Page 56 of The Lonely Hearts Book Club

“Turtlenecks always make my neck look so short—” Maisey put in.

“Grandpa, you can’t possibly be serious—” came the final protest. Since I assumed Greg was the heir apparent to this particular kingdom—up to and including that elephant-foot umbrella stand—his objection seemed the most valid.

“We’re not taking donations at this time,” I lied in an attempt to cut this argument short. “So it doesn’t matter what kind of stipulations you want to make.”

Since I doubted Arthur McLachlan had cut an argument short a day in his life, I added a clincher.

“But if turtlenecks are all you want, I promise to wear one to book club every week. Unlike Maisey, I look fantastic in them.”

***

“Are you sure you should be drinking your wine that fast?”

I stood in Arthur’s kitchen, hunched over the sink as I drained the glass of red blend I’d poured myself to steady my nerves. We were only an hour into this thing, and I’d already been called every bad word in existence since the Middle Ages. Say what you might about Arthur McLachlan, the man was erudite. I’ve never been called God’s pestilent uvula before, but it was a phrase I intended to throw in at every dinner party I attended for the rest of my natural-born life.

“No offense, but I think I’ve earned it,” I added as I poured myself a second and very generous glass. “You wanted me to join your book club, huh?”

Sloane had the decency to blush. “It’s not as bad as it looks. I was going to ease you into the medical stuff, that’s all. Let you get to know everyone first.”

“You mean you were going to let me get attached to everyone first,” I said, pointing the glass at her in warning. “You’re such a liar. You told me you wanted my professional insight.”

“I do want it! Just not the profession you’re thinking of.”

“You used me. Puffed me up with importance and then deflated me like a catheter balloon.”

“Only because we were desperate,” Sloane said. She disarmed me with a quick, mischievous smile. “Besides, I think you were enjoying yourself. I watched you in there. You liked getting the better of Arthur for once.”

“I like a lot of questionable things,” I retorted. “Including you. Who knew you were such a dastardly plotter under that quiet-librarian exterior?”

“Mateo, I’m not! I’ve never plotted anything a day in my life. It just seemed like the easiest solution, that’s all.”

I eyed her suspiciously, not believing a word out of her mouth. The Sloane Parker I used to work with might not have been much of a plotter, but this woman was. Sometime in the past month, she’d been doing her best to grow a backbone. It wasn’t very big yet—more of a vestigial tail than anything else—but I could see her giving it a flex.

“Does this mean you aren’t going to sign one eensy-weensy form for me?” she asked, turning a pair of soulful eyes my way. “And maybe check up on him a few times during book club meetings, just so we know he’s getting better?”

We both already knew the answer to that. “Fine, but you’re going to need to bring more wine to the next meeting.A lotmore. That man is the worst.”

She looked torn between throwing her arms around me and breaking out in a song and dance right there on the linoleum floor. Since she was still very much Sloane Parker, she settled for a smile.

“Thank you, Mateo. This means a lot more to me than you realize.”

I could see her starting to get choked up—a thing that was only going to makemeget choked up—so I bumped her with my hip. “Next time you want a favor, Parker, just ask. I’m always happy to help a friend.”

Since that only seemed to make her want to cry even more, I grabbed my copy ofThe Joy Luck Cluband started to head into the living room. We’d left the discussion somewhere on the streets of San Francisco and needed to get back to it.

“Wait. That’s not your copy.” She stuck a thumb out at the book, which looked for all intents and purposes exactly like the one I’d grabbed in town last week. Taking it from me, she rifled through the pages until a bright-yellow line popped out at me. “See? You didn’t highlight this.”

I glanced at the line in question before reading it aloud. “‘All of us are like stairs, one step after another, going up and down, but all going the same way.’” I wrinkled my nose and glanced at the back of the book. It still bore the price tag from the Well-Read Moose, an indie bookstore in town, so I didn’t see who else it could have belonged to. “Maybe someone took it back after they’d already read it. You know how many people think they can treat bookstores and libraries like they’re the same.”

She shook her head. “No, this is Arthur’s. All his books are highlighted like that—and I meanallof them. I’ve been cataloging his collection for weeks.”

“Hey, Mateo. Have you seen my—” Greg poked his head into the kitchen and cut himself off the second he noticed Sloane. Without changing his expression, he nodded at the book in Sloane’s hand. “That’s mine.”

“Oh. I thought it belonged to your grandfather.”

“It doesn’t.”

He snatched the book back so quickly that both Sloane and I felt the stinging rejection of it.