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.