Page 73 of The Lonely Hearts Book Club

I had to bite back a snort. I imagined the idea had occurred to just about everyone my grandfather met.

“We actually discussed it during a lull at the library once,” Mateo said. “You’d just told one of the new hires that her views on Kierkegaard rivaled that of a toddler finding his toes for the first time. It took all Octavia’s powers of persuasion to keep her from quitting on the spot.”

This time, my snort managed to escape.

“After that, we considered murder, a professional hit, giving you a stern talking-to, and banning you outright.” Mateo smiled at the memory.

“Well?” my grandfather demanded. The only offense he seemed to take was the length of time Mateo needed to relay the tale.

“Well, what?” Mateo shrugged. “You’re still here, aren’t you? Sloane talked us out of it. She’s always had a soft spot where you’re concerned, though I’ll be damned if I can figure out why.”

It was a sentiment I’d shared so many times that I felt myself straining to hear my grandfather’s response. I’d long since discarded my theory that Sloane was using him for money, but what other reason could she have for sticking around? She was well-educated. She had a fiancé. She made no demands of anyone, asked for nothing for herself. Thanks to her methodical and painstaking book-cataloging system, my grandfather’s house was actually starting to look—and feel—like a home. And as far as I knew, he’d never once said thank you for any of it.

I didn’t get my answer. The lights flickered before going all the way dim as the big band filed out to take the stage. Despite myself, I found my breath catching in my throat as Althea walked out.

“You’re in for a treat.” Lincoln leaned across the table toward me, but his voice was loud enough for the whole table to hear. “Have you seen her perform live before?”

“No, but my mom was a big fan of her music. When I was growing up, there was almost always something sad and French playing in the background.”

Since the band was striking up, I assumed this would be the end of the conversation, but my grandfather spoke up. “She got that from your grandmother,” he said.

It was hard to distinguish his words in the cacophony of half a dozen brass instruments blaring to life, but then, it might have been the roaring of my own blood that covered the sound of his voice. To hear my mom tell the tale, my grandmother had been a living saint, a woman too good for this planet and for the people she chose to share it with—the exact opposite of the man she’d married. And not once had I heard my grandfather refer to her, even in passing.

“She loved this kind of music,” he added. “Not a day went by without the melancholia of ennui setting the tone.”

Instead of showing his own melancholy or ennui at this, my grandfather smiled. Actuallysmiled—a small, content compression of the lips that seemed to carry some secret meaning.

“Sentimental nonsense, all of it,” he added with a stern look around the table, lest any of us get the wrong impression.

But it was too late. My impression was intact, and all I could feel in that moment was that it was very, very right.

***

Mateo had warned me ahead of time that there was a good chance he’d be pulled up onto the stage and forced to perform like a dancing monkey, but I’d thought he was kidding.

“Holy shit.”

Several people turned to glare at me at the sound of my outburst, so I did my best to hunch my shoulders and disappear. I also lowered my voice, but there wasn’t any need. As Mateo and Althea launched into a duet of “Forever Young,” I could have shouted at the top of my lungs and not taken away a fraction of their allure.

“I know.” Lincoln sighed. For a man who was apparently dating the living reincarnation of Frank Sinatra, he seemed awfully sad. “He’s amazing.”

I had no idea how such a small, slight man could carry that powerful of a baritone in his throat, but there was no denying he had talent. Talentandpresence, if the way he held the whole audience captive was any indication.

“Just make sure you don’t congratulate him afterward,” Lincoln said. “He hates hearing how good he is. He hates everything associated with the stage, actually.”

My grandfather let out an annoyed huff. “False modesty is something I have no patience for.”

“I wasn’t aware you had patience foranything.”

He ignored me. “What the devil is he doing working as a librarian?” he demanded of Lincoln. “Or a nurse, for that matter? If I had a set of pipes like that, I’d be out using them every chance I got.”

A look of pain crossed Lincoln’s face. “It’s complicated.”

“Balderdash,” my grandfather said. This was so woefully inadequate—and also somehow so exactly right—that I found myself echoing the sentiment.

We turned our collective attention back to the stage, watching and listening as the pair of them finished up their song. An inexpressible sadness filled me at the sight of it—the rich sound of Mateo’s voice, his mother’s obvious pride in him, the way the audience roared its appreciation—followed almost immediately by anger. I wasn’t a man given to jealousy very often, but I felt it now, and I felt it hard.

My mom and I had never been a singing sensation, obviously, and that weird speech Althea gave about Mateo falling into a well puzzled me, but I’d have given everything I owned for a chance to trade places with him. I’d heard from plenty of people who promised that my mom was still with me—forever in my heart, watching from afar, that sort of thing—but no amount of faith could replace actual human warmth.