Page 12 of The Lonely Hearts Book Club

***

“You haven’t touched your dinner.”

Brett picked up a roll from the basket in the center of the table and lavishly buttered it. Placing it on the edge of my plate, he nodded encouragingly for me to eat. I brought the roll to my mouth, but small nibbles were all I could manage.

“Sorry.” I dropped the sourdough with a sigh. “I’m not hungry.”

“That’s it. Get my kit. Call the ambulance. Put the morgue on hold. This is the end as we know it. Sloane Parker is passing on carbs.”

I managed a small smile, but it was a weak attempt, even for me.

“Look, Sloane. I’ve already apologized for missing dinner with my family. I know it was last-minute, and you hate being left alone with them, but—”

I slipped my hand over his and shook my head. “That’s not it. They were great. Really.”

“Were they badgering you again about your bridesmaids? I told them to stop pushing, but you know how my mother is.”

“Loving? Supportive? Invested in your life’s happiness?” My smile was a little less forced that time. Francine Marcowitz was a force to be reckoned with, but I’d have taken a dozen of her over my own mother any day. “I promise it has nothing to do with your family.”

“Then what is it?” He eyed me narrowly. “Why do you look like someone just burned your favorite book?”

I gasped in mock outrage, but Brett wasn’t fooled.

“It’s that library thing, isn’t it?” he prodded. “The promotion you weren’t qualified for?”

His words hit me hard, but they were irrefutable, so I went ahead and absorbed them. I’d only been to Brett’s chiropractic office as a visitor rather than a patient, but I imagined this was the same way he got to the bottom of everyone’s ills. Relentless kindness tinged around the edges with condescension.

“What would you do if a patient missed an appointment?” I asked. Before he could answer the obvious way—by asking his receptionist to reschedule—I added, “I’m not talking about any patient. I mean one who’s getting on in years. Who doesn’t have anyone living at home. Who might have gotten sick or fallen down the stairs, and doesn’t even have a cat to send for help.”

“Cats wouldn’t be any use in that sort of situation,” he said, regarding me through serious eyes. “You might be able to affix some sort of message to its collar, but there’s no relying on them to carry it to the right place. And that’s assuming they can even get outside, which—”

A laugh escaped before I could stop it. Brett sat back, looking affronted, and stabbed at his chicken parmesan.

“I don’t see what’s so funny. You asked.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” As a peace offering, I shoved half the roll in my mouth. “I just meant that he’s not likely to have any pets to care for. I doubt he’s loved a living thing a day in his life. But if you were worried about his safety, what would you do? Wait and see what happens? Call the police? Drive by his house once or twice to see if there are signs of life inside?”

I held my breath over that last one, waiting to hear Brett’s advice. He had a handy way of reducing the biggest problems to straightforward solutions, even if they were usually chiropractic in nature.

“That depends,” Brett said carefully. “When was his last spinal alignment?”

It was too much. Choking on my mouthful of bread, I laughed so hard that the entire table shook. Our glasses of wine—Chianti, slightly chilled—rattled until I started to feel light-headed. Brett took one look at me and yanked my glass to his side of the table.

“Honestly, Sloane. How many of these have you had?”

“I’m sorry,” I said again. “It’s not the wine, I promise. I’m just really worried about a patron from work. It’s making me giddy.”

Brett heaved a sigh of long-suffering—and of understanding. That second one was important to note. With the exception of my sister—and possibly Arthur McLachlan—no one had ever understood me as well as this man. I didn’t have a single flaw that he hadn’t pulled out, examined, and preapproved as acceptable in his future life partner. “We’d better get the check, then.”

“Wait. What?” My eyes flew up to meet his.

“I know you, my love. Better than you know yourself. You aren’t going to get any sleep tonight until you drive by his house and see for sure that all is well.”

***

When we drove by Arthur McLachlan’s house, it was to find that all was well.

His neighborhood wasn’t what I’d expected. As much as I hated making assumptions about people based on their appearance, his neatly pressed slacks and leather cross-bag denoted a man of impeccable standards. I’d always pictured him living on one of those neat, tidy streets where everyone’s house was made of the same red brick and no one was allowed to have a garden gnome taller than eight and a half inches.