Page 69 of The Lonely Hearts Book Club

We all sat and watched as Maisey started scanning the computer screen, her lips pursed and an intent expression narrowing her eyes. Whatever she was looking for seemed to be taking a while, so I took a moment to set my knapsack by the door, careful to fold the address and tuck it in the front pocket.

Instead of asking about it—which I could feel both Mateo and Sloane straining to do—they steered the conversation back to the topic of Nigel Carthage.

“Mateo, I still think you’re overreacting about this whole thing,” Sloane said. “People donate money to libraries all the time without ulterior motives. And the man is obviously a big reader, so what could be more natural than for him to join a local book club?”

“Are you kidding?” Mateo countered. “He once ripped Jonathan Franzen to shreds during an awards ceremonyto his face. Why on earth would a man like that beg for a chance to discussThe Joy Luck Clubwith a bunch of nobodies from North Idaho?”

This appeared to be so unanswerable that Sloane grew silent once again. I wanted to add something useful to the conversation but I didn’t know what to say, so I picked up a cucumber sandwich and ate it. At least chewing gave me something to do with my mouth.

“Oh, wow.” Maisey sank back against the couch cushion. “I didn’t see that twist coming.”

“What is it?” I asked.

Sloane wasn’t far behind. “What did you find?”

Mateo was the only one not buying it. “Really? That fast? How’d you get so good at internet searching?”

Maisey chose to address Mateo’s question first. “I do it for it work all the time.” A sheepish smile touched her lips. “I’m not supposed to look up my clients, obviously, but it can help when I’m trying to give more personalized advice. I don’t search for things like pet names or dead relatives or anything—I’d never do something like that—but little things. What their interests are and how they interact with the world. Ways to help them better understand themselves.”

“Shady.” Mateo nodded. “I like it.”

“It’s not shady.” I was quick to rise to her defense. I’d spent enough time with the woman to know that there wasn’t a shady bone in her body. No one loved the way Maisey Phillips did—unabashedly and with zero trace of irony. “It’skind. She only wants to help people.”

“By Google-stalking them?”

“No.” I set my jaw. “By taking the time to care.”

Sloane cleared her throat. “Uh, I hate to interrupt, but am I the only one who’s dying to know what she found?”

Maisey turned the screen around so we could see what she’d pulled up. It didn’t look like much—just a résumé so old that it had been scanned and uploaded by hand—but Sloane gasped out loud at the sight of it.

“Does that say what I think it does?” Her eyes widened, their soft hazel depths growing green from the reflected light of the screen. “No way. He was a professor at North Idaho College back in the seventies?”

“Does that mean something?” Mateo demanded. “What am I missing?”

For the first time, I found myself taking an interest in this Nigel Carthage character—and not just because he gave me a concrete excuse to engage Sloane in conversation. “My grandfather taught English literature there for almost his whole life.” I answered the question I knew was coming next. “Starting in the 1970s.”

Excited voices broke out all around me. Mateo’s was the most triumphant and therefore the loudest. “Iknewthere was something more to this. That night Nigel overheard me in the club…I mentioned Arthur by name, I’m sure of it. In fact, Nigel even admitted that he was feeling lonely because everyone he used to know was either dead or gone. He must have heard me say Arthur’s name in conjunction with the book club and hoped to reconnect.”

“Then why didn’t he come out and say that?” Maisey asked. “I’m sure Arthur would love to meet up with an old friend.”

I snorted out loud at that.

“Well, hemight.” A self-conscious look crinkled the edges of Maisey’s eyes. “Everybody likes to chat about their youth. Nostalgia is big in my line of work.”

Sloane tugged gently on my sleeve. “Have you ever heard your grandfather mention him before?”

I hadn’t realized she was so close to me. Surprise locked my muscles tight and made my voice gruffer than usual. “My grandfather and I have shared all of twenty minutes’ worth of conversation in the entire course of my life. I’m afraid an ex-coworker from the seventies didn’t make the list.”

Her hand fell, and I cursed my clumsiness. I hadn’t meant to sound so defensive but, well, I was defensive. Every single person in this room knew more about my grandfather than I did, even though he was my sole living relative. I was an only child, my dad a nonentity who wasn’t even listed on my birth certificate, and no other family had reached out to claim me once my mother passed. Forgive me for coming across a little harshly.

“I’m sorry,” I said, since my solitary state was hardly Sloane’s fault. “I wish I could help, but he’s as much a stranger to me as he is to you.More, probably. You’ve had more than three months to get to know him. So far, I’ve had three weeks.”

“And not a very good three weeks, huh?” she asked. The question must have been rhetorical because she clucked her tongue in sympathy before turning to address the group. “Well, I hate to break up the party, but we should call it a night. It’s getting late, and if Greg is going to stay with Arthur tonight—”

She broke off to look at me. I ducked my head in assent. As little as I cherished the thought of sharing a roof with that man, it was better for a family member to do it than any one of these three. He could hardly murder me in my sleep.

At the very least, he could only try.