Page 71 of The Lonely Hearts Book Club

“It’s Lincoln. I’ll only take a sec.”

The last thing I wanted to do was intrude on a private conversation between this man and his boyfriend, but all that waited for me inside that house was a crinkly hospital bed and my grandfather’s indifference, so I stayed put.

“I was just finishing up with Arthur before heading home. Yeah, he’s fine. False alarm.” There was a pause and a sudden tension around Mateo’s mouth. “Greg is here with me right now, actually. We’re making plans to stalk Nigel Carthage together.”

I didn’t recall offering to stalk anyone, but Mateo sighed heavily before saying, “If you must.” He held the phone out to me. “Here. Lincoln wants to talk to you.”

“Me?”

He shook the phone. “We’re in a weird place, so it’s probably best if you play along. I can load up my new umbrella stand while you chat.”

“Hello?” I said as I watched Mateo struggle to lift the elephant’s foot and drag it to his car.

“Greg. Hey. Thanks.” Each of his words was uttered as a complete sentence, although I couldn’t make out the meaning of any of them. “What are your plans for tomorrow evening? Are you free?”

“Um, I think so. Why? What’s up?”

“Althea’s performing at the Lofthouse, so I thought I’d see if you want to join us. Mateo said you don’t know a lot of people in town, and you seem to be a fan of her music, so…”

I’d received invitations to funerals with more enthusiasm. “Thanks, but I should probably be here in case my grandfather needs me.”

There was a long pause. “Look, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. Mateo is…” He sighed. By the time he started speaking again, there was a lot more animation in his voice. “He seems to be really invested in whatever is happening with you and your grandfather. I know he’ll have a better time if you’re there to take the edge off. It would mean a lot to me—to us both—if you came.”

I was pretty sure all the social rules dictated a firm and resolute “no” in situations like this, but Mateo had returned and overhead enough to put the pieces together. He flashed a thumbs-up to show his approval.

“Yeah, sure. That sounds like fun. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Lincoln rattled off the details before hanging up. I handed the phone back to Mateo with a questioning lift to my brow.

“It’s too complicated to explain,” he said. In defiance of this, he went ahead and explained it anyway. “Lincoln’s afraid I’m going to leave him to become a famous author.”

“I thought you were going to be a private investigator.”

Even though Mateo shrugged, it was obvious—to me, at least—that his indifference was feigned. That was one of the things no one told you about losing someone you loved. I’d always thought that grief turned people inward, forced them to clutch their memories around them like a cloak against a gathering storm, but the opposite was true. The moment my mom had closed her eyes for the last time, it was as if I’d been plugged into some vast network of other people’s pain.

“I don’t want to be a private investigator,” he said. “Or an author. Or a librarian. That’s the problem.”

“Have you tried career counseling?”

His laughter came out as a short, sharp burst. “No, but I’ll put it at the top of my to-do list. You’re sure you don’t mind? I can make your excuses if you’d rather avoid the drama of my personal life.”

I shook my head with a desperation I barely recognized in myself. Truth be told, being plugged into this network was the only thing keeping me going right now. It was good to take an active part in things, even if all I was doing was eating everything Maisey cooked and listening to torch ballads from the forties with Mateo and his boyfriend.

“I don’t mind,” I said. “I’d like to see the great Althea Sharpe perform live. It was one of the things my mom never got to cross off her bucket list.”

“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. And if she invites you up onstage to join her, I suggest you put your foot down or you’ll never be able to face a spotlight again.”

24

“Where the devil do you think you’re going?”

I paused in the act of buttoning my shirt—one of the five I was wearing on rotation, courtesy of the small wardrobe I’d brought with me. On Tuesdays, I wore my Henley. On Wednesdays, it was my favorite T-shirt showcasing two T. Rexes in a boxing match. Today was Thursday, which meant I was wearing a faded fisherman’s sweater that was way too hot for any weather but Seattle’s.

“Um. Out?” It had been a long time since I’d been asked to account for my nocturnal activities, so I wasn’t sure about the standard protocol. I sprinkled in a few details. “Mateo’s mom is performing at some club tonight, and his boyfriend invited me to come along.”

My grandfather watched as I poked my head through the neckline of the sweater and tugged it into place.

“What?” I said, feeling more self-conscious than I cared to admit. My grandfather’s stare was like a pair of lasers aimed at my chest, which was already starting to swelter under the heavy knit. “You think I should wear something else?”