Page 49 of The Lonely Hearts Book Club

“Did I tell you that I found one of her old records at a shop in town? An original. It’s signed and everything. The owner said he had no idea where it came from or he’d have sold it on eBay years ago.”

At this, I was careful not to meet Lincoln’s eye, though he nudged me with his foot so hard that my restraint was rendered unnecessary. We both knew for a fact that my mom and Eduardo, the guy who ran the record shop, were in cahoots together. They’d sold more “original” records with that ruse than any decent person would be willing to admit. On a good day, half a dozen shoppers made the discovery and shelled out a hundred bucks for the privilege.

“I forgot to ask,” Lincoln said as our server brought our martinis and placed them in front of us. I immediately pulled out Lincoln’s olives and started munching on them. The salty brine tasted great after my strawberry Mento amuse-bouche. “How did it go with Sloane today? Did she officially ask you to be in her wedding party?”

“Nope.”

“No?” he echoed, swiveling his head to stare at me. “I thought you said she called out of the blue because she had a favor to ask of you.”

“She did.”

“And that the only favor you could imagine doing for her was being in her bridal party.”

I held up a finger. “I also said there was a chance she’d want the name of my brow tech. She didn’t ask for that, either, which is a shame. Genevieve would love to get her hands on Sloane.”

Lincoln laughed in the special, soundless way he had, his whole body shaking like Santa’s proverbial bowl full of jelly. He’d have left the conversation there—Lincoln was good at knowing when to stop prying—but I could see that he was curious.

“Actually…she asked me to join in her book club,” I said.

“Oh.” He blinked, as confused by the request as I had been. “That was nice of her.”

“No, it’s not. Apparently, they were going to let me pick the next read as a reward for participating, but some lady in the group is having a hard time with her teenage daughter, so they’ve decided to readThe Joy Luck Club. You know how I feel about that book.” I rolled my eyes up toward the stage, where my mother was starting to shake her bosom for the appreciative crowd. Not for me the honored family traditions of our Filipino ancestors or the heartwarming story of a second-generation citizen coming into his own. I got a borderline burlesque show and three olives on a toothpick. “And it gets worse.”

“Worse than the beloved tale of one of America’s most celebrated authors?”

That time, I rolled my eyes athim. “The book club is at Arthur McLachlan’s house. Remember that old guy I was telling you about? The one she lost her job over?”

“I thought you were scared of him,” Lincoln said.

“Iam. But Sloane said it’s important for me to be there. Apparently, they need my professional insights to keep going.”

I’d have been lying if I didn’t admit to puffing up a little over this last bit. Even though I’d been a librarian for over a year now, I hadn’t been born to the literary trade the way Sloane was. In fact, I hadn’t been born to any trade whatsoever. My résumé read more like a hodgepodge of failed personalities than a formal document.

Nursing school had been my first destination, but I’d soon found that I didn’t care for the smell of hospitals. In an attempt to throw off the shackles of my medical training, I next tried my hand at being a flight attendant. When it turned out I’m easily susceptible to altitude sickness, I flirted with personal training.Anda personal trainer. That ended about as well as expected, which is why I’d become a cherished member of the Coeur d’Alene library team. In fact, I’d fallen so far into the literary world lately that I was trying my hand at writing a fantasy novel.

It was a pretty good novel, too. Or rather, itwouldbe, if I could just find the focus to sit down and write.

“Are you going to join the book club?” Lincoln asked.

ObviouslyI was going to. “Are you kidding? I’m not passing up a chance to see the inside of Arthur McLachlan’s house. Fifty bucks says he sleeps in a coffin under the floorboards.”

Lincoln laughed out loud that time. The people who overpaid for my mom’s record heard and shushed us. This, unfortunately, caused my mother to look down and notice me sitting there. She’d just warbled off the final note of “La Vie en Rose,” so there was nothing stopping her from indulging in her every theatrical impulse.

As soon as her eyes met mine, I read the meaning in them as clearly as if Amy Tan had just plopped her best-selling novel in front of me. My mother lifted her hand and held it out to me, the glittering rings on each of her fingers beckoning like Blackbeard’s treasure.

“Ah, my kittens—what a treat we have in store for us this evening,” she crooned. She always referred to her fans as kittens even though she abhorred cats of all kinds. Dogs too. And gerbils and hamsters and any of the other living, loving creatures I’d been desperate to own as a kid.

I did have a goldfish once, but he only lasted three days before he died of a Hostess cupcake overdose. I’d tasted the fish flakes and thought it would be kinder to supplement his diet from my own lunch box.

“My darling, dearest, most precious son is here to watch his mama shine. Aren’t you, baby?”

This scene had been enacted between us so many times before that I didn’t need the cue. Twisting in my seat, I plastered on a smile and waved like a princess chained to a float.

“That’s right,” she said, still in that falsetto voice—the sound of a woman torn through the portals of time. “My own little Mateo.”

Lincoln kicked my foot under the table again, this time in warning for me not to react. I did react, though—viscerally. It had been months since my mom had done this, mostly because I warned her that I wouldn’t come to her shows anymore if she planned to drag me onstage and vaunt me around like a puffed collar. I was a thirty-three-year-old man, for crying out loud. I’d hung up my tap shoes years ago, long before flight attendant training or nursing school or any of the other fifteen careers I’d shed over the past two decades.

“As many of you can imagine, it’s no small thing for him to be here with us today.”