Chapter 17 The Inaugural Book Club and Other Disasters
The Inaugural Book Club and Other Disasters
George was busy trying to cut through a block of cheese at the table in the bookstore (Why couldn’t they precut slices in Italy?), pondering an interaction with Sandy at the cash register a moment ago.
A friendship was brewing, and he wondered whether she might have let it become more if he weren’t leaving.
He could understand. He’d been hurt before.
Considering his inevitable departure, why set themselves up for it?
Though she hadn’t said much about her own romantic past, she’d glossed over her two ugly marriages. Enough said. As George knew, even one divorce was enough to break you into pieces.
Still, though, he was thrilled to enjoy the spark they so clearly had.
He wasn’t sure how old she was, early fifties maybe?
Still young, but it seemed that finding sparks grew more difficult as the sand ran through the hourglass.
He, for one, hadn’t experienced a sizzle of attraction like this since his ex-wife.
God, that was a long time ago. Motorola had just snagged him fresh out of Arizona State, and he’d jumped into a team refining the Motorola 68000 microprocessor chip, which powered the early Apples and Ataris. And then Faith came along, barreling him over.
He finally maneuvered around the rind and nabbed a couple of cuts of cheese to go with the mortadella he’d piled high. Moira was encouraging everyone to find their seats so that they could get started.
“Can I get you a drink, Dad?” Bianca set a hand on his shoulder, and she couldn’t have known how much the gesture meant to him. He’d been nothing but trouble since he’d first arrived, making things worse with every moment. And yet here she was, still trying.
He glanced at her hand on his shoulder, then met her eyes. “Don’t suppose they have a beer over there, do they? A Moretti?” Look at that, he was speaking Italian after all.
“Coming right up. Want to grab us seats?”
He found two spots in a circle of chairs that felt more like an AA meeting than a social gathering.
Right on time, Moira took the floor. She was so clearly eager to have this club.
How many times had she stopped George and Bianca on the street to make sure they would attend?
When she began to speak, she skipped whole syllables trying to set words free.
“Welcome to the inaugural meeting of The Only English Book Club in Bologna,” she started.
“I’m so giddy and nervous all at once. We didn’t know what to expect, turnout-wise.
I suppose this is a good start. We’ll have a meeting the first Tuesday of every month.
Please tell your friends. You know, we expats might be a bunch of black sheep, so far away from home because we didn’t fit in, but we still need our people.
That’s what I envision here. A place where we can connect because life’s not much without connection. ”
George took Bianca’s hand for a moment. She lobbed a grin back at him.
When Moira continued, she found her groove.
“I don’t want this to be a formal thing.
The way I see it, books bring us together.
Which is funny, isn’t it? We commit to fifteen or twenty hours, or in the case of Rebecca Yarros or Stephen King, thirty hours alone, immersing ourselves in a book, escaping the world we know.
But when we come up for air, we see things differently.
We feel more connected because we had the pleasure of slipping into someone else’s skin.
Our eyes were opened to another world, another experience.
We see that even though we’re miles or even light-years apart, we’re all after the same things: happiness, meaning, love.
That’s what I find in books, and that’s what I want to find here in this room—in this community that I so desperately want to build.
This bookstore, it means everything to me.
I see her as a living, breathing organism, and she wants this community as much as anyone. Let’s give it to her, friends.”
She stopped then, and a quiet took over the bookstore.
She seemed to shrink some, unsure of her words.
But then a clap came from the back, and George turned to see Sandy standing under the arch cheering her sole employee on.
George jumped in as well, and within seconds, everyone was lifting Moira up.
Responding to the warm reception, Moira transformed, growing like one of those bath toys that expands when it gets wet. She sure had a way with words. George felt an eagerness to read for the first time in forever.
“Thank you,” Moira said, as the clapping died down. “My hope is that we can all share in the decision of which book we choose each month, but today, for the coming month, since this is my party, I’d like to nominate a book written by one of our own, a new neighbor: Bianca Briggs.”
She gave Bianca a short introduction, then said, “The first chapter in the book is about being honest with yourself, confessing as if you are both the sinner and the priest in the confessional. I’ve done that a lot lately.
If I’m being honest, Peggy Meh, the case study in the book, has nothing on me. ”
That drew some laughter, especially from Bianca. Perhaps she could see that her book wasn’t all for naught. It might not have performed as she’d hoped, but it was being talked about. That was something.
“Mr. Briggs,” Moira said, cutting straight to him, “I hate to put you on the spot, but what’s your favorite part?”
Wait, what?
Heads twisted, eyes fixed on him. A quiet blanketed the room. He hadn’t seen this one coming. Never in a million years. And in the seconds that followed, he made quick moves in his head, trying to figure a way out of it.
He found Bianca’s eyes searching his, maybe curious about his answer, or perhaps mortified that he was about to screw things up (which he was).
He decided that he couldn’t lie. Not that he’d lied before about reading her book.
He’d sidestepped the truth, offering compliments, but never had he outright lied and said he’d read it. That wouldn’t start today.
“I’m . . . I haven’t . . .” Blood rushed to his head.
“What’s that?” Moira asked.
George cleared his throat. “I’m ashamed to say I haven’t read it.” He glanced over at Bianca, who turned her head. He tried to take her hand, but she pulled it away.
“It’s complicated, but . . .” Oh, God, what had he done?
Was no one else going to say something? They were waiting for further explanation, but they certainly weren’t ready for the truth.
That he’d been suicidal in the weeks leading up to the book’s release?
That the only joy he’d felt in his life since retirement was seeing her succeed, seeing her publish a book, but that he hadn’t been able to get through her words because they’d cut so fucking deep?
Peggy Meh’s issues with her miserable excuse for a father had driven a stake through his heart.
Bianca could insist all day long that he wasn’t the inspiration, but George saw flickers of what he’d done to his daughter, being so absent, making her the product of a divorce, driving her nuts even when he was trying his best.
He had never asked Bianca about it, because he knew it was true: He’d made it into her book in the worst of ways.
“Before I’m put in front of the firing squad, I guess I should say that it’s been a long year for me. Not that it’s an excuse, but retirement about killed me, and Bianca’s book came out at the same time, and I’m afraid . . . I . . . I haven’t been in the best shape.”
He turned to his daughter, who wouldn’t look at him. “Sorry, B.”
After that, Moira stepped in and invited everyone to go around the room and introduce themselves.
George ate more cheese and mortadella and drank another beer.
His daughter didn’t make eye contact with him once.
Turned out to be the longest hour of his life, and when he left, he left alone, passing by Sandy and offering her a sad smile as he opened the door.
Immediately following the book club, Aroldo and Moira took an outdoor table at Sorso Sospetto and ordered Aperol spritzes. They’d asked Sandy to join, but she’d declined. It looked like it might rain soon, but no one seemed worried about it.
“I can’t believe I put George on the spot like that,” Moira said. “I feel horrible.”
Aroldo crossed one leg over the other and lit a smoke. They were going down easier now. “It’s questionable that he didn’t read his daughter’s book, no? How could you have known?”
“I know, but . . . I can still see the horror on his face.”
“Yeah, he’s in trouble. Other than that, it was great.” He blew out a perfect smoke ring; he’d been practicing.
Moira bit into the orange that came with her drink, then said, “It’s like what that person said to Abraham Lincoln’s wife in Ford’s Theatre. ‘Other than the obvious, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the show?’”
Aroldo took a long sip, studying his companion.
Who was this woman who hid behind thick glasses and a floppy hat?
She was an onion if there ever was one. She’d spoken so eloquently at the event, her love of books infectious.
She seemed far wiser than her years. Clearly, she’d distilled down the many books she’d read, and they’d formed who she was and informed her rich and hopeful perspective.
Harold might have noticed had he not been up his own ass; Aroldo was far more perceptive.
With genuine curiosity, he asked about her life, what had led her here, what was next. She seemed surprised by his curiosity, that anyone would ever ask, but once she got going, he could see that she so desperately wanted to share, to connect.
“I was married before, and it failed epically. Like in ways I can’t even talk about.”
“What does that mean, can’t talk about?”
She drew a finger across her lips, then adjusted her glasses. “Legally speaking.”