“Where are you writing now?”
“At a small breakfast table in the kitchen, with a view of the ocean, but it’s not working. I’m not sure if it’s the table or the ocean, but the words are not coming.”
“What’s the book about?”
“I’m not sure. I’m trying to start a new one but it’s not going too well.”
“I just finished October Rain and think it’s brilliant.”
“You’re very kind.” Mercer was touched. Since coming to the island she had now met three people who spoke highly of her first novel, more encouragement than she had received in the past five years.
Noelle placed a porcelain tea service on the table and deftly poured boiling water into matching cups. Both added a cube of sugar but no milk, and as they stirred Noelle asked, “Do you talk about your work? I ask because most writers talk too much about what they’ve written or want to write, but a few find it difficult for some reason.”
“I prefer not to, especially about what I’m doing now. My first novel feels old and dated, like I wrote it many years ago. In many ways, it’s a curse to get published so young. Expectations are high, the pressure is on, the literary world is waiting for some great body of work. Then a few years pass and there’s no book. The promising star is slowly forgotten. After October Rain, my first agent advised me to hurry up and publish my second novel. She said that since the critics loved my first one they would certainly hate my second, whatever it was, so go ahead and get the sophomore jinx over with. Probably good advice, but the problem was I didn’t have a second novel. I guess I’m still searching.”
“Searching for what?”
“A story.”
“Most writers say the people come first. Once they are onstage, they somehow find a plot. Not you?”
“Not yet.”
“What inspired October Rain?”
“When I was in college I read a story about a missing child, one who was never found, and what it did to the family. It was an incredibly sad, haunting story, but also beautiful in many ways. I couldn’t forget about it, so I borrowed the story, fictionalized it thoroughly, and wrote the novel in less than a year. That seems hard to believe now, working that fast. Back then I looked forward to every morning, to the first cup of coffee and the next page. It’s not happening now.”
“I’m sure it will. You’re in the perfect place to do nothing but write.”
“We’ll see. Frankly, Noelle, I need to sell some books. I don’t want to teach and I don’t want to find a job. I’ve even thought about writing under a pen name and cranking out mysteries or something that might sell.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that. Sell some books and then you can write whatever you want.”
“That plan is slowly taking shape.”
“Have you thought about talking to Bruce?”
“No. Why would I?”
“He knows the business and the art from every angle. He reads everything, knows hundreds of writers and agents and editors, and they often come to him for his insights, not necessarily his advice. He won’t give any, unless he’s asked. He likes you and he admires your work and he would probably say something helpful.”
Mercer shrugged as if the idea might have merit. The front door opened and Noelle said, “Excuse me, but I may have a customer.” She left the table and disappeared. For a few moments, Mercer sipped her tea and felt like a fraud. She wasn’t there to shop for furniture or chat about writing or pretend to be another lonely, troubled author trying to make friends. No, she was there snooping for any scrap of information she could hand over to Elaine, who might one day use it against Noelle and Bruce. A sharp pain hit deep in her bowels as a wave of nausea swept over her. She endured it, waited for it to pass, then stood and steadied herself. She walked to the front of the store, where Noelle was helping a customer who appeared to be serious about a dresser.
“I need to be going,” Mercer said.
“Of course,” Noelle said almost in a whisper. “Bruce and I would love to have you over for dinner soon.”
“How lovely. I’m free for the rest of the summer.”
“I’ll call.”
2.
Later in the afternoon, Noelle was arranging a collection of small ceramic urns when a well-dressed couple in their forties entered the store. Her first glance told her they were far more affluent than the average tourists who dropped in from the street, browsed long enough to understand the prices, then hustled away empty-handed.
They introduced themselves as Luke and Carol Massey from Houston and said they were staying at the Ritz for a few days, their first visit to the island. They had heard about the store, had even seen its website, and were immediately attracted to a tile-top dining table that was a hundred years old and, at that moment, the most expensive item in the store. Luke asked for a tape measure and Noelle handed one over. They measured the table from all directions, mumbling between themselves that it would be perfect in the guesthouse dining room. Luke rolled up his sleeves and Carol asked if they could take photos. Of course, Noelle said. They measured two dressers and two large armoires, and in doing so asked intelligent questions about the wood, the finishes, the histories. They were building a new home in Houston and wanted it to look and feel like a Proven?al farmhouse, one they had vacationed in the year before near the village of Roussillon in the Vaucluse. The longer they stayed the more enamored they became with virtually everything Noelle had to offer. She took them upstairs to the pricier furniture and their interest intensified. After an hour in the store, and at almost 5:00 p.m., Noelle opened a bottle of champagne and poured three glasses. While Luke was measuring a leather chaise and Carol was snapping photos, Noelle excused herself to go downstairs and check on the front. When two stragglers left, she locked the door and returned to the wealthy Texans.
They gathered around an old comptoir and got down to business. Luke asked questions about shipping and storage. Their new home was at least six months away from completion and they were using a warehouse to gather furniture and furnishings. Noelle assured them that she shipped all over the country and that was no problem. Carol clicked off the items she wanted to purchase at that moment, one of which was the writer’s table. Noelle said no, she was holding it for someone else, but she could easily find another one during her upcoming trip to Provence. They walked downstairs to her office, where she poured more champagne and began working on a bill. The total was $160,000, a figure that didn’t faze them. Haggling over prices was part of the business, but the Masseys had no interest in it. Luke laid down a black credit card as if dealing in pocket change, and Carol signed the order.