Page 46 of The Lonely Hearts Book Club

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“At its core, the book is a love story.” Sloane sat in her usual spot at Arthur’s feet, her legs folded under her and a cup of tea at her elbow.

“Ha. You would think that.” Arthur’s lip curled. “Let me guess… You wanted Stevens and his old housekeeper friend to live happily ever after and drive off into the sunset together. She was the one who got away, the soul mate who was destined to save him.”

“I didn’t say it was a love story betweenthem. I meant between Stevens and his work. In a lot of ways, he treated that butler job like the great passion of his life. Loving blindly and without question, dedicating himself body and soul to something he believed to be bigger than himself. What is that, if not the love we try to sell to couples on Valentine’s Day?”

Arthur seemed physically pained at mention of the wordValentine.

“If you think great passion means refusing to see someone’s flaws, then you have no idea what real love looks like. It’s not some game of make-believe. It’s messy and complicated and—” Arthur cut himself off without bothering to finish. He stabbed a finger at me instead. “What’s wrong with the housewife? She hasn’t strung more than two words together all evening.”

“For the last time, her name is Maisey. If you can’t make an effort to use it, we aren’t going to invite you to our next book club.”

“Fine. What’s wrong withMaisey?” He turned a quelling eye on me. “You didn’t finish the book, did you? Figures.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to argue—Ididfinish, and with enough time left over to pull together a quiche so delicate it was practically melting in our mouths—but I didn’t have the energy. For the past few days, it had been all I could do to eat and sleep, to go through the motions of giving people the benefit of my advice.

Weirdly enough, the book helped. I’d have normally drowned myself inFlames of the Worldreruns and that bottle of ice-cold Grey Goose, but it had been nice to spend some time with that dreary old butler instead.

“Well?” Arthur demanded. “Are you going to enlighten us with your profound psychic wisdom?”

“Don’t.” Greg glanced up from the foot of the stairs, where he’d been quietly repairing the broken boards for the past half hour. He’d been doing the same thing around my house, spackling holes in the wall and oiling hinges with a determination that bordered on the obsessive. “Leave her alone.”

“Oho! So you’re talking to us now, are you? Participating in the book club? What happened to change your mind?”

Greg rolled an indifferent shoulder. “She’s had a rough couple of days, that’s all. Be nice.”

Sloane immediately turned contrite, but Arthur only narrowed his eyes in sharp appraisal.

“What could have possibly happened to her?” he asked. Turning toward me, he flashed a toothy and not-very-pleasant smile. “Uh-oh. Did your Amazon delivery get stolen off your porch? The bake sale committee make too many cookie demands?”

“Stop it,” Greg commanded, and in a much harder voice this time. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“She does look awfully pale.” Sloane put a steady hand on my forearm. Her skin felt so warm against mine that it was almost unnatural. “Maybe you should head home and lie down for a bit, Maisey. We can always reschedule this for another time.”

The thought of going home to my empty house and empty bed, to spend hours staring at the ceiling until the crushing weight of sleep finally overtook me, wasn’t one I cared for. Now that Greg had oiled all the doors, I didn’t even have their incessant squeaking to comfort me.

“Sloane’s right,” I said, forcing my attention back to the book we were supposed to be discussing. “Itisa love story. A tragedy. LikeRomeo and Juliet, only without all the death at the end.”

Sloane flexed her fingers against mine in surprise.

“Bullshit,” Arthur barked.

Sloane’s eyes widened. “Arthur!”

“What? I taughtTheRemains of the Dayfor twenty years. It’ll take more than the pair of you waxing poetic about star-crossed lovers to change my mind.”

I shook my head, unafraid of either the fire in his voice or the challenge in his stare. That was one of the nice things I had to look forward to now—nothing had the power to hurt me anymore. My daughter was officially gone, her five-years-too-old posters the only things I had left to hold on to. Even though Cap said the movers weren’t coming for another few days, Bella had made it clear that our goodbyes were already said. She made her choice, and that choice wasn’t me.

It had never been me, only I was too stupid—toounreliablea narrator in my own life—to see it.

My copy of the book had been sitting listlessly in my lap ever since I got here, but I picked it up and rifled through the pages until I reached the ending. I hadn’t started one of those quote journals that Sloane was talking about, but I knew exactly which passage I was looking for.

“‘The fact is, of course,’” I read aloud, my voice surprisingly strong, “‘I gave my best to Lord Darlington. I gave him the very best I had to give, and now—well—I find I do not have a great deal more left to give.’”

Sloane nodded her understanding, her fingers still warm against my skin. “He loved his employer. Notromanticlove—so don’t start up again, Arthur—but the way a son loves a father. Fraternal love.”

“No,” I said flatly. “That’s not it, either.”