Page 29 of The Lonely Hearts Book Club

“You knowexactlywhat he has to do with it. Good God, girl. You can’t really mean to marry that walking, talking block of a man.”

“He seemed nice,” I offered, but I might as well have been invisible for all the attention anyone paid me.

“Why shouldn’t I marry him? He’s kind. He’s generous. He came over here and cleaned your kitchen for you, not to mention taking your blood pressure and oxygen levels. What more could you ask out of a person?”

I knew the answer to that question. People like Arthur McLachlan didn’t call the psychic hotline very often—for reasons I hardly needed to explain—but we got them sometimes. Usually when they were desperate for someone to argue with, their need for human contact so strong that they’d pay four bucks a minute just to have someone to yell at. They didn’t call us any names we hadn’t heard a hundred times before, the same things we said to ourselves in the mirror every single morning, but they usually had a lot to say.

“You know what? I think Iwilltake this book.” I fluttered through the pages. Several passages had been highlighted in yellow, but I passed them in a blur. “I don’t know much about World War Two—or about butlers—but I’m always happy to learn more.”

As I’d hoped, Arthur turned his emotional energy toward me instead of Sloane. “It’s not about either of those things, you clodpole.”

“But it says here—”

“They’reliterary devices,” he said, emphasizing the words with so much force that it set him off coughing again. Instead of coming to his aid, Sloane turned to me, interest arching her brows.

“Do you really want to read it?” she asked. “That one’s been on my TBR list for years, but I keep putting it off. My boss likes it when we’re on top of what’s new and hot in the book world, so the older ones tend to fall through the cracks.”

I had almost no interest in the book, especially now that I knew there were literary devices lurking about, but that didn’t stop me from seizing opportunity with both greedy hands.

“Do you want to read it together?” I asked, trying not to sound as nervous as I felt. I imagined this was what people proposing marriage had to deal with. “As a…book club?”

“Ha! This should be good.”

Sloane and I both ignored Arthur. “Are you serious?” Sloane asked. “I can’t think of anything I’d enjoy more. One of my pet projects at the library was to try and get a club up and running, but the timing and budget never aligned. I’d love to have someone to read the book with. I haven’t had a good, deep literary discussion in ages.”

The paperback in my hands suddenly started to feel awfully heavy. It wasn’t a long book, not compared to some of the ones sitting around Arthur’s living room, but a glance at one of the highlighted quotes had me rethinking my offer.

“‘Perhaps it is indeed time I began to look at this whole matter of bantering more enthusiastically,’” I read aloud, wrinkling my nose. “‘After all, when one thinks about it, it is not such a foolish thing to indulge in—particularly if it is the case that in bantering lies the key to human warmth.’”

“Give me that.” Arthur dashed out his hand and snatched the book away so quickly that it left a paper cut behind. “You can’t have that one.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Sloane said. “You don’t need all five copies. You’re just being mean.”

“I don’t want all five copies. I only want this one.” He held it to his chest, his grip so tight that the bulbous blue veins stood out on his hands. “She can have the rest, but this one is mine.”

At this, I kind of wanted the super-important highlighted one, but I knew when to pick my battles.

“Does this mean you’ll join us?” I asked.

“Please say you will, Arthur.” Sloane added her entreaty to mine. “I know how you feel about book clubs, but I’d love a chance to hear your thoughts on something that doesn’t end in gloom and despair.”

He narrowed one speculative eye. “I thought you said you’d never read it.”

“I haven’t.”

“Then how do you know it doesn’t end in gloom and despair?”

She shrugged. “If you’d rather we pick something else, I could always go to the library and snag some copies ofThe Art of Racing in the Rain.”

“Please don’t do that,” I was quick to say.

“Ha! I knew you’d come in handy.” Arthur puffed his chest out at me, something almost like approval in the hard glint of his eyes. “See? Even the frumpy housewife doesn’t want to read that sentimental garbage.”

“It’s not that,” I explained. “It’s just that when I saw the movie last year, I cried so hard I burst a blood vessel in my eye. I still get a little heartbroken every time I think about it.”

I had no idea what I said to set them off, but from Sloane’s shout of laughter and Arthur’s of outrage, I felt sure it was the right thing.

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