He stepped to the podium, welcomed his customers, and began a glowing and generous introduction of Randy Zalinski. His years in the “intelligence community” had given him rare insights to the unseen dangers lurking around every corner. And so on.
Zalinski looked more like a spy than a writer. Instead of the usual faded jeans and rumpled jacket, he wore a fine dark suit, white shirt, no tie, and had not a trace of whiskers on a face that was tanned and handsome. And no wedding ring. He spoke off the cuff for thirty minutes and told frightening stories about future cyber wars and how the U.S. was at a great disadvantage in keeping up with our enemies, the Russians and Chinese. Mercer suspected she might hear the same stories over dinner.
He appeared to be touring alone, and as Mercer drifted away she decided that the guy had potential, though, unfortunately, he was in town for only one night. She also thought about the legend, the one in which Bruce hit on the younger female authors and Noelle did the same with the men. The Writer’s Room in their tower was allegedly used for the sleepovers. Now that Mercer had met them, though, she found this hard to believe.
The audience applauded when Zalinski finished, then formed a line in front of a table where his books were stacked. Mercer preferred not to buy one, and had no desire to read it, but really had no choice. She remembered the frustration of sitting at the table and desperately hoping someone would buy a book, plus she was about to spend the next three hours with the author. She felt obliged and waited patiently as the line moved along. Myra saw her and struck up a conversation. They introduced themselves to Zalinski and watched him scribble his autograph in their copies.
As they walked down the stairs, Myra mumbled, almost too loudly, “Thirty bucks down the drain. I’ll never read a word of it.”
Mercer chuckled and said, “Same here, but we made our bookseller happy.”
At the front counter, Bruce whispered to them, “Noelle is at the house. Why don’t you head on over?”
Mercer, Myra, and Leigh left the store and walked four blocks to the Marchbanks House. “Have you seen it already?” Myra asked.
“No, but I’ve seen the book.”
“Well, you’re in for a treat, and Noelle is the perfect hostess.”
7.
The house was much like Noelle’s store, filled with rustic country furniture and richly decorated. Noelle gave a quick tour of the downstairs, then hustled off to the kitchen to check on something in the oven. Myra, Leigh, and Mercer took their drinks to the rear veranda and found a cooler spot under a wobbly fan. The night was sticky and Noelle had let it be known that dinner would be indoors.
Dinner took an unexpected twist when Bruce arrived, alone. He said that their guest, Mr. Zalinski, suffered from migraines and was having a bout. Randy sent his apologies but needed to go lie down in a dark hotel room. As soon as Bruce fixed his drink and joined them, Myra went after Zalinski. “I’d like a refund of thirty dollars, please,” she said, and it wasn’t clear if she was joking. “I wouldn’t read his book at gunpoint.”
“Careful,” Bruce said. “If my little bookshop did refunds you’d owe me a fortune.”
“So all sales are final?” Mercer asked.
“Damned right they are.”
Myra said, “Well, if you’re going to make us buy the books, please get some decent authors in the store.”
Bruce smiled and looked at Mercer. “We have this conversation at least three times a year. Myra, the queen of trash, disapproves of almost all other commercial writers.”
“Not true,” Myra fired back. “I just don’t dig espionage and all that military crap. I won’t touch the book and don’t want it cluttering up my house. I’ll sell it back to you for twenty bucks.”
“Now, Myra,” Leigh said. “You always say that you love the clutter.”
Noelle joined them on the veranda with a glass of wine. She was concerned about Zalinski and asked if they should call a doctor friend. Bruce said no, Zalinski was a tough guy who could take care of himself. “And I thought he was quite dull,” Bruce added.
“How’s his book?” Mercer asked.
“I skimmed a lot. Too much technical stuff, too much of the writer showing off how much he knows about technology and gadgets and the dark web. I put it down several times.”
“Well, I’m damned sure not picking it up,” Myra said with a laugh. “And, to be honest, I was not looking forward to dinner.”
Leigh leaned in and looked at Mercer. “Dear, don’t ever turn your back on this crowd.”
Noelle said, “Well, now that you’re okay with dinner, let’s eat.”
In a wide rear hallway, somewhere between the veranda and the kitchen, Noelle had decorated her table, a dark, round wooden piece that looked oddly contemporary. Everything else was old, from the mutton-bone chairs to the fine French flatware and large earthen plates. Again, it looked like something lifted straight from one of her books, a setting that was almost too pretty to disturb with a meal.
As they took their places and refilled their glasses, Mercer said, “Noelle, I think I want to buy that writer’s table.”
“Oh, it’s yours. I had to put a sold sign on it because so many folks have been trying to buy it.”
“It may take some time to get the money straight, but I must have it.”
“And you think that’s going to cure your writer’s block?” Myra asked. “An old table from France?”
“Who said I had writer’s block?” Mercer asked.
“Well, what do you call it then when you can’t think of anything to write?”
“How about a ‘drought’?”
“Bruce? You’re the expert.”
Bruce was holding the large salad bowl as Leigh took a serving. He said, “ ‘Block’ sounds too severe. I think I prefer ‘drought.’ But, who am I? Y’all are the wordsmiths.”
Myra laughed for no apparent reason and blurted, “Leigh, remember the time we wrote three books in a month? We had this slimeball publisher who wouldn’t pay us, and so our agent said we couldn’t jump to another house because we owed the guy three books. So Leigh and I came up with three of the worst plots ever, really ridiculous stuff, and I banged the typewriter ten hours a day for thirty straight days.”
“But we had a great one in the wings,” Leigh said, passing along the salad bowl.
Myra said, “Right, right. We had the best idea ever for a semi-serious novel, but we were not about to give it to our jackass publisher. We had to get out of his lousy contract so we could snag a better house, one that would appreciate the genius behind our great idea. That part of it worked. Two years later, the three awful books were still selling like crazy while the great novel flopped. Go figure.”
Mercer said, “I think I might want to paint it, though, the writer’s table.”
“We’ll look at some colors,” Noelle said. “And make it perfect for the cottage.”
“Have you seen the cottage?” Myra asked in mock surprise. “We haven’t seen the cottage. When do we see the cottage?”
“Soon,” Mercer said. “I’ll throw a dinner.”
“Tell them the good news, Noelle,” Bruce said.
“What good news?”
“Don’t be coy. A few days ago a rich couple from Texas bought Noelle’s entire inventory. The store is practically empty.”