Page 52 of The Lonely Hearts Book Club

17

I pulled up to Arthur McLachlan’s house two days later, a copy ofThe Joy Luck Clubin my pocket and two bottles of wine seat-belted securely next to me. Lincoln had assured me that one bottle would be plenty for an afternoon book club, but he’d never met Arthur, so I’d sneaked into the pantry and grabbed the red blend he’d been saving for our one-year anniversary. The temptation to crack it open and drink my way to the bottom before I got out of the car was strong.

As soon as I spotted the woman sitting in the middle of the sidewalk, with what looked like an entire platter of enchiladas splattered around her like the spray from an open artery, I knewthe second bottle was a good idea. Also that the artery metaphor wasfor suremaking it into my novel.

“Oh wow. That smells like it must have been really good.” I walked up as nonchalantly as I could, trying not to startle her from her position on top of the thick, cheesy sauce. From the description Sloane had given me, I guessed this was the woman with the daughter problems. “Enchiladas?”

As soon as Maisey spotted me, she burst into tears. And not the soft, gently weeping kind. These were full-on, snot-bubbling, heart-tearing wails.

“Actually, it’s a good thing you spilled them,” I said, backpedaling faster than I’d ever backpedaled before. It was like I said before—no matter what I did, drama always found a way into my life. “I’m deathly allergic to chiles. If you’d made it inside with those, there’s no telling what would’ve happened.”

“Really?” She glanced up at me through eyelashes caked with mascara. Inky-black streaks ran in rivulets down her cheeks. They paired well with her velour tracksuit, which would have been in questionable taste twenty years ago when they’d actually been in fashion. She cast a quick, anxious glance across the street, where an array of pink flamingos in front of a small bungalow indicated that her questionable taste carried over to her decor. “I didn’t know. Maybe I should go home and make a nice pasta salad instead.”

She sounded so serious about this—as if she’d literally run across the street and whip me up some rotini—that I didn’t have the heart to continue.

“No, not really. I just thought you might feel better if I lied.”

She immediately burst into tears again and began wiping at her face with her enchilada-y hands, adding glossy red sauce to the mess of her makeup.

“Oh geez.” I glanced around in search of help, but there was no sign of Sloane anywhere.Typical.She lured me to this book club only to abandon me before I even made it in the door. “If it makes you feel any better, I have no self-control when it comes to homemade food. I would’ve eaten half the tray and then felt bad about myself for days afterward. It’s better this way, I promise.”

“You’re j-just s-saying that. You’re b-being n-nice.”

“Well, yes,” I admitted. “Look, if I open this bottle of wine, will you promise to stop crying?”

“I c-can’t!”

“What about money? I could give you some money.” I made a big show of searching my pockets, but the book took up most of the space. The only other things I had were the freshly laundered handkerchief from Nigel Carthage and a movie ticket stub that had been washed so many times it had formed a tight, tiny ball. “I’d offer you a stick of gum, but you look like a woman who learned a long time ago not to take candy from strangers.”

“B-Bella used to l-love c-c-candy,” she sobbed. “And n-now she’s g-g-gone!”

I took an inadvertent step back, alarm tingling down to my toes. When Sloane mentioned this woman having problems with her daughter, I’d assumed it was the usual balance of teenage angst and white-lady drama. Not that the daughter wasdead.

“Oh geez. Oh God. Oh fuck.”

I didn’t normally swear in front of PTA-mom types, but the situation seemed to call for it. There was a reason I always ran for hiding whenever Arthur McLachlan entered the library, and it wasn’t just because I didn’t get paid enough to deal with people like him.

The man practically pulsated with unchecked emotion. This lady did, too.

Since I could hardly leave her sitting in a pool of rapidly congealing enchilada sauce all by herself, I squatted to her level and held out Nigel’s handkerchief. If she noticed the rust-colored spots where not even a mass infusion of bleach could get the linen clean, she didn’t let it show. She blew her nose with so much force that she almost sent me toppling.

“Thanks,” she said, her voice thick. “You’re nice. I bet you always remember to call your mom on Mother’s Day.”

“I don’t really have a choice,” I admitted. “She’s a difficult woman to forget.”

“And you treat her well? Take her out to dinner? Surprise her with a nice spa day every now and then?”

“Sometimes, I guess. But it’s not really necessary. She has a standing weekly appointment with her masseuse, and I’m pretty sure she has her hairdresser on retainer at this point. She’s godmother to all six of her kids.”

Something about this confession set the poor woman off again. With yet another sob, she said, “That’s s-so s-sweet! I’m not g-godmother to anyone.”

“I’m sure you’ll get asked someday.” I remained awkwardly crouched in front of her, unsure what other comfort I had to offer. At this point, I mostly wanted to get her up out of the enchilada sauce, so I tried to find the driest spot on her velour jumpsuit and help her to her feet. We made it about halfway before a loud, angry male voice assailed us from behind.

“What the devil is going on here?”

I shot the rest of the way up to find myself facing a tall, broad-shouldered man who looked none too pleased to see me. Since I’d always been partial to tall, broad-shouldered men—pleased or not—I didn’t let it alarm me.

“What happened? Maisey, are you okay?” The man turned to me with accusation in his dark eyes. I wasn’t sure why, but something about them felt familiar. “What did you do to her?”