CHAPTER FOUR
THE BEACHCOMBER
1.
With Tessa, the day began with the sunrise. She would drag Mercer out of bed and hurry to the deck, where they sipped coffee and waited with great anticipation for the first glimpse of the orange glow rising on the horizon. Once the sun was up, they would hustle down the boardwalk and check out the beach. Later in the morning, as Tessa worked in the flower beds on the west side of the cottage, Mercer would often ease back into bed for a long nap.
With Tessa’s consent, Mercer had had her first cup of coffee around the age of ten, and her first martini at fifteen. “Everything in moderation” was one of her grandmother’s favorite sayings.
But Tessa was gone now, and Mercer had seen enough sunrises. She slept until after nine and reluctantly got out of bed. As the coffee brewed, she roamed around the cottage in search of the perfect writing space and didn’t find one. She felt no pressure and was determined to write only if she had something to say. Her novel was three years past due anyway. If they could wait for three years in New York, then they could certainly handle four. Her agent checked in occasionally, but with less frequency. Their conversations were brief. During her long drives from Chapel Hill to Memphis to Florida, she had loafed and dreamed and plotted and at times felt as though her novel was finding its voice. She planned to toss the scraps that she’d already written and start over, but this time with a serious new beginning. Now that she was no longer in debt, and no longer worried about the next job, her mind was wonderfully uncluttered with the nagging irritations of everyday life. Once she was settled and rested, she would plunge into her work and average at least a thousand words a day.
But for her current job, the one for which she was being handsomely paid, she had no idea what she was doing, and no idea how long it might take to do whatever she was supposed to do, so she decided there was no benefit in wasting a day. She went online and checked her e-mails. Not surprisingly, ever-efficient Elaine had dropped a note during the night with some useful addresses.
Mercer typed an e-mail to the Queen Bee: “Dear Myra Beckwith. I’m Mercer Mann, a novelist house-sitting on the beach for a few months while I work on a book. I know virtually no one here and so I’m taking a chance by saying hello and suggesting we—you, Ms. Trane, me—get together for a drink. I’ll bring a bottle of wine.”
At ten on the dot, the doorbell rang. When Mercer opened the front door an unmarked box was on the porch but there was no delivery guy in sight. She took it to the kitchen table, where she opened and unpacked it. As promised, there were the four large picture books by Noelle Bonnet, three novels by Serena Roach, the rather slim literary edition by Leigh Trane, and half a dozen romance novels with artwork that fairly sizzled. All manner of skin was being groped by gorgeous young maidens and their handsome lovers with impossibly flat stomachs. Each was by a different author, though all were written by Myra Beckwith. She would save those for later.
Nothing she saw inspired her to pursue her own novel.
She ate some granola as she flipped through Noelle’s book about the Marchbanks House.
At 10:37 her cell phone buzzed, caller unknown. She barely said “Hello” before a frantic, high-pitched voice declared, “We don’t drink wine. I do beer and Leigh prefers rum, and the cabinet’s stocked full so you don’t have to bring your own bottle. Welcome to the island. This is Myra.”
Mercer was almost chuckling. “A pleasure, Myra. I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”
“Well, we’re bored and always looking for somebody new. Can you hold off till six this afternoon? We never start drinking before six.”
“I’ll try. See you then.”
“And you know where we are?”
“On Ash Street.”
“See you.”
Mercer put the phone down and tried to place the accent. Definitely southern, maybe East Texas. She selected one of the paperbacks, one supposedly written by a Runyon O’Shaughnessy, and began reading. The “savagely handsome” hero was loose in a castle where he was not welcome, and by page 4 he had bedded two chambermaids and was stalking a third. By the end of the first chapter, everyone was exhausted, including Mercer. She stopped when she realized her pulse was up a notch. She did not have the stamina to blitz through five hundred pages.
She took Leigh Trane’s novel to the deck and found a rocker under an umbrella. It was after eleven, and the midday Florida sun was beating down. Everything left unshaded was hot to the touch. Ms. Trane’s novel dealt with a young, unmarried woman who woke up pregnant one day and wasn’t sure who the father was. She had been drinking too much during the past year, had been rather promiscuous, and her memory was not that sharp. With a calendar, she tried to retrace her steps, and finally made a list of the three likeliest suspects. She vowed to secretly investigate each one with the plan to one day, after her child arrived, spring a paternity suit on the real daddy and collect support. It was a nice setup, but the writing was so convoluted and pretentious that any reader would have difficulty plowing through. No scene was clear, so that the reader was never certain what was going on. Ms. Trane obviously had a pen in one hand and a thesaurus in the other because Mercer saw long words for the first time. And, just as frustrating, the dialogue was not identified with quotation marks, and often it was not clear who said what.
After twenty minutes of hard work, she was exhausted and fell into a nap.
She woke up sweating, and bored, and boredom was not acceptable. She had always lived alone and had learned to stay busy. The cottage needed a good cleaning but that could wait. Tessa might have been a fastidious housekeeper but Mercer did not inherit that trait. Living alone, why should she care if the place wasn’t spotless? She changed into a bathing suit, noted in the mirror her rather pale skin and vowed to work on the tan, and went to the beach. It was Friday, and the weekend renters were arriving, though her stretch of the beach was almost deserted. She took a long swim and short walk, then returned to the cottage and showered and decided to find lunch in town. She put on a light sundress and no makeup, except for lipstick.
Fernando Street ran for five miles along the beach, and next to the dunes and the ocean it was lined with a mix of old and new rentals, budget motels, fine new homes, condos, and an occasional bed-and-breakfast. Across the street, there were more homes and rentals, shops, a few offices, more motels, and restaurants offering up bar food. As she puttered along, adhering to the strict limit of thirty-five miles per hour, Mercer thought nothing had changed. It was exactly as she remembered. The town of Santa Rosa maintained it well and every eighth of a mile there was a small parking lot and boardwalk for public beach access.
Behind her, to the south, there were the big hotels, the Ritz and the Marriott sitting beside high-rise condos, and the more exclusive residential enclaves, developments Tessa had never approved of, because she believed too many lights interfered with the nesting of green and loggerhead turtles. Tessa had been an active member of Turtle Watch, as well as every other conservation and environmental group on the island.
Mercer was not an activist, because she couldn’t stand meetings, which was another reason to stay away from campuses and faculties. She entered the town and eased along with the traffic on Main Street, passing the bookstore with Noelle’s Provence next door. She parked on a side street and found a small café with courtyard seating. After a long, quiet lunch in the shade, she browsed through the clothing stores and T-shirt shops, mixing with the tourists and buying nothing. She drifted toward the harbor and watched the boats come and go. She and Tessa came here to meet Porter, their sailing friend who owned a thirty-foot sloop and was always eager to take them out. Those had been long days, for Mercer anyway. As she remembered things, there was never enough wind and they baked in the sun. She had always tried to hide in the cabin but the boat had no air-conditioning. Porter had lost his wife to some horrible disease; Tessa said he never talked about it and had moved to Florida to escape the memories. Tessa always said he had the saddest eyes.
Mercer had never blamed Porter for what happened. Tessa loved to sail with him and she understood the risks. Land was never out of sight and there were no thoughts of danger.
To escape the heat, she stepped inside the harbor restaurant and had a glass of iced tea at the empty bar. She gazed at the water and watched a charter boat return with a load of mahimahi and four happy and red-faced fishermen. A gang of jet skiers set off, going much too fast in the no-wake zone. And then she saw a sloop easing away from the pier. It was about the same length and color as Porter’s, and there were two people on deck, an older gentleman at the wheel and a lady in a straw hat. For a moment it was Tessa, sitting idly by, drink in hand, perhaps offering unsolicited advice to the captain, and the years disappeared. Tessa was alive again. Mercer longed to see and hold her and laugh about something. A dull pain ached in her stomach, but soon the moment passed. She watched the sloop until it disappeared, then paid for the tea and left the harbor.
At a coffee shop, she sat at a table and watched the bookstore across the street. Its large windows were packed with books. A banner announced an upcoming author signing. Someone was always at the door, coming or going. It was impossible to believe the manuscripts were in there, locked away in some vault hidden in the basement. It was even more far-fetched to think that she was somehow supposed to deliver them.
Elaine had suggested that Mercer stay away from the store and wait until Cable made the first move. However, Mercer was now her own spy, making her own rules, though still without a clue. She wasn’t exactly taking orders from anyone. Orders? There was no clear game plan. Mercer had been tossed into battle and expected to adjust and improvise on the fly. At 5:00 p.m., a man in a seersucker suit and bow tie, undoubtedly Bruce Cable, walked out of the store and headed east. Mercer waited until he was gone, then crossed the street and entered Bay Books for the first time in many years. She could not remember the last visit but guessed she was either seventeen or eighteen, and driving.
As she always did in any bookstore, she drifted aimlessly until she found the shelves for Literary Fiction, then scanned quickly through the alphabet, about midway down to the Ms, to see if either of her books might be in inventory. She smiled. There was one copy of the trade edition of October Rain. There was no sign of The Music of Waves, but that was to be expected. She had not found her short story collection in a bookstore since the week it was published.
With a partial victory in hand, she wandered slowly through the store, soaking up the smells of new books, and coffee, and, from somewhere, the hint of pipe smoke. She adored the saggy shelves, the piles of books on the floors, the ancient rugs, the racks of paperbacks, the colorful section for bestsellers at 25 percent off! From across the store she took in the First Editions Room, a handsome paneled area with open windows and hundreds of the more expensive books. Upstairs in the café, she bought a bottle of sparkling water and ventured outside on the porch, where others were drinking coffee and passing the late afternoon. At the far end, a rotund gentleman was smoking a pipe. She flipped through a tourist guide for the island and watched the clock.
At five minutes before six, she went downstairs and spotted Bruce Cable at the front counter chatting with a customer. She seriously doubted if he would recognize her. His only clue would be her black-and-white photo on the dust jacket of October Rain, a novel that was now seven years old and had generated only pennies for his store. But she had been scheduled to sign here during her aborted book tour, and he allegedly read everything, and he probably knew her connection to the island, and, most important, at least from his viewpoint, she was an attractive young female writer, so perhaps the odds were even that he would spot her.
He did not.
2.
Ash Street was one block south of Main. The house was on a corner lot at the intersection of Fifth. It was old and historic with gabled roofs and two-storied gallery porches on three sides. It was painted a soft pink and trimmed in dark blue on its doors, shutters, and porches. A small sign over the front door read, “Vicker House 1867.”
From her past, Mercer could not remember a pink house in downtown Santa Rosa, not that it mattered. Houses get painted every year.
She tapped on the door and a pack of yappy dogs erupted on the other side. A beast of a woman yanked open the door, thrust out a hand, and said, “I’m Myra. Come in. Don’t mind the dogs. Nobody bites around here but me.”
“I’m Mercer,” she said, shaking hands.
“Of course you are. Come on.”
The dogs scattered as Mercer followed Myra into the foyer. In a screech, Myra unloaded a “Leigh! Company’s here! Leigh!” When Leigh failed to instantly respond, Myra said, “Stay here. I’ll go find her.” She disappeared through the living room, leaving Mercer alone with a rat-sized mongrel that cowered under a knitting table and growled at her with all teeth flashing. Mercer tried to ignore him or her as she sized up the place. In the air there was a less than pleasant odor of what seemed to be a mix of stale cigarette smoke and dirty dogs. The furniture was old flea market stuff, but quirky and engaging. The walls were covered with bad oils and watercolors by the dozens, and not a single one depicted anything remotely connected to the ocean.
Somewhere in the depths of the house Myra yelled again. A much smaller woman emerged from the dining room and said softly, “Hello, I’m Leigh Trane,” without offering a hand.
“A pleasure. I’m Mercer Mann.”
“I’m loving your book,” Leigh said with a smile that revealed two perfect rows of tobacco-stained teeth. Mercer had not heard anyone say that in a long time. She hesitated and managed an awkward “Well, thank you.”
“Bought a copy two hours ago, from the store, a real book. Myra is addicted to her little device and reads everything on it.”
For a second Mercer felt obligated to lie and say something nice about Leigh’s book, but Myra saved her the trouble. She lumbered back into the foyer and said, “There you are. Now that we’re all good friends, the bar is open and I need a drink. Mercer, what would you like?”
Since they didn’t drink wine, she said, “It’s hot. I’ll take a beer.”
Both women recoiled as if offended. Myra said, “Well, okay, but you should know that I brew my own beer, and it’s different.”
“It’s dreadful,” Leigh added. “I used to like beer before she started her own brewery. Now I can’t stand the stuff.”
“Just gulp your rum, sweetheart, and we’ll get along fine.” Myra looked at Mercer and said, “It’s a spicy ale that’s 8 percent alcohol. Knock you on your ass if you’re not careful.”
“Why are we still standing in the foyer?” Leigh asked.
“Damned good question,” Myra said, flinging an arm toward the stairway. “Come with me.” From behind she looked like an offensive tackle as she cleared the hallway. They followed in her wake and stopped in a family room with a television and fireplace and, in one corner, a full bar with a marble counter.
“We do have wine,” Leigh said.
“Then I’ll have some white wine,” Mercer said. Anything but the home brew.
Myra went to work behind the bar and began firing questions. “So, where are you staying?”
“I don’t suppose you remember my grandmother Tessa Magruder. She lived in a little beach house on Fernando Street.”
Both women shook their heads. No. “Name sorta rings a bell,” Myra said.
“She passed away eleven years ago.”
“We’ve been here for only ten years,” Leigh said.
Mercer said, “The family still owns the cottage and that’s where I’m staying.”
“For how long?” Myra asked.
“A few months.”
“Trying to finish a book, right?”
“Or to start one.”
“Aren’t we all?” Leigh asked.
“Got one under contract?” Myra asked, rattling bottles.
“Afraid so.”
“Be thankful for that. Who’s your publisher?”
“Viking.”
Myra waddled out from behind the bar and handed drinks to Mercer and Leigh. She grabbed a quart-sized fruit jar of thick ale and said, “Let’s go outside so we can smoke.” It was obvious that they had been smoking inside for years.
They walked across a plank deck and settled around a pretty wrought-iron table next to a fountain where a pair of bronze frogs spewed water. Old sweet gum trees blanketed the courtyard with a thick layer of shade, and from somewhere a gentle breeze settled in. The door off the porch didn’t latch and the dogs came and went as they pleased.
“This is lovely,” Mercer said as both hosts fired up cigarettes. Leigh’s was long and skinny. Myra’s was brown and potent.
“Sorry about the smoke,” Myra said, “but we’re addicted, can’t stop. Once, long ago, we tried to quit, but those days are history. So much work, effort, misery, and finally we said to hell with it. Gotta die of something, you know.” She took a long pull from her cigarette, inhaled, exhaled, then washed it all down with a slug of homemade ale. “You want a drink? Come on, try it.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Leigh said.
Mercer quickly sipped her wine and shook her head. “No thanks.”
“This cottage, you say it’s been in the family?” Myra asked. “Been coming here for a long time?”
“Yes, since I was a little girl. I spent the summers here with my grandmother Tessa.”
“How sweet. I like that.” Another slurp of the ale. Myra’s head was peeled about an inch above her ears so that her gray hair flopped from side to side when she drank, smoked, and talked. She was completely gray and about Leigh’s age. Leigh, though, had long dark hair that was pulled back into a tight ponytail and showing no gray.
Both seemed ready to pounce with questions, so Mercer took the offensive. “What brought you to Camino Island?”
They looked at each other as if the story was long and complicated. Myra said, “We lived in the Fort Lauderdale area for many years and got tired of the traffic and crowds. The pace of life here is much slower. People are nicer. Real estate is cheaper. And you? Where’s home for you these days?”
“I’ve been in Chapel Hill for the past three years, teaching. But now I’m sort of in transition.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Myra asked.
“Means I’m basically homeless and unemployed and desperate to finish a book.”
Leigh cackled and Myra guffawed as smoke streamed from their noses. “We’ve been there,” Myra said. “We met thirty years ago when neither one of us had two pennies to rub together. I was trying to write historical fiction and Leigh was trying to write that weird literary shit she’s still trying to write and nothing was selling. We were on welfare and food stamps and working for minimum wage, and, well, things were not looking too good. One day we were walking down a mall and saw a long line of people, all middle-aged women, waiting for something. Up ahead was a bookstore, one of those Walden bookshops used to be in every mall, and sitting at a table having a grand time was Roberta Doley, back then one of the bestselling romance gals in the business. I got in line—Leigh was too much of a snob—bought the book and we made each other read it. The story was about a pirate who roamed the Caribbean raiding ships and raising hell and running from the Brits, and it just so happened that everywhere he docked there was a gorgeous young virgin just waiting to be deflowered. Total crap. So we conjured up this story about a southern belle who couldn’t stay away from her slaves and got herself pregnant. We threw everything at it.”
Leigh added, “Had to buy some dirty magazines, you know, for reference materials. A lot of that stuff we didn’t know about.”
Myra laughed and continued. “We knocked it out in three months and I reluctantly sent it to my agent in New York. A week later she called and said some idiot was offering fifty grand as an advance. We published it under the name of Myra Leigh. Isn’t that clever? Within a year we had a pile of cash and never looked back.”
“So you write together?” Mercer asked.
“She writes it,” Leigh said quickly, as if to distance herself. “We work on the story together, which takes about ten minutes, then she grinds it out. Or we used to.”
“Leigh’s too much of a snob to touch it. She’ll damned sure touch the money, though.”
“Now, Myra,” Leigh said with a smile.
Myra sucked in a lungful and blew a cloud over her shoulder. “Those were the days. We cranked out a hundred books under a dozen names and couldn’t write ’em fast enough. The dirtier the better. You should try one. Pure filth.”
“I can’t wait,” Mercer said.
“Please don’t,” Leigh said. “You’re much too smart for it. I love your writing.”
Mercer was touched and quietly said, “Thank you.”
“Then we slowed down,” Myra continued. “We got sued twice by this crazy bitch up north who claimed we had stolen her stuff. Wasn’t true. Our crap was much better than her crap, but our lawyers got nervous and made us settle out of court. That led to a big fight with our publisher, then our agent, and the whole thing sort of knocked us off our stride. Somehow we got the reputation as thieves, or at least I did. Leigh did a good job of hiding behind me and dodging all the mud. Her literary reputation is still intact, such as it is.”
“Now, Myra.”
“So you stopped writing?” Mercer asked.
“Let’s say I slowed down considerably. There’s money in the bank and some of the books are still selling.”
“I still write, every day,” Leigh said. “My life would be empty if I didn’t write.”
“And it would be a helluva lot emptier if I didn’t sell,” Myra snarled.
“Now, Myra.”
The pack’s largest dog, a forty-pound long-haired mutt, squatted close to the patio and dropped a pile. Myra saw it happen, said nothing, then covered the area with a cloud of smoke when the dog was finished.
Mercer changed the subject with “Are there other writers on the island?”
Leigh nodded with a smile and Myra said, “Oh, far too many.” She chugged the fruit jar and smacked her lips.
“There’s Jay,” Leigh said. “Jay Arklerood.”
It was becoming apparent that Leigh’s job was to merely suggest so that Myra could then narrate. She said, “You would start with him, wouldn’t you? He’s another literary snob who can’t sell and hates everybody who can. He’s also a poet. Do you like poetry, Mercer dear?”
Her tone left no doubt that she had little use for poetry. Mercer said, “Don’t read much of it.”
“Well, don’t read his, if you could even find it.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t heard of him.”
“No one has. He sells less than Leigh.”
“Now, Myra.”
“What about Andy Adam?” Mercer asked. “Doesn’t he live here?”
“When he’s not in rehab,” Myra said. “He built a fine home down on the south end, then lost it in a divorce. He’s a mess but a really good writer. I adore his Captain Clyde series, some of the best crime fiction around. Even Leigh can stoop to enjoy it.”
Leigh said, “A lovely man, when he’s sober, but a dreadful drunk. He still gets in fights.”
Seamlessly taking the handoff, Myra jumped right back in with “Just last month he got in a fight at the saloon on Main Street. Some guy half his age beat the hell out of him and the police hauled him in. Bruce had to post his bond.”
“Who’s Bruce?” Mercer asked quickly.
Myra and Leigh sighed and took a sip, as if any discussion of Bruce might take hours. Leigh eventually said, “Bruce Cable, he owns the bookstore. You’ve never met him?”
“Don’t think so. I can remember visiting the store a few times when I was a kid, but I can’t say that I met him.”
Myra said, “When it comes to books and writers, everything revolves around the store. Thus, everything revolves around Bruce. He’s the Man.”
“And this is a good thing?”
“Oh, we adore Bruce. He has the greatest bookstore in the country and he loves writers. Years ago, before we moved here and back when I was writing and publishing, he invited me to a book signing at his store. It’s a bit unusual for a serious bookstore to host a romance writer, but Bruce didn’t care. We had a helluva party, sold a bunch of books, got drunk on cheap champagne, and kept the store open until midnight. Hell, he even had a book signing for Leigh.”
“Now, Myra.”
“It’s true, and she sold fourteen books.”
“Fifteen. My biggest signing ever.”
“My record is five,” Mercer said. “And that was my first signing. Sold four at the next, then zero at the third. After that I called New York and canceled everything.”
“Go, girl,” Myra said. “You quit?”
“I did, and if I ever publish again I will not go on tour.”
“Why didn’t you come here, to Bay Books?”
“It was on the schedule, but I freaked out and pulled the plug.”
“You should’ve started here. Bruce can always drum up a crowd. Hell, he calls us all the time, says there’s a writer coming in and we might really like his or her book. That means get our butts down to the store for the signing and buy the damned book! We never miss.”
“And we have a lot of books, all signed by the authors and most unread,” Leigh added.
“Have you been to the store?” Myra asked.
“I stopped by on the way here. It’s lovely.”
“It’s civilization, an oasis. Let’s meet there for lunch and I’ll introduce you to Bruce. You’ll like him and I can assure you he’ll fancy you. He loves all writers, but the young pretty females get special attention.”
“Is he married?”
“Oh yes. His wife is Noelle and she’s usually around. A real character.”
“I like her,” Leigh said, almost defensively, as if most people felt otherwise.
“What does she do?” Mercer asked as innocently as possible.
“She sells French antiques, next door to the bookstore,” Myra said. “Who needs another drink?”
Mercer and Leigh had hardly touched their drinks. Myra stomped away to refill her fruit jar. At least three dogs followed her. Leigh lit another cigarette and asked, “So tell me about your novel, your work in progress.”
Mercer took a sip of warm Chablis and said, “I really can’t talk about it. It’s a little rule I have. I hate to hear writers talk about their work, don’t you?”
“I suppose. I’d love to discuss my work but she won’t listen. It seems as though talking about your work would motivate you to actually write. Me, I’ve had writer’s block for the past eight years.” She chuckled and took a quick puff. “But then she’s not much help. I’m almost afraid to write because of her.”
For a second Mercer felt sorry for her and was almost tempted to volunteer as her reader, but she quickly remembered her tortured prose. Myra stormed back with another quart, kicking at a dog as she sat down.
She said, “And don’t forget the vampire girl. Amy what’s her name?”
“Amy Slater,” Leigh said helpfully.
“That’s her. Moved here about five years ago with her husband and some kids. Hit pay dirt with a series about vampires and ghosts and such junk, really awful stuff that sells like crazy. On my worst days, and believe me I’ve published some dreadful books that were supposed to be dreadful, I can outwrite her with one hand tied behind me.”
“Now, Myra. Amy’s a lovely person.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Anybody else?” Mercer asked. So far every other writer had been trashed and Mercer was enjoying the carnage, which was not at all unusual when writers gathered over drinks and talked about each other.
They thought for a second and worked their drinks. Myra said, “Got a bunch of the self-published crowd. They crank ’em out, post ’em online, call themselves writers. They print a few copies and hang around the bookstore, pestering Bruce to put ’em up front by the door and dropping in every other day to check on their royalties. A real pain in the ass. He’s got a table where he puts all the self-published stuff and he’s always wrangling with one or two of them over placement. With the Internet everybody is now a published author, you know?”
“Oh, I know,” Mercer said. “When I was teaching, they would leave books and manuscripts on my front porch, usually with a long letter describing how wonderful their work was and how much they’d appreciate a blurb.”
“So tell us about teaching,” Leigh said softly.
“Oh, it’s much more fun to talk about writers.”
“I got one,” Myra said. “Guy’s name is Bob but he uses the pen name of J. Andrew Cobb. We call him Bob Cobb. He spent six years in a federal pen for some type of bad corporate behavior and learned to write, sort of. He’s published four or five books about what he knows best—corporate espionage—and they’re fun to read. Not a bad writer.”
“I thought he left,” Leigh said.
“He keeps a condo down by the Ritz, and in the condo he’s always got some young girl he met on the beach. He’s pushing fifty, the girls are usually half that. He’s a charmer, though, and can tell great stories about prison. Careful when you’re on the beach. Bob Cobb is always on the prowl.”
“I’ll write that down,” Mercer said with a smile.
“Who else can we talk about?” Myra asked, chugging.
“That’s enough for now,” Mercer said. “It will take some work to remember these.”
“You’ll meet them soon enough. They’re in and out of the bookstore and Bruce is always having folks over for drinks and dinner.”
Leigh smiled and set down her drink. “Let’s do it here, Myra. Let’s throw a dinner party and invite all of these wonderful people we’ve been trashing for the past hour. We haven’t hosted in some time and it’s always Bruce and Noelle. We need to officially welcome Mercer to the island. What do you say?”
“Great idea. Lovely idea. I’ll get Dora to cater and we’ll get the house cleaned. How about it, Mercer?”
Mercer shrugged and realized that it would be foolish to object. Leigh left to refresh her drink and fetch more wine. They spent the next hour talking about the party and haggling over the guest list. With the exception of Bruce Cable and Noelle Bonnet, every other potential invitee had baggage, and the more the better. It promised to be a memorable evening.
It was dark when Mercer finally managed to get away. They practically demanded that she stay for dinner, but when Leigh let it slip that there was nothing in the fridge but leftovers, Mercer knew it was time to go. After three glasses of wine she was not ready to drive. She roamed downtown and drifted with the tourists along Main Street. She found a coffee shop still open and killed an hour at the bar with a latte and a glossy magazine promoting the island, primarily its real estate agents. Across the street the bookstore was busy, and she eventually walked over and stared at the handsome display window but did not go inside. She ventured down to the quiet harbor, where she sat on a bench and watched the sailboats rock gently on the water. Her ears were still ringing from the avalanche of gossip she had just absorbed, and she chuckled at the visual of Myra and Leigh getting drunk and blowing smoke and growing more excited about the dinner party.
It was only her second night on the island, but she felt as though she was settling in. Drinks with Myra and Leigh would have that effect on any visitor. The hot weather and salty air helped ease the transition. And with no home to long for it was impossible to feel homesick. She had asked herself a hundred times what, exactly, she was doing there. The question was still around but it was slowly fading.
3.
High tide was at 3:21 a.m., and when it crested the loggerhead turtle slid onto the beach and paused in the sea foam to look around. She was three and a half feet long and weighed 350 pounds. She had been migrating at sea for over two years and was returning to a spot within fifty yards of where she had made her last nest. Slowly, she began to crawl, a slow, awkward, unnatural movement for her. As she labored along, pulling with her front flippers and pushing with more power with her rear legs, she paused frequently to study the beach, to look for dry land and for danger, for a predator or any unusual movement. Seeing none, she inched ahead, leaving a distinctive trail in the sand, one that would soon be found by her allies. One hundred feet ashore, at the toe of a dune, she found her spot and began flinging away loose sand with her front flippers. Using her cupped rear flippers as shovels, she began forming the body pit, a round shallow burrow four inches deep. As she dug she rotated her body to even the indentation. For a creature of the water, it was tedious work and she paused often to rest. When the body pit was finished she began digging even deeper to construct the egg cavity, a teardrop-shaped chamber. She finished, rested some more, then slowly covered the egg cavity with the rear of her body and faced the dune. Three eggs dropped at the same time, each shell covered with mucus and too soft and flexible to break upon landing. More eggs followed, two and three at a time. While laying, she didn’t move, but appeared to be in a trance. At the same time she shed tears, excreting salt that had accumulated.
Mercer saw the tracks from the sea and smiled. She carefully followed them until she saw the outline of the loggerhead near the dune. From experience, she knew that any noise or disturbance during nesting could cause the mother to abort and return to the water without covering her eggs. Mercer stopped and studied the outline. A half-moon peeked through the clouds and helped define the loggerhead.
The trance held; the laying continued without interruption. When the clutch held a hundred eggs, she was finished for the night and began covering them with sand. When the cavity was filled, she packed the sand and used her front flippers to refill the body pit and disguise the nest.
When she began moving, Mercer knew the nesting was over and the eggs were safe. She gave the mother a wide berth and settled into a dark spot at the toe of another dune, hidden in the dark. She watched as the turtle carefully spread sand over her nest and scattered it in all directions to fool any predators.
Satisfied her nest was safe, the turtle began her cumbersome crawl back to the water, leaving behind eggs she would never bother with again. She would repeat the nesting once or twice during the season before migrating back to her feeding ground, hundreds of miles away. In a year or two, maybe three or four, she would return to the same beach and nest again.
For five nights a month, from May through August, Tessa had walked this section of the beach looking for the tracks of nesting loggerheads. Her granddaughter had been at her side, thoroughly captivated by the hunt. Discovering the tracks had always been exciting. Finding a mother actually laying her eggs had been an indescribable thrill.
Now Mercer reclined on the dune and waited. The Turtle Watch volunteers would come along soon and do their work. Tessa had been the president of that club for many years. She had fought fiercely to protect the nests and many times had chastised vacationers for tampering with the protected areas. Mercer remembered at least two occasions on which her grandmother had called the police. The law was on her side, and that of the turtles, and she wanted it enforced.
That strong and vibrant voice was now silent, and the beach would never be the same, at least not for Mercer. She gazed at the lights of the shrimp boats on the horizon and smiled at the memories of Tessa and her turtles. The wind picked up and she folded her arms over her chest to stay warm.
In sixty days or so, depending on the temperature of the sand, the hatchlings would come to life. With no help from their mother, they would crack open their shells and dig out in a group effort that could take days. When the time was right, usually at night or in a rainstorm when the temperature was cooler, they would make a run for it. Together they would burst from the cavity, take a second to get oriented, then hustle down to the water and swim away. The odds were stacked against them. The ocean was a minefield with so many predators that only one baby turtle in a thousand would see adulthood.
Two figures were approaching at the shoreline. They stopped when they saw the tracks, then slowly followed them to the nest. When they were certain the mother was gone and the eggs had been laid, they studied the sight with flashlights, made a circle in the sand around it, and sunk a small stake with yellow tape. Mercer could hear their soft voices—two women—but was safely hidden from their view. They would return at daylight to secure the nest with wire fencing and signage, something she and Tessa had done many times. As they walked away, they carefully kicked sand over the turtle’s tracks to make them disappear.
Long after they were gone, Mercer decided to wait for the sun. She had never spent the night on the beach, so she nestled into the sand, reclined comfortably against the dune, and eventually fell asleep.
4.
Evidently, the island’s literary gang was too afraid of Myra Beckwith to say no to a last-minute invitation to dinner. No one wanted to offend her. And, Mercer suspected, no one wanted to risk missing a gathering where they would almost certainly be talked about in their absence. Out of self-defense, and curiosity, they began arriving at the Vicker House late Sunday afternoon for drinks and dinner to honor their newest member, albeit a temporary one. It was Memorial Day weekend, the start of summer. The invitation by e-mail said 6:00 p.m., but for a bunch of writers that hour meant nothing. No one was on time.
Bob Cobb arrived first and immediately cornered Mercer on the back porch and began asking questions about her work. He had long gray hair and the bronze tan of a man who spent too much time outside, and he wore a gaudy floral-print shirt with the top buttons open to reveal a brown chest with matching gray hair. According to Myra, the rumor was that Cobb had just submitted his latest novel and his editor wasn’t happy with it. How she knew this she wouldn’t say. He sipped her homemade brew from a fruit jar and stood uncomfortably close to Mercer as they talked.
Amy Slater, the “vampire girl,” came to her rescue and welcomed her to the island. She went on about her three kids and claimed to be thrilled to get out of the house for the evening. Leigh Trane joined the circle but said little. Myra was stomping around the house in a hot pink flowing dress the size of a small tent, barking instructions to the caterer, fetching drinks, and ignoring the pack of dogs that had the run of the place.
Bruce and Noelle arrived next, and Mercer finally met the man responsible for her little sabbatical. He wore a soft yellow seersucker suit with a bow tie, though the invitation clearly said “extreme casual.” But Mercer had long since learned that with a literary crowd anything goes. Cobb was wearing rugby shorts. Noelle was beautiful in a simple white cotton shift, a narrow one that hung perfectly on her slender frame. Damn French, Mercer thought, as she sipped Chablis and tried to keep up her end of the small talk.
Some writers are seasoned raconteurs with an endless supply of stories and quips and one-liners. Others are reclusive and introverted souls who labor in their solitary worlds and struggle to mix and mingle. Mercer was somewhere in between. Her lonely childhood had given her the ability to live in her own world, where little was said. Because of this, she pushed herself to laugh and chatter and enjoy a joke.
Andy Adam showed up and immediately asked for a double vodka on the rocks. Myra handed it to him and cast a wary look at Bruce. They knew Andy was “off the wagon” and this was a concern. When he introduced himself to Mercer she immediately noticed a small scar above his left eye and thought about his penchant for brawling in bars. He and Cobb were about the same age, both divorced, both hard-drinking beach bums who were lucky enough to sell well and enjoy undisciplined lives. They soon gravitated to each other and began talking about fishing.
Jay Arklerood, the brooding poet and frustrated literary star, arrived just after seven, which, according to Myra, was early for him. He took a glass of wine, said hello to Bruce, but did not introduce himself to Mercer. With the gang all there, Myra called for quiet and proposed a toast. “A drink to our new friend, Mercer Mann, who’ll be here a spell in the hope that she’ll find inspiration in the sun and on the beach and finish that damned novel that’s now three years past due. Cheers!”
“Only three years?” Leigh said and got a laugh.
“Mercer,” Myra said, prompting.
Mercer smiled and said, “Thank you. I’m delighted to be here. From the age of six I came here every summer to stay with my grandmother Tessa Magruder. Some of you might have known her. The happiest days of my life, so far at least, were spent with her on the beach and on the island. It’s been a long time, but I’m delighted to be back. And delighted to be here tonight.”
“Welcome,” Bob Cobb said as he lifted his drink. The others did too, offered a hearty “Cheers!” and began talking at once.
Bruce stepped closer to Mercer and quietly said, “I knew Tessa. She and Porter died in a storm.”
“Yes, eleven years ago,” Mercer said.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce said, somewhat awkwardly.
“No, it’s okay. It has been a long time.”
Myra charged in with “Oh well, I’m hungry. Bring your drinks to the table and we’ll have dinner.”
They made their way inside to the dining room. The table was narrow and not long enough for nine people, but had there been twenty, Myra would have packed them around it anyway. It was surrounded by a collection of mismatched chairs. The setting, though, was beautiful, with a row of short candles down the middle and lots of flowers. The china and stemware were old and smartly matched. The vintage silver was perfectly arranged. The white cloth napkins had just been ironed and folded. Myra held a sheet of paper with the seating arrangement, one that she and Leigh had obviously debated, and barked instructions. Mercer was seated between Bruce and Noelle, and after the usual complaining and grumbling the rest of them fell into place. At least three separate conversations began as Dora, the caterer, poured wine. The air was warm and the windows were open. An old fan rattled not far above them.
Myra said, “Okay, here are the rules. No talking about your own books, and no politics. There are some Republicans here.”
“What!” Andy said. “Who invited them?”
“I did, and if you don’t like it you can leave now.”
“Who are they?” Andy demanded.
“Me,” Amy said, raising her hand proudly. It was obvious this had happened before.
“I’m a Republican too,” Cobb said. “Even though I’ve been to prison and roughed up by the FBI, I’m still a loyal Republican.”
“God help us,” Andy mumbled.
“See what I mean,” Myra said. “No politics.”
“How about football?” Cobb asked.
“And no football,” Myra said with a smile. “Bruce, what would you like to talk about?”
“Politics and football,” Bruce said and everyone laughed.
“What’s happening at the store this week?”
“Well, Wednesday Serena Roach is back. I expect to see you all at the store for the signing.”
“She got trashed in the Times this morning,” Amy said, with a hint of satisfaction. “Did y’all see it?”
“Who reads the Times?” Cobb asked. “Left-wing garbage.”
“I’d love to be trashed in the Times, or anywhere else for that matter,” Leigh said. “What’s her book about?”
“It’s her fourth novel and it’s about a single woman in New York City who’s having relationship problems.”
“How original,” Andy blurted. “Can’t wait to read that one.” He drained his second double vodka and asked Dora for another. Myra frowned at Bruce, who shrugged as if to say, “He’s a grown man.”
“Gazpacho,” Myra said as she picked up her spoon. “Dig in.”
Within seconds they were all chatting at once as separate conversations spun off. Cobb and Andy quietly discussed politics. Leigh and Jay huddled at the end of the table and talked about someone’s novel. Myra and Amy were curious about a new restaurant. And in a soft voice Bruce said to Mercer, “I’m sorry I brought up Tessa’s death. It was quite rude.”
“No, it wasn’t,” she said. “It was a long time ago.”
“I knew Porter well. He was a regular at the store, loved detective stories. Tessa dropped in once a year but didn’t buy a lot of books. Seems like I vaguely remember a granddaughter many years ago.”
“How long are you here?” Noelle asked.
Mercer was confident that everything she had told Myra had already been relayed to Bruce. “A few months. I’m between jobs, or I should say that I’m out of work. For the past three years I’ve been teaching but I hope that’s behind me. And you? Tell me about your store.”
“I sell French antiques. I have a shop next door to the bookstore. I’m from New Orleans but I met Bruce and moved here. Just after Katrina.”
Soft, clear, perfect diction, with no trace of New Orleans. No trace of anything. And no wedding ring but plenty of jewelry.
Mercer said, “That was 2005. A month after Tessa’s accident. I remember it well.”
Bruce asked, “Were you here when it happened?”
“No, that was the first summer in fourteen years that I did not spend here. I had to get a job to pay for college and I was working in Memphis, my hometown.”
Dora was removing the bowls and pouring more wine. Andy was getting louder.
“Do you have children?” Mercer asked.
Both Bruce and Noelle smiled and shook their heads. “We’ve never had the time,” she said. “I travel a lot, buying and selling, mainly to France, and Bruce is at the store seven days a week.”
“You don’t go with her?” Mercer asked Bruce.
“Not very often. We were married there.”
No you weren’t. It was such an easy, casual lie, one they had been living for a long time. Mercer took a sip of wine and reminded herself that she was sitting next to one of the most successful dealers of stolen rare books in the country. As they talked about the South of France and the antiques trade there, Mercer wondered how much Noelle knew about his business. If he had really paid a million bucks for the Fitzgerald manuscripts, surely she would know it. Right? He was not a tycoon with interests around the world and ways to move and hide money. He was a small-town bookseller who practically lived in his store. He couldn’t hide that much money from her, could he? Noelle had to know.
Bruce admired October Rain and was curious about the abrupt end to Mercer’s first book tour. Myra overheard this and called for quiet as she prompted Mercer to tell her story. While Dora served baked pompano, the conversation settled on the topic of book tours and everyone had a story. Leigh, Jay, and Cobb confessed that they, too, had wasted an hour or two in the back of stores selling zero copies. Andy drew small crowds with his first book, and, not surprisingly, was kicked out of a bookstore when he got drunk and insulted customers who wouldn’t buy it. Even Amy, the bestseller, had a few bad days before she discovered vampires.
During dinner, Andy switched to ice water, and the entire table seemed to relax.
Cobb got wound up with a story from prison. It was about an eighteen-year-old kid who was sexually abused by his cellmate, a real predator. Years later, after both had been paroled, the kid tracked down his old cellie, found him living the quiet life in the suburbs, his past forgotten. Time for revenge.
It was a long, interesting story, and when Cobb finished, Andy said, “What a crock. Pure fiction, right? That’s your next novel.”
“No, I swear it’s true.”
“Bullshit. You’ve done this before, regaled us with a tall tale to see how we react to it, then a year later it’s a novel.”
“Well, I have thought about it. What do you think? Commercial enough?”
“I like it,” Bruce said. “But go easy on the prison rape scenes. You’ve overplayed those a bit, I think.”
“You sound like my agent,” Cobb mumbled. He pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket as if he needed to start taking notes. “Anything else? Mercer, what do you think?”
“I get a vote?”
“Sure, why not? Your vote will mean as much as the rest of these hacks.”
“I might use the story,” Andy said and everyone laughed.
“Well, you damned sure need a good story. Did you make your deadline?”
“Yes, I’ve sent it in and they’ve already sent it back. Structural problems.”
“Same as your last book, but they published it anyway.”
“And a good move on their part. They couldn’t print ’em fast enough.”
“Now, boys,” Myra said. “You’re breaking the first rule. No talking about your own books.”
“This could go on all night,” Bruce whispered to Mercer, just loud enough for the rest to hear. She loved the bantering, as they all did. She had never been with a group of writers so eager to jab each other, but all in fun.
Amy, whose cheeks were red from the wine, said, “What if the kid from prison is really a vampire?” The table erupted with even more laughter.
Cobb quickly replied, “Hey, I hadn’t thought about that. We could start a new series about vampires in prison. I like it. You want to collaborate?”
Amy said, “I’ll get my agent to call your agent, see if they can work something out.”
With perfect timing Leigh said, “And you wonder why books are declining.” When the laughter died, Cobb said, “Once again shot down by the literary mafia.”
Things were quieter for a few minutes as they worked on dinner. Cobb started chuckling and said, “Structural problems. What does that mean?”
“Means the plot sucks, which it does. I never really felt that good about it, frankly.”
“You could always self-publish it, you know. Bruce will put it on that folding card table in the back of the store, his own slush pile.”
Bruce replied, “Please. That table is full.”
Myra changed the subject by asking, “So, Mercer, you’ve been here a few days. Can we ask how the writing is going?”
“That’s a bad question,” Mercer replied with a smile.
“Are you trying to finish a book, or start one?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “The current one will probably get tossed, then I’ll start a new one. I’m still undecided.”
“Well, if you need any advice whatsoever, about any aspect of writing or publishing, or romance or relationships, food, wine, travel, politics, anything under the sun, you’ve come to the right place. Just look around this table. Experts everywhere.”
“So I gather.”
5.
At midnight, Mercer was sitting on the bottom step of the boardwalk, her bare feet in the sand, the waves rolling in. She would never tire of the sound of the ocean, the gentle breaking of the waves with a calm sea, or the crashing surf in a storm. Tonight there was no wind and the tide was low. A lone figure walked south in the distance, at the edge of the water.
She was still amused by the dinner and tried to remember as much as possible. The more she thought the more astonishing it became. A room filled with writers, with their insecurities and egos and jealousies, and with wine flowing, and not a single argument, not even a harsh word. The popular authors—Amy, Cobb, and Andy—longed for critical acclaim, while the literary ones—Leigh, Jay, and Mercer—longed for greater royalties. Myra didn’t give a damn one way or the other. Bruce and Noelle were content to stay in the middle and encourage them all.
She wasn’t sure what to make of Bruce. The first impression was quite good, but given his good looks and easygoing manner Mercer was certain that everyone liked Bruce, at least initially. He talked enough but not too much, and seemed content to allow Myra to be in charge. It was, after all, her party and she obviously knew what she was doing. He was completely at ease with his crowd and thoroughly enjoyed their stories, jokes, cheap shots, and insults. Mercer got the impression he would do anything to further their careers. They, in turn, were almost deferential to him.
He claimed to be an admirer of Mercer’s two books, especially her novel, and they talked about it enough to satisfy her doubts about whether he had actually read it. He said he had done so when it was published and she had been scheduled to sign at Bay Books. That had been seven years earlier, yet he remembered it well. He’d probably skimmed it before the dinner party, but Mercer was impressed nonetheless. He asked her to stop by the store and autograph the two copies in his collection. He had also read her book of short stories. Most important, he was eager to see something else, her next novel perhaps, or more stories.
For Mercer, a once promising writer suffering through an endless drought and handcuffed by the fear that her career might be over, it was comforting to have such a knowledgeable reader say nice things and want more. Over the past few years, only her agent and her editor had offered such encouragement.
He was certainly a charmer, but he said or did nothing out of line, not that she expected anything. His lovely wife was just inches away. When it came to seduction, and assuming the rumors were true, Mercer suspected that Bruce Cable could play the long game as well as the short one.
Several times during the dinner she looked across the table at Cobb and Amy and even Myra and wondered if they had any idea about his dark side. Up front he ran one of the finest bookstores in the country, while at the same time he dealt in stolen goods under deep cover. The bookstore was successful and made him plenty of money. He had a charmed life, a beautiful wife/partner, a fine reputation, and a historic mansion in a lovely town. Was he really willing to risk jail for trading in stolen manuscripts?
Did he have any clue that a professional security team was on his trail? With the FBI not far behind? Any inkling that in just a few months he might be headed to prison for many years?
No, it did not seem possible.
Did he suspect Mercer? No, he did not. Which brought up the obvious question about what to do next. Take it one day at a time, Elaine had said more than once. Make him come to you and ease your way into his life.
Sounds simple, right?
6.
Monday, Memorial Day, Mercer slept late and missed another sunrise. She poured coffee and went to the beach, which was busier because of the holiday but still not crowded. After a long walk, she returned to the cottage, poured more coffee, and took a seat at a small breakfast table with a view of the ocean. She opened her laptop, looked at a blank screen, and managed to type, “Chapter One.”
Writers are generally split into two camps: those who carefully outline their stories and know the ending before they begin, and those who refuse to do so upon the theory that once a character is created he or she will do something interesting. The old novel, the one she had just discarded, the one that had tortured her for the past five years, fell into the second category. After five years, nothing of interest had happened and she was sick of the characters. Let it go, she had decided. Let it rest. You can always come back to it. She wrote a rough summary of the first chapter of her new one and went to the second.
By noon she had ground her way through the first five chapter summaries and was exhausted.
7.
Traffic was slow along Main Street, and its sidewalks were crawling with tourists in town for the holiday weekend. Mercer parked on a side street and walked to the bookstore. She managed to avoid Bruce and went to the upstairs café, where she had a sandwich and scanned the Times. He walked past her to fetch an espresso and was surprised to see her.
“You have time to sign those books?” he asked.
“That’s why I’m here.” She followed him downstairs to the First Editions Room, where he closed the door behind them. Two large windows opened onto the first floor and customers browsed through racks of books not far away. In the center of the room was an old table covered with papers and files.
“Is this your office?” she asked.
“One of them. When things are slow I’ll ease in here and work a little.”
“When are things slow?”
“It’s a bookstore. Today it’s busy. Tomorrow it will be deserted.” He moved a catalog that was hiding two hardback copies of October Rain. He handed her a pen and picked up the books.
She said, “I haven’t autographed one of these in a long time.” He opened the first one to the title page and she scribbled her name, then did the same for the other one. He left one on the table and put one back into its slot on a shelf. The first editions were arranged in alphabetical order by the author’s last name.
“So what are these?” she asked, waving a hand at a wall of books.
“All first editions of writers who’ve signed here. We do about a hundred signings a year, so after twenty years it’s a nice collection. I checked the records, and when you were coming through on tour I ordered 120 copies.”
“A hundred and twenty? Why so many?”
“I have a First Editions Club, about a hundred of my top customers who buy every autographed book. It’s quite a draw, really. If I can guarantee a hundred books, the publishers and writers are pretty eager to put us on the tour.”
“And these people show up for every signing?”
“I wish. Usually about half, which makes for a nice crowd. Thirty percent live out of town and collect by mail.”
“What happened when I canceled?”
“I returned the books.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Just part of the business.”
Mercer moved along the wall, scanning the rows of books, some of which she recognized. All were single copies. Where were the others? He had put one of hers back and left one on the table. Where were they kept?
“So are any of these valuable?” she asked.
“Not really. It’s an impressive collection, and it means a lot to me because I’m attached to each one of them, but they rarely hold their value.”
“Why is that?”
“The first-run printings are too large. The first printing for your book was five thousand copies. That’s not huge, but to be valuable a book has to be scarce. Sometimes I get lucky, though.” He reached high, removed a book, and handed it to her.
“Remember Drunk in Philly? J. P. Walthall’s masterpiece.”
“Of course.”
“Won the National Book Award and the Pulitzer in 1999.”
“I read it in college.”
“I saw an advance reading copy and loved it, knew it had potential, so I ordered a few boxes, and that was before he said he would not be touring. His publisher was broke and not too sharp to begin with, so it did an initial run of six thousand copies. Not bad for a first novel but not nearly enough. Well, the printing got interrupted when the union went on strike. Only twelve hundred copies made it off the press before they shut it down. I got lucky when my supply arrived. The first reviews were insanely good and the second printing, at a different press, was twenty thousand. Double that for the third and so on. The book eventually sold a million copies in hardback.”
Mercer opened the book, flipped to the copyright page, and saw the words “First Edition.”
“So what’s this worth?” she asked.
“I’ve sold a couple at five thousand dollars. Now I’m asking eight. Still have about twenty-five of them, buried in the basement.”
She filed that away but said nothing. She handed the book back to him and walked to another wall covered with books. Bruce said, “More of the collection, but not all of those authors have signed here.”
She removed John Irving’s The Cider House Rules and said, “I’m assuming there are plenty of these on the market.”
“It’s John Irving. That was seven years after Garp, so the first printing was huge. It’s worth a few hundred bucks. I have one Garp, but it’s not for sale.”
She returned the book to its slot and quickly scanned the ones next to it. Garp was not there. She assumed it too was “buried in the basement,” but said nothing. She wanted to ask about his rarest books, but decided to lose interest.
“Did you enjoy dinner last night?” he asked.
She laughed and moved away from the shelves. “Oh yes. I’ve never had dinner with so many writers. We tend to keep to ourselves, you know?”
“I know. In your honor, everybody behaved. Believe me, it’s not always that civilized.”
“And why is that?”
“The nature of the breed. Mix together some fragile egos, booze, maybe some politics, and it usually gets rowdier.”
“I can’t wait. When’s the next party?”
“Who knows with that bunch. Noelle mentioned a dinner party in a couple of weeks. She enjoyed your company.”
“Same here. She’s lovely.”
“She’s a lot of fun and she’s very good at what she does. You should pop in her store and have a look.”
“I’ll do that, though I’m not in the market for the high-end stuff.”
He laughed and said, “Well, watch out. She’s very proud of her inventory.”
“I’m meeting Serena Roach for coffee tomorrow before the signing. You’ve met her?”
“Sure. She’s been here twice. She’s pretty intense but nice enough. She tours with her boyfriend and her publicist.”
“An entourage?”
“I suppose. It’s not that unusual. She has battled drugs and appears to be somewhat fragile. Life on the road is unsettling for a lot of writers and they need the security.”
“She can’t travel by herself?”
Bruce laughed and seemed hesitant to gossip. “I could tell you a lot of stories, okay? Some sad, some hilarious, all colorful. Let’s save them for another day, perhaps another long dinner.”
“Is it the same boyfriend? The reason I ask is that I’m reading her latest and her character struggles with men, as well as drugs. The author seems to know her material.”
“Don’t know, but on her last two tours she had the same boyfriend.”
“Poor girl is getting roughed up by the critics.”
“Yes, and she’s not handling it too well. Her publicist called this morning to make sure I don’t mention dinner afterward. They’re trying to keep her away from the wine bottle.”
“And the tour is just starting?”
“We’re the third stop. Could be another disaster. I guess she could always quit, like you.”
“I highly recommend it.”
A clerk stuck her head in the window and said, “Sorry to disturb, but Scott Turow is on the phone.”
“I’d better take that,” he said.
“See you tomorrow,” Mercer said and walked to the door.
“Thanks for signing the books.”
“I’ll sign all of my books you buy.”
8.
Three days later, Mercer waited until dusk and walked to the beach. She removed her sandals and put them into a small shoulder bag. She headed south along the water’s edge. The tide was low, the beach wide and deserted but for an occasional couple with their dog. Twenty minutes later, she passed a row of high-rise condos and headed for the Ritz-Carlton next door. At the boardwalk she rinsed her feet, put on the sandals, strolled by the empty pool, and went inside, where she found Elaine waiting at a table in the elegant bar.
Tessa had loved the Ritz bar. Two or three times each summer she and Mercer dressed in their finest and drove to the Ritz, first for drinks and then dinner at the hotel’s noted restaurant. Tessa always started with a martini, just one, and until she was fifteen, Mercer ordered a diet soda. When she was fifteen, though, she arrived for the summer with a fake ID and they had martinis together.
By chance, Elaine was sitting at their favorite table, and as Mercer sat down she was hit hard with the memories of her grandmother. Nothing had changed. A guy at the piano was singing softly in the background.
“I got in this afternoon and thought you might enjoy a fine dinner,” Elaine said.
“I’ve been here many times,” Mercer said, looking around, soaking in the same smells of salt air and oak paneling. “My grandmother adored this place. It’s not for those on a tight budget, but she splurged occasionally.”
“So Tessa didn’t have money?”
“No. She was comfortable, but she was also frugal. Let’s talk about something else.”
A waiter stopped by and they ordered drinks.
Elaine said, “I’d say you’ve had a pretty good week.”
Their routine included the nightly e-mail as Mercer recapped things that might be relevant to their search. “I’m not sure I know much more than I did when I got here, but I have made contact with the enemy.”
“And?”
“And he’s as charming as advertised, very likeable. He stores the good stuff in the basement but did not mention a vault. I get the impression there’s quite an inventory down there. His wife is in town and he’s done nothing to indicate he has any interest in me, other than his usual attraction to writers.”
“You have to tell me about the dinner party with Myra and Leigh.”
Mercer smiled and said, “I wish there had been a hidden camera.”