The Accidental Book Club by Jennifer Scott Page A

Jean needed help—that Jean could finally come up with a good segue to leave. By the time she got off the phone—mumbling cryptic answers to his questions as if she were FBI—Bailey had gone up to her room and shut the door. For a time, Jean stood outside the door, her hand splayed open on it as if she were reaching inside and touching Bailey, comforting her the way she couldn’t do when they were face-to-face, her ears perked for any sign of movement, any sign of foul play.
    What if her granddaughter did set her house on fire?
    Would she? Was she that unpredictable?
    After a while, Jean knocked.
    “I need to go to the grocery store,” she called. “Would you like to come?”
    No answer.
    “Bailey?” she called, her heart jumping. What if the child had done something stupid inside the room? What if she’d hurt herself or snuck out? There was a muffled sound. Jean tried the doorknob, but it wouldn’t turn. She knocked again, a little more insistent this time. “Bailey?”
    “I said I’m asleep!” came the annoyed response from the other side, screamed so loudly, Jean actually took two steps back from the door, her hand turning itself back into a fist. She stood in the hallway, unsure, then stepped back to the door.
    “Oh. Okay. I’m . . . sorry I woke you.”
    •   •   •
    She knew she should have felt afraid to leave Bailey home alone, but the truth was, the minute Jean was in her car, driving toward town, she felt so relieved, she almost tingled. Here, at the supermarket, there would be nothing unfamiliar. Here she could be in control.
    She grabbed a cart from the corral next to her car and pushed it across the lot herself, liking the familiar jangle of the metal shaking and jarring over the potholed concrete parking lot. She liked the everyday whoosh of the automatic doors opening for her, the beeping sound of the cash registers permeating the air as if she’d just stepped into a heart monitor, the scuffle of shoppers, the clang of cart meeting cart, the music—Cyndi Lauper today—piping in over her head. All expected. All things she understood on every level. No surprises here.
    She wheeled to the deli counter and began to order the usual—a half pound of kettle fried turkey breast and six slices of white American cheese—when she looked up to see Janet, her perpetually red-faced friend from the book club.
    Jean barked out a surprised laugh, the one Laura had always called her “flaff.”
It’s a fake laugh, Mother,
she used to droll, rolling her eyes not too unlike her daughter had just been doing in the entryway earlier that day.
It makes you sound like some hoity-toity TV wife.
And then, of course, Laura had grown to be all about appearances, and Jean often wondered whether Laura flaffed now, and if it made her feel as ridiculous as it still made Jean feel when she did it.
    “I didn’t know you were working here,” Jean said.
    Janet shrugged, her nose going crimson. “Just started a couple weeks ago. It’s killing me being away from the kids, but we needed the money, so . . .” She fidgeted with the hem of her apron.
    “Totally understand,” Jean said, and she flaffed again, which only made her feel even more awkward, and to Jean it began to feel as if this would be a whole day of awkwardness. “I’ve thought of applying here myself,” she added, which wasn’t true, and she had no idea what made her say it in the first place, especially since it only added to the discomfort, and she and Janet both shuffled their feet and looked down.
    “I read
Blame
,” Janet finally blurted. “The book? For our next meeting? I finished it last night after my shift.”
    “Oh! The book!” Jean said, relieved to have something to talk about while at the same time mortified that in all the strange goings-on of the past few days, she had neglected to read it herself. “Book club. Of course! Yes, yes. Quite the interesting book.”
    Janet’s face turned so red on the forehead, it