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.”