Page 51 of The Lonely Hearts Book Club

“I don’t smoke.” I held up my hands to show they were empty of everything save for my phone. TikTok videos about puppies were the only things that saved me in moments like these. I needed their bland mass appeal to put everything back where it was supposed to be. “Sorry.”

“Mind if I do?”

I shook my head and thought about shuffling off to the other end of the alleyway, but the smell was more regurgitation and less waffle cone in that direction, so I stayed in place.

“My doctor says these things will kill me.” The man laughed softly as he lit up. The edge of a British accent added a pleasant crispness to his voice. “But we all have to go sometime—some of us sooner than others. I might as well enjoy myself in the meantime.”

This was such an unanswerable thing that I didn’t respond. Not that it prevented him from continuing.

“That was some performance in there. You were phenomenal, but you didn’t seem to be enjoying yourself.”

Since I could hardly stand in silence forever, I answered. “That’s because I wasn’t.”

“Did you really fall down a well?”

I sighed. “Look, if you want an autograph or a selfie, we’re going to need to go around to the front of the club where it’s better lit.”

“A selfie?” He chuckled. “Do I look like the sort of man who wants a selfie?”

I noticed then that he was much older than I at first assumed. The alleyway was so dim that I could only make out an impression, but my impression told me that he was in his seventies or eighties, his dark skin weathered into deeply carved lines on either side of his mouth. He was a little too gaunt to please my medical eye, and there was a yellowing about his eyes that wasn’t being helped by his nicotine habit, but he was well-dressed.

Unable to resist the impulse, I chuckled. “Okay, maybe you don’t want a selfie. But you’d be surprised how many people ask. I have a hashtag and everything. It’s #MateotheMiracle. I trended once.”

“I don’t know what any of those words mean,” the man confessed, and I found myself warming to him. “But I find your story to be vastly interesting. How old were you when it happened?”

“Seven,” I said as I prepared to launch into my canned speech. It was the first thing I’d ever memorized, long before the words to “Forever Young” and the balcony scene where I once played Juliet. We’d been sticklers for original Shakespeare at the all-boys Catholic school I went to as a kid—mostly because we’d had no other choice. Although I’d killed it as Juliet, I was best as Ophelia. My drowning scene used to bring the parents to tears.

“We were visiting some family friends,” I said, allowing my voice to wax poetic. “The farm they owned was huge, and I wandered off on my own in hopes of finding the goats. The well I fell into was old, empty, and unused for decades. Even after all these years, no one knows why the cover was off on that fateful day, but—”

“I remember that,” he interrupted, even though I hadn’t even gotten to the good part yet. Then, with a look of genuine concern, he added, “Were you aware that your nose is bleeding?”

“Oh geez. Is it?” I scrambled for the packet of tissues I always kept in my pocket for just such a situation, before I remembered that I was wearing the tight pants. “I’m sorry, it’s this thing that happens—”

“Here. Take mine.” A handkerchief was pressed into my hand before I could stop him. And stop him I would have, if given a chance. Did this man have any idea how many germs per square inch were carried in these things? I was always trying to get Sloane to give up on hers. Even if it was daintily embroidered, it was still gross. “Do you need to sit down?”

“No, I’m fine.” I tipped my head back in an attempt to quell the sudden outpouring of blood. “It’s from stress.”

“I’m sorry. Does reliving your trauma bring it on? I won’t ask any more questions.” He promptly proceeded to do just that—to not ask questions or even mention the subject of the well again. It was such a rare thing in my life that I was completely floored…until he spoke up again. “Did I hear you mention a book club that you’re a part of?”

“Um. Yes?”

“You’ll have to pardon my inquisitiveness. I’m a book critic, so anything that smacks of literature piques my interest, even in a nightclub.” He smiled in a way that made me feel weirdly better about bleeding all over his handkerchief. “I’m Nigel Carthage. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

“Sorry,” I said, shrugging. Sloane could probably name every single book critic and the news publication they worked for—in alphabetical order—but I’d always been more of an amateur. “It doesn’t ring any bells.”

“No matter. I only wanted to inquire if you were taking new members. I recently moved back to the area only to find that most of my old acquaintances are no longer here.” He clucked his tongue. “Or alive. Take my advice and don’t grow old. I find I can’t recommend it.”

“Oh. Um, I’m not in charge of the book club.” I winced behind the handkerchief. Telling a man with dead friends that you didn’t want his company was no walk in the park. “In fact, I haven’t gone to any meetings yet, so I doubt I’m allowed to start writing out invitations.”

The music from inside the club switched to a more upscale swing beat, which meant the dancing was starting—and that, if no one else was brave enough to kick things off, my Charleston was required.

“Look, I should head back in,” I said with an apologetic shrug. I thought about handing the handkerchief back to him but decided this one would be better off at the bottom of my fireplace. Or the lake. “I’m sorry I can’t be of help to you, but—”

“Take my card,” he said. Like a magician, he reached into the same pocket that had held his handkerchief and extracted a single business card. The name Nigel Carthage sat boldly in the center, along with a line proclaiming him a contributing book reviewer at no less a publication thanThe New Yorker. I didn’t have to be Sloane to be impressed by that. “If you find you have an opening, I’d love to be able to pop in and chat. You said you’re readingThe Joy Luck Club?”

“Yes, but—” I began feebly.

“Perfect.” He beamed on me as if I’d handed him the golden ticket to a Wonka Wonderland. “I bet you have lots of interesting things to say on the subject. With a mother like yours, how could you not?”