Page 17 of The Lonely Hearts Book Club

“I never said that.”

“For all you know, I’m a romance author on the side.” I did my best to maintain a calm facade. Arthur was coming around now, I felt sure of it. In this man, the spittle starting to collect in the corners of his mouth was as sure a sign of life as any. “Maybe I write erotica. Maybe it wins awards.”

“Don’t you dare talk to me about erotica, young lady.”

“Why? Does it hurt your maidenly principles?”

His snort was half outrage, half triumph. “Please. My generation grew up on the likes of Henry Miller and the Marquis de Sade. You don’t know erotica until you’ve read—”

“Feeling better already?” Maisey’s entrance interrupted Arthur before he got to the good part—which was a shame, because I was genuinely interested in his thoughts on the father of sadism. Then again, that first aid kit under Maisey’s arm was a welcome sight. “That’s good, because you aren’t going to like this next part. Why don’t you hold his good hand, honey, and I’ll see to this wound?”

I didn’t hold Arthur’s good hand, for the primary reason that he yanked it far away from me and shoved it behind his back.

“It’s the blasted medication they have me on,” he said as Maisey snapped open the kit and got to work. Neither Arthur nor I dared to watch. “It makes everything in the house spin.”

“What medication is that?” I asked in what I hope was a casually disinterested voice.

He chuffed out an indignant breath. “Some stupid diuretic. It doesn’t matter. Like I told those nurses they keep sending over, I’ll be fine in a few days. If I’ve made it this long without tying myself to a hospital bed, I’ll last a few more years. Arthur McLachlan doesn’t go down easily.”

I believed him. No one could accuse this man of beingeasy.

His next words proved it. “Make sure you don’t glue my fingers together, you silly woman. I know where you live.”

This was such a nonsensical and weirdly endearing thing to say that I couldn’t help smiling. I also noticed that the fight was starting to ebb out of him, leaving him looking even smaller and more drained than before.

“It’s not ideal, but it should hold,” Maisey said as she finished wrapping a bandage around his finger. “Do you want us to help you to bed or—?”

“What I want is to be left alone,” Arthur grumbled, but without much enthusiasm. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

Maisey’s eyes met mine over the top of Arthur’s head. There was a look of such warm understanding in them—of camaraderie—that I couldn’t help flushing.

“I’ll make sure Mr. McLachlan gets settled,” I said. “I’m sure he just needs a little time to compose himself.”

I suspected that what Mr. McLachlan really needed was professional medical assistance and enough sedatives to keep him unconscious until next month, but I wasn’t about to say as much out loud.

“Right-o. I’ll catch you on the flip side. Toodles!”

Each of Maisey’s cheerful farewells was met by me with a smile and by Arthur McLachlan with increasing ire. And a good thing, too, because that ire was the only thing that got him to his feet as I led him back to the living room.

There was a hospital bed set up in one corner, but I could tell from its crisp sheets that it wasn’t the place where Arthur chose to rest his weary head. The couch, a sagging beige-ish heap with several books scattered over the top, looked a much more likely resting place. I gently propelled him toward it.

“Right,” I said as he lowered himself into a reclining position and propped his head against the back. I resisted the urge to pull a crocheted blanket over him, but just barely. “A snack and some tea, I think, and then your medication. You said something about a diuretic?”

He opened one eye and leveled it on me. There was so much power in that stare that I could only be grateful he didn’t have the energy for both eyes.

“I don’t need a nurse.”

“Of course not.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Obviously.”

His next words were lost under a coughing fit that sounded as hacking as it did painful. “That tea sounds nice,” he admitted as soon as it ended. His voice was so weak that I had to strain to hear him.

Without a word, I took myself off to the kitchen to prepare the promised tea. I also took it upon myself to clean up the carnage wrought by Arthur’s attempt at breakfast. I couldn’t bring myself to scrub the blood from the cutting board, but I did put it in the sink to soak and tossed out the bloodied apples that had been the cause of all this in the first place. A quick peek in his fridge revealed a meager offering of half-withered fruit and a carton of eggs with a questionable expiration date. I also found some bread in the freezer, which even my culinary skills could turn into impromptu toast.

As I waited for the kettle to heat and the bread to toast, I did a quick Google search on my phone to discover what condition might require a diuretic medication. The results weren’t ideal. Kidney stones, hypertension, an excessive and dangerous amount of fluid in the lungs…that last one had several symptoms that matched Arthur’s, and I didn’t like the sound of any of them.