Chapter 17 The Inaugural Book Club and Other Disasters #2
He stubbed out his cigarette. “Consider my curiosity piqued. And I guess it will never be quenched. You sure you don’t want to elaborate?” He drew a finger across his lips.
“Maybe one day.”
“How about music?” he asked, letting her off the hook. “What’s your favorite music?”
She listed a few bands and artists. He stopped her when she mentioned P. J. Harvey.
“Wait, what? I grew up listening to all that stuff: P. J., Nick Cave, Beck, Jeff Buckley.”
“Get out! Yeah, she’s from right where I grew up in Dorset. My mum knew her.”
“But I thought you were from Bristol—”
“Dorset but spent most of my time in Bristol. Long story.”
“Must be part of your”—he once again drew a finger across his lips—“shady past.”
She downed the rest of her drink. “How is your pursuit of the redhead?”
“The subtle change of subject, huh?” He eyed her, wondering what secrets this young woman held, what layers were yet to be peeled back. “The redhead is still clearly in love, last I checked.”
“You’re checking? How are you checking?”
He laughed quietly. “You think you’re the only one with secrets? Actually, I’ve been like . . . How do I say it without sounding like a stalker? I’ve walked by their place a few times, watched a little, seen them interact.”
Her brow furrowed. “That is actually stalking. You’re the definition of it.”
Harold looked into his drink, studying the melting ice cubes. Aroldo had clearly dipped into the loo.
“Don’t worry. I’m not judging.”
“It’s not like that, though. I’m . . . We’re meant to be.”
“I get it. And you’re a long way from home and trying to figure out if you can stay.”
“Yeah, well, I only have three months, then I have to leave.” He raised air quotes with a sly grin. “Legally speaking.”
She acknowledged his callback, then: “I bet Sandy would give you a job. She can help you get a visa. Well, I know you have a fancy computer gig and all that, but maybe you could work a few hours a week and find a way to stay.”
Light bulbs switched on in his head. “You think she’d do that?”
“What? She loves you. I mean, as much as she loves anyone. Do you think she’s ever invited me dancing? No, not once. She mentioned that she kind of felt like your Bolognese mum.”
That made him feel all warm and cozy inside. He could suddenly see Sandy—his Bolognese madre—on the dance floor, shaking the chandeliers with Tommaso. “She’s good, by the way. As good as the teacher.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. No one knows anything about her. The sales reps always try to get stuff out of her—before she bites their heads off, of course. You might know more than any of us.”
“I doubt that. But she’s great, seems to care about people in her own way. She’s helped me, you know. Find some confidence.”
“I do like your transformation. Very handsome.”
“Thank you.”
A soft rain began to fall. Under the protection of the table umbrella, Moira sat back and took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “But I also hope you know that Alice should love you for who you are. I hate to see you trying to be someone else.”
“I don’t think it’s that. I’m just trying to be a better version of myself.”
Moira nodded, slipping her glasses back on. “I appreciate that. In Bianca’s book, toward the end, which you’ll discover if you ever read—”
“I am reading it,” Harold interrupted. “I’m about a quarter of the way through, and it’s good. Lots of wisdom.”
Moira glowed, enough to light their section of Via Giulia. “It’s great, right? Deep messages delivered with a comic edge. And I don’t want to give anything away, but—”
Harold, with a sprinkling of Aroldo, jumped in. “It’s self-development. Not supposed to be a page-turner.”
“That’s true. Well, long before she transforms to Peggy Megawatt, which I think is hilariously brilliant—and brilliantly hilarious—she ends up trying to save her marriage and pondering what she might do to make her husband love her again.
What she’s doing is misconstruing Bianca’s message to either change or accept your circumstances.
It’s sad, really. Because we’re lovable as we are, aren’t we?
We deserve love simply by being the product of the miracle that’s life.
We, the people who made it this far, to make it to the womb, to develop lungs, and then to breathe air.
That’s a miracle. And as miracles, we’re all worth loving. ”
The hairs on his arms rose. “That’s beautiful. It’s in the book?”
A nod.
His arm hairs stood taller.
“What I’m saying is that I see the way you love her, and it’s wonderful, but I don’t think you need to convince her. Just as Peggy doesn’t need to become someone else, neither do you.”
Harold felt the war in his mind, the tale of two men, Harold Meh and Aroldo Megawatt, tugging at each other. “It’s not that I feel like I need to convince Alice—or be someone else. It’s that I need to put my best foot forward.”
She gave a “fair enough” nod. “It’s none of my business—and there’s nothing wrong with that. Just know that I think you’re pretty cool as you are.”
“Warts and all, right?”
Moira clinked his glass. “Warts and all.”
George took a long wander through the city, working his way along the outskirts, visiting some of the gates that had been the entryways to the city for seven centuries.
Each one had its own kind of character, ornate stone carvings, rounded turrets, these grand archways that were big enough for the city buses to drive through.
Sometimes, he could see it, the beauty of this place, its old-world magic. It wasn’t so bad to visit.
Of course, he wasn’t about to move here.
Enough with having to hang his laundry on the balcony or staring at the goddamn bidet, wondering what to do with it.
Enough with trying to wash dishes without Dawn.
How does a country get by without Dawn? And those little cars .
. . They couldn’t be safe. While he was at it, they had no idea how to do burgers and nachos.
They shouldn’t even have them on menus. And condiments.
You ask for a packet of ketchup and they charge you!
Who can eat fries without ketchup?! And they call this city the food capital of the world.
He’d put Ruth’s Chris in Phoenix up against any of it.
And damn this country for taking his daughter from him.
He might not be perfect, and he might be making things worse by the moment, but at least he was geographically closer to her when she lived in Austin.
Having an ocean between them was too much.
He wished she knew how much he cared for her.
He hoped he could show her that before he returned home.
Maybe her forgiveness and the promise of another reunion might be enough to keep him from returning to the darkness.
Because yeah, the darkness was only a few handfuls of pills and a light switch away.
George found Bianca sitting on her balcony drinking tea, staring off into space.
“May I join you?” he asked, only sitting after she nodded.
The sunset hid behind a patch of dark clouds.
Church bells marked a new hour. Of course, some of their clothing hung on the line just beyond her; it reminded him to run another load before bed.
“I know you’re mad at me,” he said.
She didn’t respond.
“May I explain myself?”
Nothing.
“Let me try.” He paused, feeling like their relationship was a weak thread away from over.
So he had better do it right. “You know I’m not much of a reader, but it’s more than that.
What I’ve been going through back home since retirement, it’s worse than maybe you know.
I feel like I’m in the waiting room, waiting for a stroke or a heart attack to rescue me. ”
He almost said that he’d grown tired of waiting and had considered more than once doing something about it, but no matter how much trouble he was in, no matter how much he was hurting and needed to talk to someone, no matter what, he wouldn’t say that.
“I’m depressed, B. The doctor has me on Zoloft, and that seems to be helping, but when I tried to read your book, reading the issues Peggy had with her father, I connected the dots.
It ate away at me, how I could have done better, how I wasn’t there for you.
Every word I read felt like it was directed toward me.
Not that I’m blaming you . . . I get it.
I failed. But reading it on the pages of your book was a knife twist. I couldn’t do it. ”