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.”