Page 72 of The Lonely Hearts Book Club

“I don’t give a tinker’s curse what you wear.” He paused. “Wait here.”

Ididwait, but that was mostly because there were still a few minutes before I needed to leave. The evening was going to be awkward enough as it was; I didn’t need to roll up early and invite trouble.

Unfortunately, it looked like trouble planned on inviting himself.

“If I have to spend another minute inside this house, I’m going to start tearing the wallpaper from the walls.” My grandfather turned a malevolent eye on me. “That’s a literary reference, in case you were wondering.”

I didn’t point out that I had a four-year degree from a university that boasted several great undergraduate liberal arts courses, or that I’d grown up under the care of a woman who’d learned early on that books were the only way to communicate with her father. My grandfather had decided that I was exactly like the lumbering jackass who’d impregnated his only daughter and then run off, and I doubted anything I said or did would change that.

“There’s no need to tear the wallpaper on my account,” I drawled, one small step removed from chewing a cud. “If you want it removed, a spray bottle and a scraper’ll do the trick.”

He shuddered his revulsion as he struggled to get into a sweater with huge leather patches on the elbows.

“Oh, no you don’t,” I said, holding up my hands as if to ward him off. “You’re not coming with me.”

“Why not? It’s a public club, isn’t it? I have as much right to be there as anyone.”

The way he spoke gave me pause. That wasn’t the sound of a man who was hell-bent on pushing his way where he wasn’t wanted; it was the sound of a man who was almost—almost—begging for the door to be opened to let him in.

“It’s going to be dark inside,” I pointed out. “And loud. And full of half-drunk people who haven’t picked up a book in years.”

“Good,” he said with predictable contrariness. “That sounds perfect.”

I strove to come up with an excuse for keeping him at home, but this was a man who was used to getting the last word—and keeping it. With a harrumph of triumph, he reached for his cane and headed for the door.

***

I hadn’t been prepared for the royal treatment we got at the door of the Lofthouse.

“You can follow me right this way,” the hostess said, beckoning us past a long line of people waiting to get in. “You’re expected.”

As I’d threatened, the club was dimly lit and full of people tipping back martinis like they were Gatorade, but neither of these things seemed to stop my grandfather as he pushed and poked his way around the tables crowding the floor. He looked as out of place as I felt in my thick cable-knit sweater, but when we approached a table near the front, Mateo jumped to his feet to greet us.

“You came! I wasn’t sure if you actually would.” Mateo blinked at the sight of my grandfather. “And you brought…company.”

“You’re the one who’s always acting like I’m knocking on death’s door,” my grandfather grumbled, his jaw set for battle. “You should be happy to see me out and about.”

“I mean, it might have been better to start with a trip to the pharmacy for a blood pressure check, but sure.” Mateo offered him his chair. He nodded at Lincoln, who I could see carefully appraising us both. “This is my boyfriend, Lincoln. Lincoln, this is the patient I was telling you about, Greg’s grandfather. He’s the one who gave us the umbrella stand.”

I half expected us to be berated and driven out for this crime, but Lincoln relaxed enough to smile. “Thank you. It’s quite a piece.”

My grandfather narrowed one suspicious eye. “If you don’t like it, that’s too bad. We already agreed on payment.”

“If it makes Mateo happy, then it makes me happy,” Lincoln said. He was careful not to look at the man in question while he spoke. “Should we order drinks?”

I was surprised to find my grandfather greedily appraising the cocktail menu, and even more surprised when he chose something nonalcoholic and bearing a floral garnish.

“What?” he demanded as he hooked his cane on the edge of his chair and settled himself comfortably in place. He was so close to one of the speakers I felt sure he’d end up blowing out an eardrum. “Mateo said I can’t have anything stronger than tea until I’m off these worthless medications.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You looked at me. It’s enough.” My grandfather turned to Mateo for confirmation. “Unless you’re ready to change your medical opinion?”

“Not a chance, old man,” Mateo said. “It’s nothing but fruit juice and sparkling water for you. Nurse’s orders.”

“See?” My grandfather sat back with triumph. “You’re not killing me off that easily. If you want me dead, you’re going to have to hire a hit man like everybody else.”

Lincoln blinked at the sudden turn this conversation took—and at the playful spirit with which we took it. “Do, ah, a lot of people hire hit men to take you out?”