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.