Chapter 28 I’ve Never Told Anyone #2
And yet, she knew she may find some peace in surrendering to her own vulnerability. If she were on her own couch, she’d tell herself that she should listen to her friends, that she’s lucky enough to have ones that were willing to say it like it was.
Her dad returned to the living room. “Trying to decide which shoes to wear, my tennis shoes or the new ones.”
“Dad, those tennis shoes should be burned.”
What was far more important than her discomfort was the fact that she could have lost her dad. Her mother was right. She had such an awful tendency to cut people off and put all her focus on herself, consumed by her own troubles. All the while trying to hide them from the world.
Meanwhile, everyone else had their troubles too.
Enough cutting people off, she thought. That ends today.
“Carol and her husband can’t go to the dinner,” Bianca said, “so it’s you and me. Unless you want to bring Sandy?”
He gave a false laugh. “I don’t know.”
“Oh, c’mon. What are you afraid of now?”
“Rejection?” George suggested. “Continuous heartache? The agony of being friends with someone you might love?”
“Don’t even get me started, Dad. Hey, you’re the one who said you wanted to keep her in your life. It’s dinner; you’re not sleeping together. Eww, I can’t believe I said that.”
“Fine, I’ll ask her today.”
She texted Corrado. Please hold my table. Just three of us, but we’ll be there. I’m excited for you.
Two hours later, Bianca opened the door to the bookstore, noticing that the bell that typically chimed was missing. The far bigger news: There was already a crowd of people there.
In normal cases, Bianca would have been thrilled.
Today, she decided the only thing worse than people not showing up was people actually showing up.
If Corrado was correct, which he was, then Bianca figured that she and her book had unintentionally been building an army of aggro-humans who wouldn’t stop till they’d supercharged the world.
Okay, she’d picked that possibility up through some of the horrid reviews, but today was the day she’d finally accepted it.
Corrado had said he preferred Peggy in the middle. What a kick in the stomach.
Her poor former clients back home; she wanted to apologize to all of them, tell them to erase everything she’d told them.
As she walked under the arch, Sandy approached and gave a distracted hello. “Don’t suppose you’ve talked to Moira, have you?”
Bianca shook her head.
Sandy pressed her lips together. “She was here earlier, ran out angry, long story. She’s not answering my calls. I figured she’d be back by now. Hi, George.”
“Hi.”
Bianca watched them hold eye contact for a little too long before Sandy broke away and looked back at the crowd gathered around a table, munching on food and sipping wine.
“Huge favor, Bianca,” Sandy said. “Could you start this thing while I go track Moira down? I’ll try to be back by the time it starts, but if not, maybe do a reading or something.
I don’t know.” Then she looked at George.
“Would you mind pulling out more chairs from the back? Apparently, we’re going to have a crowd, which is boggling my mind. ”
“Happy to.” It was comical to watch George light up at being given a job. Either that, or he was madly and desperately in love.
Maybe both.
Poor guy.
Rushing out, Sandy wasn’t angry. It felt strange not bubbling over with fury, especially when her one overpaid mouse of an employee had abandoned her.
She wasn’t mad at Jack, who should be living in Bologna right now.
She wasn’t even angry with George for darkening the door of her bookstore with his bothersome interest in her.
Not even at the idiot tourist who she nearly plowed into while speeding on her Vespa through the old town toward Moira’s place near Porta San Stefano.
All she felt was guilt at how terribly she’d treated Moira. The sweet girl had put up with Sandy for so long, and maybe she was finally over it all. Who could blame her? Sandy had pretty much abused her for a year.
Ten minutes later, she rang 2B at an apartment building tucked between a dry cleaner and a formaggeria.
“Yes,” came a broken voice through the intercom.
“It’s Sandy.”
A long pause.
“Can I come up?”
Nothing.
“Hello?”
After what felt like forty-five minutes, the main door clicked.
Sandy pulled it back and raced up the steps in her heels to the second floor. Moira cracked open her door. “What are you doing here?” She was in her pajamas, a horrid matching set in yellow. Were those? No. Dear God, they were sheep reading books.
Sandy chose not to comment on the outfit and went straight for the guts of the matter. “Um, did you forget you were hosting a book club?” Sandy looked at her Cartier. “In five minutes?”
“I’m not going back.” She still had her head poking out the door, keeping it barely cracked.
Sandy’s first urge was to scold her. What do you mean, you’re not going back? You made a commitment. You need to follow through. But she didn’t do that.
Enough was enough.
She wanted to offer an apology, but she hadn’t had much practice in a long time. There were rocks in her mouth.
Moira waited, glancing about the hall.
Sandy finally said, “I’m sorry, okay. I’m awful.
Dreadful. And I made you the butt of it.
All year. Can we please move on, and you come back and host your darn book club?
By the way, there were already like forty people there when I left.
Your whole thing worked out. Do you hear me?
You proved me wrong. Surely, that’s worth a smile. ”
Nothing.
Sandy reached deeper because she knew Moira deserved it.
“Okay, fine. You want more? You’re my best friend, Moira.
Believe it or not, I don’t have anyone else.
And you not showing up today, the idea of you quitting, that’s not an option.
I can’t handle it. Actually, I can’t handle the idea of not seeing you.
Who else is going to laugh at my stupid jokes? ”
Still, nothing.
“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ.” She stretched out her arms. “I’m sorry, my friend. I want you to come back. I’m not selling the store. I was being stupid. And I want a second chance to prove to you that I’m not the Wicked Witch of Bologna.”
Moira looked more surprised than anything.
“My arms are getting tired.”
Moira finally let out a sigh and pulled open the door. “You know, you really are a handful.”
“Oh, I do. You ought to live in this skin.”
“I can’t imagine.”
“Right? By the way, those pajamas are absolutely abysmal.”
“I think they’re adorable.”
Moira finally let Sandy wrap her arms around her, and when she did, she kissed Moira’s neck, then squeezed hard, never wanting to feel as lonely as she had this morning again.
“Now, might you get dressed and we go deal with this mess you’ve made?”
She felt a nod on her shoulder, then: “Are you reading Outlander?”
Sandy pulled back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ. That’s what Claire says. Is Sandy Cooke reading a love story?”
Sandy started to deny it but halfway surrendered. “I’m just skimming through it. A bookseller needs to know what she’s selling.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh, wipe that smile off your face. Yes, it’s good. The series is good. And we can talk about it later. For now, we have somewhere we need to be.”
Moira snickered as she disappeared into the back, and Sandy looked around the apartment.
There were far too many books, random stacks of them.
A video game was frozen on the television screen.
A worn copy of Bianca’s book with sticky notes protruding from the pages rested on a glass table.
Above a velvet couch hung a collection of twelve small modern paintings, all in bright and bold colors, all by the same artist.
“You have great taste,” Sandy said. “Not in pajamas, but I like the art.”
Moira appeared, tugging on a white shirt. “Forty people?”
“And maybe more by now. A horde of perusers. All sitting there waiting. I left Bianca in charge.” She looked back at her Cartier. “Time’s a tickin’.”
After Sandy left, Bianca inched her way into the crowd and made small talk till someone recognized her and realized she was the reason they’d all gotten together.
Suddenly, everyone was circling around her, prodding her with questions.
She answered kindly, trying not to beat herself up for writing a book that had missed the mark.
Simply put, there were bigger problems out there in the world. She didn’t have much to complain about, when here she was doing a stint in Italy while trying to figure out her next moves. She had money, a degree, a client base that would likely take her back.
So what if she wasn’t the next Brené Brown.
A few minutes after the event was supposed to start, Bianca clinked her wineglass and motioned everyone to their seats. There were more people than chairs, so some were forced to stand in the back.
“I want to thank everyone for coming.” She felt strangely nervous and shaky, despite typically having no problems speaking in public.
“While we wait on Sandy and Moira, I thought I’d introduce myself and see if you had any questions or wanted to throw tomatoes at me.
I’m the author of the book, and I moved down the street a couple of months ago. ”
A few hands shot up.
The first woman, midsixties, wearing a string of pearls, said in a strong British accent, “I’m so glad you’re here. It’s a great book.”
Bianca waited for the but.
None came.
“Where did the idea for Peggy Meh come from?”
“Isn’t that a question. Right to the heart of it.” She was about to give them more of an answer than they bargained for when Sandy and Moira came rushing in.
“There they are! Our lovely hosts.”
Both were out of breath as they joined the circle. Moira sat down next to Bianca and took the floor. “I’m so sorry, everyone. I was held up, but welcome! I can’t believe the turnout. What a thrill. I don’t even want to interrupt. I suppose you’ve met our guest of honor.”
“I was starting to answer some questions.”