Page 27 of The Lonely Hearts Book Club

“I don’t see what vampires have to do with anything,” the doctor said irritably.

“No,” I agreed. “That story line didn’t come until a few years later. I think the writers got lazy.”

That comment was the poor man’s final straw. He goggled first at me and then at Arthur, realization washing over him like a solution of vinegar water. “Are you two talking about astory? From a book?”

“It’s actually fromFlames of the World,” I said, rolling my shoulder in apology. “I don’t read nearly as much as I should.”

I had no idea what would have happened if Sloane hadn’t chosen that moment to join us in the kitchen. The doctor took one look at her and immediately started heading for the nearest exit.

“Sloane, love, we should get going,” he said as he expertly snapped the gloves from his fingers and tossed them into the garbage. “My parents are expecting us at seven. My mom said something about inviting Cousin Dora so you two could have a chance to meet.”

A pained expression flashed across Sloane’s face, so quick that you had to be watching to see it.

But I was watching—always watching, a forever spectator with my face pressed against the glass. And so, it seemed, was Arthur. In a burst of drama that would have givenFlames of the Worlda run for its money, Arthur fell into a fit of coughing so draining that even Sloane’s doctor was moved to help.

“It’s fine,” Arthur said between deep, noisy draws of air. “I’ll be okay on my own for the rest of the night. I wouldn’t want to keep you from Cousin Dora.”

“You should be on oxygen,” the doctor said. His brow puckered, the sudden harshness of his features doing much to explain what Sloane saw in this man—beyond his money and good looks, I mean. That was the face of a Man Who Got Things Done, a man who could be counted on to do the work even when he’d rather be doing literally anything else.

FEMA workers had that face. Roofers had it. Fathers of multiples had it.

“You should also be propped up in bed. Sloane, you didn’t let him lie flat when he went to sleep last night, did you?”

“Um. Yes?” Sloane winced. “I didn’t know that was bad.”

The doctor heaved a sigh. “Right. Because you’re not a nurse. Or even a nurse’s aide. Itoldyou.”

Sloane cast an accusing look at Arthur. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t given instructions about how to position him.”

“Oho, so now it’s my fault I’m going to die?”

“A little, yeah.” She turned to Arthur with her hands on her hips. “How am I supposed to know these things if you don’t tell me?”

“You could ask this fancy young gentleman of yours. He seems to have plenty of opinions on what’s best for everyone.”

“That fancy young gentleman is adoctor. Remember those? The people who saved your life? Who warned you not to leave the hospital for this exact reason?”

The fancy young gentleman watched this interaction with a growing frown. “Sloane, what are you doing? You can’t yell at your patient.”

“I’m notyellingat him,” she yelled. She flushed and added, “And he’s not my patient. Not really. I’m here to catalog his books, remember?”

“I remember,” the doctor said, and in such a quiet voice that I had to strain to hear him. “What should I tell my mom about tonight?”

Sloane sighed, so I grabbed Arthur by the arm and hoisted him to his feet. He was a lot heavier than he looked, his frailty offset by his determination not to be moved until he was good and ready, but I managed to get him up.

“We’ll just, ah, give you two a few minutes.” I nudged Arthur toward the next room. The old grouch obviously wanted to stay and hear what the verdict was about Cousin Dora, but we could always press a glass against the wall from the next room. Honestly, had no one ever taught him how to eavesdrop?

“Sloane, if this is about money, you know I’m happy to—” I heard the doctor say as we pushed through the door.

“It’s not that. At least, notonlythat—” came Sloane’s quick response.

I managed to get Arthur to the living room before he threw off my arm. All that fake coughing must have done a number on his lungs, because his breathing grew labored as he fell to his well-worn couch.

“How long has he been here?” I asked, taking the chair opposite. Neat piles of books sat in an arc around it, so I could only assume this had become Sloane’s base of operations.

“Only about an hour, but it feels like a lifetime. He left work early to check on Sloane.To keep an eye on things, he said. Some people just don’t know when they’re not wanted.”

His pointed stare wasn’t necessary; I was able to pick up on the subtext just fine. I was also not getting up from my seat that easily. One should never underestimate the staying power of a woman who had literally nowhere else to be.