Page 62 of The Lonely Hearts Book Club

“Nigel Carthage?” she echoed with a wrinkle of her nose. “Why does that sound familiar?”

“That’s what I want to know.” I propped my chin on my hands and blinked expectantly at her. “Take all the time you need. This is important.”

“Wait. He’s a literary critic, right?” She got to the answer much quicker than I expected—and without once having to resort to her phone for clues. “Does lots of reviews for big-name books and big-name publications?”

“Geez, Sloane. You really need to get a life.”

She blushed and began toying with the tacky purple brooch on her collar. I’d noticed her wearing that thing at book club, but time wasn’t doing anything to improve it. Seasonal Halloween stores sold better quality stuff than that.

“It’s not as pathetic as it sounds. His name pops up in the library review journals all the time—a thing you’d know if you ever picked one up. Did you know he used to live here?”

“He still does.” I let the news settle before spilling therealcream. “I met him at my mom’s club the other night.”

Lincoln cleared his throat. “You didn’t tell me you’d met a book reviewer.”

“Not just a book reviewer,” Sloane corrected him. “Thebook reviewer. A good quote from him can launch an entire career. But I don’t understand. What does Nigel have to do with anything?”

“He donated twenty thousand dollars to the library—and get this, he mentioned me by name when he did it.”

It said a lot about Sloane as a human being and my friend that her expression showed nothing but delight at this piece of library gossip. There was no envy in that wide-eyed stare of hers; no regret that hers hadn’t been the name on the golden ticket. She was the only person I knew who was capable of genuine, un-ironic joy in other people’s triumphs.

“Mateo, that’s fantastic.” She stopped playing with the brooch and clasped both my hands instead. “Are they letting you have a say on how it’s spent? Because there’s that used car lot on Sherman that promised me two vans at a discount if we bought them before the year’s out. They’d be perfect for expanding the bookmobile program. I’d be happy to pop in and—”

Now it was Brett’s turn to clear his throat—though he did it with much less finesse. “Sloane, love, you don’t work there anymore, remember? It’s Mateo’s job to handle that kind of thing now.”

She sat back with a flush, her eyes downcast. “I didn’t mean it like that. I only wanted to introduce Mateo to my contact at the lot. I’d hate for the library to lose out on the deal just because I chose to walk away.”

A waiter approached the table before any of us could make an attempt to dispel the sudden heavy tension. I was inordinately proud of Lincoln for glossing things over by ordering a pitcher of sangria and a smoked trout spread for the whole table. The world could be falling apart around him, but he’d still remember his manners.

“I doubt Octavia will let me anywhere near the money, so it’s not like it matters,” I said as soon as the waiter disappeared from view. “Besides, that’s not the strangest part.”

“Maybe we should save the work talk for another time,” Sloane said with a quick, anxious glance at her fiancé. I cast a quick, anxious glance at my own beau to find that he was watching me with an intensity that seemed a little too heavy for the circumstances.

“Actually, I’d like to hear this,” Lincoln said, his voice carefully neutral. “How does this tale get stranger?”

I ignored the warning thrum in my veins and answered, “I’m pretty sure the twenty thousand bucks was meant to be a bribe.”

Sloane frowned. “For what? Nothing in the library is worth that much.”

“He wants in our book club.”

My news wasn’t received with the excitement I’d been angling for. Instead of an outburst of intrigue and drama, I got laughter—and lots of it.

“I’m serious, you guys. I know how it sounds, but I have proof. Look.” I pulled out the business card he’d left me and flashed it at my incredulous audience. “He gave me this and told me to call him if we ever got an opening. I think he must really loveThe Joy Luck Club.”

Lincoln was the first to recover. “No one loves a book so much they’d pay that kind of money just to talk about it with a group of strangers.”

“A billionaire might. That’s like twenty bucks to them.”

“But Nigel Carthage isn’t a billionaire,” Sloane pointed out. “I doubt he’s even a millionaire.”

The waiter arrived with our drinks and the appetizer. Grateful for the distraction, I took the biggest slice of bread I could find and liberally dished a scoop of trout spread on top.

“You don’t know his financial situation,” I said around a mouthful of the smoky dip. “He could be sitting on piles of money. Besides, what other explanation is there? He cornered me in a dark alley. He all but begged me to let him into our club. Then, when I refused, he showed up at my place of business with a huge check. I think we should let him in. To see what happens.”

Sloane shook her head. “I had a hard enough time selling Arthur on you being there. It’d never work.”

“I’m with Sloane on this one,” Brett agreed. I watched as he arranged a plate for Sloane and put it in front of her before helping himself. It was a sweet gesture, if uncomfortably paternal. “You guys have already taken over that poor man’s house and life. I think you should just cancel the whole thing.”