Page 25 of The Lonely Hearts Book Club

Sloane flashed such a bright, happy smile thatIhad to pretend to push a lock of hair behind my ear. Satisfied that I’d done my good deed for the day, I got up from the couch.

“Wait—are you going?” Sloane asked, but she’d already started shuffling the books at her feet into two different piles.

“I’ll check in on you two after work tomorrow,” I promised, thinking of that casserole. If I took a long lunch, I could probably eke out enough time to bake a huckleberry pie to accompany it. “I’m sure you have plenty to talk about without me.”

I headed out before either of them could pretend to protest. If there was one thing I’d learned in this lifetime, it was that it’s much better to be the one doing the leaving. Even when the party was still going, when there was nothing waiting for you at home but a dark house and a sink full of dirty dishes, it was important to never overstay your welcome.

Otherwise, there was a good chance you wouldn’t be invited back.

8

“For the last time, Mr. Davidson, I’mnotgoing to tell you what I’m wearing. If that’s the kind of phone call you want to make, there are plenty of other numbers I can give you.”

With a sigh, I adjusted my headset and risked a quick peek at the clock above my desk. It was shaped like a cat, the minutes ticking by in a burst of colorful yarn dangling from his paws. Not for the first time, I reminded myself to get something less ornate. The cat was cute, but no matter how hard I stared, I could never tell if his paw was on the four or the five.

“Fine,” the voice on the other end of the line grumbled. “But it’s a fair question. I’m not paying for relationship advice from some random housewife in yoga pants.”

His words didn’t sting nearly as much as he wanted them to. I knewwaytoo much about this man’s personal life to let his judgments weigh too heavily. Even if I was random and—yes—clad in yoga pants.

“Your fixation on appearances is what got you into this mess in the first place, Mr. Davidson,” I said. I put a little extra husk in my voice just in case. At $3.99 a minute, it was getting harder and harder to keep clients on the line. “What a woman wears is much less important than what she has to offer in her heart, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah. I remember.” Mr. Davidson paused. “Does this mean my date tonight is going to go well? You see it?”

I could almost swear the cat’s paws started moving in reverse.

“I see opportunity and excitement,” I said with complete honesty. “This date is a clean slate, a chance to be your best self in front of someone new.” Less honest, I added, “You stand on the horizon of great change. What path you take to get there is entirely up to you.”

“A clean slate,” he echoed. “A new horizon. That’s right.”

I bit back a sigh. There was nothing new about the horizons Mr. Davidson faced. He’d been a regular of mine for over two years, and nothing I said seemed to get through to him. No matter how many times I told him to pick up a hobby, a volunteer job,anythingto make himself more interesting and attractive to the opposite sex, he always ended up in the same place.

On the phone with a 1-800 psychic, begging for a change we both knew would never come.

“I think this might be the one,” he said, a tinge of optimism rendering his voice almost boyish. We were forbidden from looking up our clients or peeking at their social media accounts, but I always did it anyway. Mr. Davidson was a sprightly fifty-three, an insurance salesman with a bad haircut and a heavy face that was as far fromboyishas a man could get. “Thanks, Maisey. You’ve been a real help this time.”

He couldn’t see me nod, but I did it anyway. As a parting gift—and because my timer indicated that he’d racked up a bill of over $150 on this phone call—I said, “By the way, I’m wearing what I always wear when I look into the mysteries of the universe. Kitten heels and a full ball gown. The spirits demand nothing less.”

And then I hung up before my laughter overtook me.

Since the pawwason the five instead of the four, I had barely time to dash to the oven and pull out my pie before it started to burn. The crust was bitterly dark, the juices seeping out in a way that rendered my leaf pattern all but invisible, but it smelled good enough to eat.

Or so I hoped. It was my only real passport into Arthur McLachlan’s house, so I had to make it count. I’d been watching that poor man and his black hole of solitude for so long that I’d become emotionally invested in the outcome. There was no way I was missing it now that Sloane had entered the picture.

I slid the pie into a box alongside yesterday’s casserole and headed out the door.

“Knock-knock!” My hands were full, so I had to shout my way into the house. “I come bearing gifts.Heavyones.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” Sloane’s face appeared in the doorway. “I was hoping you’d be here soon. Are you sure you don’t mind giving up your evening for this?”

“I always have time for friends,” I said.

Not surprisingly, Sloane reared back at my use of that word—friends—but she was too nice to say anything. I wasn’t as clueless as I seemed; Iknewit took more than a few chance meetings on the street to build a friendship, but there was a lot more of Mr. Davidson in me than met the eye. Optimism always had a way of creeping in.

“What’s he done this time?” I asked as I shifted the box from one hip to another. Sloane’s nose twitched as soon as the scent of the pie hit her, so I figured I was good for an hour’s entry, at least. “If it involves bodily injury or a scrubbing pad, you can count on me.Books, however…”

Sloane shook her head in warning as I stepped into the house. It looked much the same as it did yesterday, full of dust and clutter, but a warbling tenor from the back added a cheerful air.

“Is that Arthur?” I asked. “Singing? Ashow tune?”