Page 34 of The Lonely Hearts Book Club

Since I was almost a hundred percent certain this guy was related to Arthur in some way, I pushed aside my qualms. “Well, he’s not doinggreat. His breathing is almost all the way under control now, except for at night. And I think he’s gained some strength, but every little task seems to zap his energy—”

“You have to get me in there.”

I blinked, startled by his force. “Into…his house? Have you tried knocking?”

To my surprise, he laughed. Like Sloane’s unusually warm trill, there was something disarming about it. “Of course I haven’t tried knocking. How desperate do you think I am?” He caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror and grimaced. “Never mind. Don’t answer that.”

“You’re his grandson?”

He swiveled his head to stare at me. “How do you know that?”

“I didn’t know he had kids,” I said by way of answer. There was no sign of it inside his house—no family portraits lining the walls, no strip of masking tape marking a boundary that could never be crossed.

“He doesn’t. Not anymore.” The guy slumped in his seat, his hands beating a nervous pattern on the steering wheel. “You’ve been going over there, right? Taking him meals? Making sure he’s not passed out on the floor?”

“I do my best, but Sloane’s the one doing most of the heavy lifting.”

“Sloane? Who the devil is Sloane?”

The way he asked this question was so much like Arthur at his surliest that I had to fight a smile. “His temporary caregiver—but don’t call her a ‘caregiver’ in your grandfather’s hearing unless you want to start playing baseball with his furniture. Technically, she’s only there to catalog his books.” I couldn’t help a feeling of pride from puffing through me for this next part. “She’s also in our book club. We’re meeting tonight, if you’re interested.”

He couldn’t have been less interested if I’d offered him a plate at an invisible buffet. “I’ll pass, thanks. My grandfather and I don’t read the same type of books.”

Which was one possible explanation for why he’d sat out in this car for so long, but I doubted it. “He and I don’t read the same type, either,” I admitted. “But the one for our book club isn’t all bad. It’s about this butler who’s obsessed with his job.”

The guy’s expression of disgust said everything I felt upon first popping the cover.

“Here.” He scrambled around until he pulled a wallet from his back pocket. “Since you’ve been feeding him and everything, I’d like to pay you back—”

“No way.” I scooted so far back that my head thumped against the ceiling, my hands behind my back to keep him from pressing a fistful of bills into them. “You don’t owe me anything. I’m happy to help out.”

The guy didn’t look as though he believed me.

“I’m serious,” I said—and I was. “I like him.”

“Yeah, right. No one likes him. He makes damn sure of that.” As soon as the curse word slipped out, the man winced and apologized. “Sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”

He sounded so genuinely sorry that I couldn’t help softening.

“Can I tell you something?” I said. “Something I’ve never told anyone?”

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Your grandfather is the only person I know who doesn’t pretend to feel anything except what’s in his heart. Do you know how many times he’s ordered me out from under his roof?”

“I’m guessing about the same number of times I’ve asked you not to bring me breakfast sandwiches?”

I grinned. “More.Waymore. And he means it—that’s the thing. I could be murdered and tossed into the lake, never to be seen or heard from again, and he wouldn’t notice.”

The guy eyed me askance. He looked about five seconds away from going full Arthur McLachlan on me again, but at least he wasn’t trying to shove money at me anymore. “What does this have to do with my grandfather’s heart?”

“Because everyone else is the exact opposite,” I explained.

I wasn’t surewhyI was telling this guy any of this, but it felt good to get it off my chest. I suspected it was that book starting to get to me. The more that butler went on and on about bantering and dignity and how much his bosswasn’ta Nazi even though we could all tell he totally was, the more I felt the urge to unburden my heart in the same way.

Well, except for the Nazi part.

“Everyone’s always saying the same things to me. ‘The invitation’s in the mail, Maisey.’ ‘We should totally get coffee sometime, Maisey.’” I sighed and pushed my hair out of my face. Bella convinced me to try wearing it down today so I’d look less like a peeled onion, but that had only made it worse. My hair was all scraggly wisps and wayward strands I kept mistaking for spiders. “Only the invitation isneverin the mail. And no matter how many times I call, no one ever has time for coffee.”