Chapter 15 A Relentless Hunter
A Relentless Hunter
Bianca sat at a small table outside of a bar Lucio Dalla, a cherished Bolognese musician who first broke into the scene in the seventies, used to frequent. She’d stopped by the bookstore and bought the new Isabel Allende, which was doing a poor job of pulling her away from thoughts of her father.
Thoughts of Her Father. Sounded like a chapter in the next book that she now had to write unless she wanted to spit into the eyes of destiny. Not that Bianca was opposed to proving Donna Bologna wrong. It was either that or willingly leap back into the pot of boiling water.
How was it possible that she could be in Bologna, living this new life, a long way from the world that had pulled her down, book in hand in a bar in the old town of Bologna, and yet still be unhappy, unable to read even a paragraph without her mind going astray?
What Bianca kept trying to do, trying being the operative word here, was find empathy for her father.
She could relate to the little boy inside him, the kid raised in poverty by a grieving father.
George rarely talked about his childhood, even when urged, so most of what Bianca knew were bits and pieces she’d pried out of him.
She supposed it was understandable that he was this way and was likely never going to change.
He didn’t even recognize his constant movement as a problem.
For him, it was a badge of honor. I work the hardest of anyone in this room.
If he could say that, then he was doing well, a notion with which she could certainly empathize.
Further complicating the matter, Bianca’s Megawatters had been delighted to read about her latest adventure. So many warm messages of encouragement. And at least a few hundred asking about another book. Were they crazy? Were they serious?
One message in particular, from Beth Anne in Wichita, had said: I’m so happy (and jealous) for your Italy adventure. Just tell me one thing. Is this research for Peggy Goes to Italy? Please say yes. Your book helped me so much, but I have a long way to go.
Realizing she wasn’t in the right mindset to read, Bianca set the book down and people-watched for a while: a businessman in a hurry, a mom tugging on her child, saying, “Andiamo, Andiamo.”
Then a familiar voice from the crowd. “Hey, you’re the famous American writer, yeah?”
Slightly excited to be recognized, she searched for a Megawatter in the crowd. Of course, she’d been recognized in Texas and by Moira at the bookstore, but this was a first in . . .
Wait, it was Corrado smirking as he stood over her. He wore a chef’s shirt with his name and the name of his restaurant woven into the pocket.
“Well, look at this. My stalker.”
“Stalker? You’re stalking me. It’s my city, remember?”
“Your city? You’re supposed to be in Paris.”
He shook his head. “Paris didn’t suit me.”
A long quiet followed with some sort of stalled momentum in it, as if they were two tigers in the wild hiding behind tall grass and hunting the same prey. Who would go first?
“I won’t bother you,” he finally said. “Just returning from a meeting. Enjoy your—”
“Would you like to join me?” Bianca interrupted, not wanting him to go.
“Grazie, ma no. You keep reading your . . . Isabel Allende. It’s nice to see you, ciao.” He didn’t wait for her response, but eased back into the crowd.
What? she thought. Her jaw smacked the sidewalk, causing a slight tremor that might have registered on a seismometer. He’s going to walk away?
Desperately she called, “Corrado! Sit your ass down.” Her voice cut through the city noise, causing more than a few heads to turn. She set her book aside and watched him turn back and sit across from her. If he wasn’t careful, she was going to smack that smile off him.
Ready for battle, she said, “Don’t you need to be in a kitchen or something?”
“I was interviewing a sous chef down the street, now headed to the restaurant.”
“To do what? Chop vegetables?”
“No, my Bianca. We’re a month away. I have preparations. Deliveries to take, more interviews, marketing meetings.”
“You sound so grown up now.”
“I suppose so. Happens to the best of us, right?” He held up a finger, then ordered an espresso from the cameriere. Back to her, he asked, “How’s Bologna treating you?”
“That’s a loaded question.” She now remembered his ability to give every bit of his attention to her. “It’s great to be here, but my dad’s complicated the mission.”
“The mission?”
“You know, just my . . .” She considered how to answer. “My journey to reclaim who I once was.”
A warm smile played on his face. “Life gets complicated, doesn’t it?”
A breeze blew by, and she took a moment to enjoy it, then: “You probably won’t, but do you remember the promise I made to you the night before I left? We were at Osteria del Sole.”
“The one where you said you’d come find me, that you’d be back? Before you ravished me in my bed, a goodbye like I’ll never know again.”
A hurricane spun up her legs. “Stop it.”
He bit his lower lip.
“Okay, I guess I broke two promises. The other was that I wouldn’t get pulled back into the whole American thing, working all the time, not taking moments to breathe, not connecting with friends, not really living.”
His face straightened. “Yes, I remember.”
“I let go of everything I learned living here. It was like I drank a big Starbucks drink that swept me back up. If I’m being honest, I felt like the only way was to go kick ass out there in the world, make something of myself.
Become an accomplisher. Isn’t that silly?
Wouldn’t that be an interesting word on my gravestone.
Bianca Briggs died of a heart attack from working too hard; she will always be known as an accomplisher.
Then there would be a parenthetical at the bottom.
And though it turned out to be a dud, she even wrote a book. ”
She pulled back before saying more. He was the last person to whom she should be confessing.
His espresso came, and he took a sip, moaning with pleasure. She remembered that about him too. They could be talking, hanging out, doing whatever, but if he got near something worth tasting, he always paid deep attention to the flavor.
Once he’d set his cup down, he said, “The book didn’t do well?”
“Fine, I guess. Definitely didn’t shake up the world. Let’s just say I was hoping for something that might outsell The Secret.”
A headshake. “I don’t know that one. The accomplishment is enough in and of itself.
I have a friend who’s a writer, back in Paris, called Jacques.
We worked together. Writes these mysteries solved by a crazy alcoholic blind detective.
One time he told me that he became a much better writer when he stopped trying to write a bestseller, stopped trying to become this famous writer.
Instead, he wrote for himself, what he wanted to read, and didn’t care whatever the others said.
Ironically, that’s also when he started selling enough books to leave his restaurant job. ”
What had been her mindset while writing her book?
She scrolled through the life of it, from the seed of an idea to print: Donna Bologna telling her she’d write one, the idea fading as she pursued her therapy degree at UT, only to resurface around the time she opened her practice.
But she hadn’t put pen to paper till a year after she’d finally established herself, proving that she had what it took to build up a client list. That time in between had been a blur of hard work.
If anything, her book was just another product of her obsessive climb to the top of a mountain that actually had no top.
“I do like Peggy Meh,” Corrado said, sticking a crowbar into the spokes of her mind chatter.
“Wait, what? You read it?” All at once, she was flattered and horrified.
“I’m reading it. Found it at that bookstore where you had your signing.”
“I told you not to.”
“Why not? I always loved diving into you, exploring your mind.”
Diving into her. Birds flapped wings behind her rib cage while he sat there so innocently, his gentle (naive?) pursuit of her a glint in his eyes.
“I’m proud of you; you’re a great writer. Not that my English is perfect, but I like your style.”
“You and my mom.”
“My friend Jacques said it took him a few books before anyone discovered him. I’m sure that’s the case here. What’s next?”
“That’s the question.” She smiled to herself. “If there is a next; I’m not sure.”
“I like the name Peggy. You should keep her around.”
“Peggy was a placeholder name,” Bianca said.
“I had the idea, a blend of all the clients I’d worked with or read about, but I couldn’t think of a good name, so I called her Peggy Meh and planned on changing it later.
But my agent loved it, and she convinced my publisher to love it.
Then the idea of Meh to Megawatt took root.
That’s partially why it failed. People think it’s cheesy.
Some of the reviews tear the concept apart. ”
“People don’t know anything,” he said. “And who cares anyway? The act of finishing it must have been so rewarding. I imagine it would be similar to how I might feel on opening night of the restaurant. To realize the impossible dream, you know.”
Why was he so easy to talk to? So honest.
“Would you say it’s autobiographical?” he asked. The way he fumbled through the last word was adorable. “Did Bianca Meh become Bianca Megawatt?”
There he was again, picking on her. Not meanly, but it still cut deep.
“No, it’s not autobiographical, but of course, I’m trying to better myself.
Push myself. Like everybody else who wants to realize their potential.
That’s the point of my book.” She hated how defensive she felt.
“Don’t tell me you’re not supercharged, doing whatever it took to get a job at L’Ambroisie, then coming back to chase your own Michelin star. Talk about megawatts.”