Page 2 of The Lonely Hearts Book Club

Or anyone. Not even myself.

Before I could think better of it, I reached for a copy of Toni Morrison’sBelovedand held it up. “How aboutBeloved Pagans and Christians? You have to admit it’s catchy.”

I could have almost sworn that Arthur’s nostrils flared to twice their size. “So that’s how you want to play this, huh?”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to play much ofanything, but I was already in too deep at that point. There was no ice cream at the end of this particular rainbow, but I couldn’t help feeling that Emily would have been proud of me all the same.

“The Roman Triumph Of Mice and Men?” I suggested, thinking up Roman history titles as quickly as I could. Inspiration struck, and I snapped my fingers. “Oh! I know.I, Claudius, Journey to the End of the Night.These are good. I should probably write them down.”

Something almost like respect was starting to spark in Arthur’s eyes. “You seem to know an awful lot about books on ancient Rome,” he said grudgingly. “Why? Are you planning to stab someone in the back?”

This time, I didn’t hesitate over my reply. “Only if he deserves it.”

A sound somewhere between a bark and a laugh escaped him. “Is that your way of telling me that Caesar got what was coming to him? Is that what it says in your precious Mary Beard?”

“Not exactly,” I was forced to admit.

If this conversation kept going along these lines, I was going to have to admit a lot more: namely, that I wasn’t nearly as conversant with Roman history as I was letting on. As far as librarians went, I was more of a jill-of-all-trades than a deep scholar. I knew lots of random book titles and could recite the first line from almost every classic piece of literature, but I could only talk intelligently on a subject for about three minutes before my storehouse of knowledge petered out.

“Ha!” he practically shouted. “That’s what I thought. You don’t know anything about Caesar that isn’t written in the back-cover copy somewhere.”

This was the point where I should have bowed gracefully out of the conversation. I’d already broken all the rules about not antagonizing the patrons, disorganized my own library cart, and said unthinkable things to a man who was old enough to be my grandfather.

For the first time in my life, however, I didn’t bow out. Strangely enough, it didn’t even occur to me to try.

“That’s not true,” I said as I pushed the copy ofPollyannaback on the shelf where it belonged. “I just think that anyone who had as many enemies as Caesar did should’ve been more careful. If he didn’t see that knife coming, that’s on him. My only enemy is the copier by the south window, and even I know better than to believe it when it says the toner levels are totally fine.”

That was when it happened. I wasn’t a good enough writer to describe it, but it was as if Arthur decided, right then and there, that I was an adversary worth having.

“I’ve forgotten more about Roman history than you’ll ever know,” he said, pointing his cane at me.

“That’s probably true,” I admitted.

“And I’ve already read every word Mary Beard has ever written.”

“That’s…impressive,” I said.

He didn’t appear to find my return to meekness to his taste. With suddenly narrowed eyes, he added, “And when I want book recommendations from a second-rate Pollyanna who wouldn’t know a good book if it landed in her lap, I’ll ask for it.”

This barb stung more than he realized. Finding pleasure in reading—losingmyself in a story—was the one thing I did know.

“The Art of Racing in the Rain,” I said.

He blinked and took a step back, as if even the title of such—what had he called it?sentimental claptrap?—had the power to harm him. “What did you just say to me?”

I wore a smile that was only partially faked. He couldn’t have been more outraged if I’d told him we were holding a book-burning party down by the lake that made our little city famous.

“If you’re looking for a book recommendation, I think you should pick upThe Art of Racing in the Rain. It’s what I suggest to all our regular patrons. I know it has a reputation for being sad, but—”

The spark in his eyes grew almost martial. “Not now. Not ever. Not if it was the only book left in the world. If I want to immerse myself in someone else’s pointlessly self-indulgent drivel, I’d give in and listen to podcasts.”

I kept my mouth shut. It just so happened that I loved that book. I loved podcasts, too, though that was mostly because I never cared for sitting alone in a silent apartment. There are these really fun ones of people reading classic books in a flat monotone to help you go to sleep. You haven’t known true peace until you’ve drifted off to Proust read aloud in B-flat.

Arthur took himself off after that, muttering under his breath about Roman conquests and literary abominations and librarians who should know when to keep their uninformed opinions to themselves.

And all I could do was smile after him, feeling like I’d eaten adozenscoops of ice cream.

“I can’t believeyou just tackled Arthur McLachlan and lived to tell the tale,” a deep, rich voice said from behind me. I turned to find Mateo, my fellow librarian, watching me with a detached look of awe.