever have attempted to peddle anything in the history of earth, had somehow made this thing happen.
Oh, Sandy knew why; Moira had begged and pleaded as though nothing mattered more.
Even the most hardened eventually give in.
But as the four o’clock hour drew near, Sandy wished with all of her heart that she hadn’t said yes. She’d have to race to move the shelves back and fold up the chairs in time to get to her tango class.
Moira had taken the liberty of using the store credit card for several large prints of the cover of Bianca’s book, and Sandy was currently staring at one of the two that stood on stands on either side of the table where Bianca would soon be.
The title, From Meh to Megawatt: Supercharge Your Life was presented in an annoying font, like Comic Sans, over a background of a purple that would be better suited for a sex worker’s nail polish.
Below the title was an exhausting take on Rudolph Zallinger’s The March of Progress, the drawing of the evolution of man that had been parodied into oblivion.
In this version, it showed the evolution of a woman becoming “supercharged” by way of lightning bolts striking each version of Peggy Meh who, as Moira explained, by the end of the book evolved into Peggy Megawatt.
There weren’t enough eye rolls in the entirety of Italy to respond to the cover or the concept. How did one say “Give me a break” in Italian? Dammi una pausa didn’t translate well. Maybe risparmiami. Spare me.
Moira had hung blown-up copies of the cover throughout the store.
Not that anyone would see them, because they had no customers, which meant printing them had been an utter waste of euros.
Sandy was tempted to take the exorbitant expense out of Moira’s paycheck, especially if no one bought any of the Fifty books they’d ordered for the event.
“Did you get a chance to read it?” Moira asked, appearing out of nowhere with a box from Paolo Atti you must be the owner,” the man said, offering a hand.
Though it was silver, he had great hair, thick and wavy.
How could a man waste a head of hair like that with such dated attire?
If he pulled his khakis any higher, he’d strangle himself.
If his shoes were any brighter, he’d knock Earth off its axis.
She might even need those eclipse glasses to protect her vision.
When their eyes found each other, Sandy recognized his look—heat-seeking missiles locking in on a target. He was probably in his sixties but thought he had a chance.
“Yes, I’m Sandy.” As he took her hand, she looked away. If he only knew that he’d been born twenty or thirty years too early to ever have a chance with her.
She was about to get back to work when George pressed on. “How long have you been here? You’re American, obviously. Where are you from?”
Oh, God, Sandy thought. Please don’t embarrass yourself. Rejection is my middle name.
She had to at least be polite, so she attempted to answer without letting her annoyance show. Squinting against the bright light of his shoes, she said, “Florida, originally. Moved here twelve years ago.”
Trying to be sly about it, he took a glance at her bare ring finger. Why hadn’t she worn her burner ring today?
“How do you do it?” he asked, looking up again. “I’m here two days and already miss home.”
Finding the coral in her pocket, she rubbed its porous surface slowly, like trying to draw a genie from a bottle. “This is home to me.”
As she started away, he tried again. “Can I ask you something?”
She made a reluctant pivot. “What’s that?”
“What happens if someone opens a second English bookstore here?” A sly grin, slightly warm and not exactly annoying, took over his face as he ran a hand through his annoyingly perfect head of hair.
And she relented, allowing a smile herself. It wasn’t the first time she’d been asked the question, considering the name of her bookstore was The Only English Bookstore in Bologna.
“They can’t.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, an eyebrow hiking up.
“Because I’m the only English bookstore.”
“So there’s a decree?”
“Exactly.” Sandy was the first to look away. He had no business flirting with her.
“I do love the name. It’s brave.”
“Thank you,” Sandy said, appreciating that maybe he understood.
She’d forgotten that Moira and Bianca were standing there till Moira interrupted. “It’s so brave,” she said. “And I always liked how long it is. Reminds me of titles like Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society—”
“Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café,” Bianca said.
“Oh, that’s a good one,” Moira said.
Sandy had never seen her employee happier. If she wasn’t careful, Moira might spring a gasket in that little head of hers.
Moira kept going, strangling yet another conversational thread to death, as she’d been known to do. “Tom Robbins had some too. Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. And Elizabeth Berg, Earth’s the Right Place for Love.”
George turned to Sandy and shrugged. She chuckled silently, as if they both shared in the thought that Moira was exhausting, then said, “I have things to do. Nice to meet you, George.”
He asked if he could help, and she shook her head.
“Okay, well, I hope to see you around. And that no one else tries to open an English bookstore.”
Though she didn’t want to, she rewarded him by shaking her head with what might have been construed as another smile.
While Moira walked Bianca through the plan, Sandy climbed the winding stairs to her office.
On the floor by her antique desk, a growing stack of books signed by various authors who’d visited over the years collected dust. Two framed pictures glowed in the light of the sole window, one of Nicolo perched on the highest accessible spot of her balcony, and the other of her son in his dress blues before he shipped off for his first deployment.
She sat in her swivel chair and fired up the computer, then proceeded to draw circles with her mouse for a good ten minutes, her gaze lost in space, wondering why she hated everyone so, why she had such vitriolic reactions.
No, it wasn’t that she hated everyone. She was just annoyed by everyone.
Even people she’d barely met bothered her.
Hell, people she’d never met were out there annoying her, fleshbags on other continents nagging at her by simply breathing.
Hand to the fire, she’d admit she hated this about herself.
Of course, it would be nice to be a bubbly welcome basket of hugs and kisses and laughter, but not everyone was like that, and Sandy had come to accept and even enjoy the cloud of pessimism that had settled over her head.
One thing was for sure: She rarely became disappointed because she kept the bar incredibly low.