The invitation was for dinner, a dry one. Dry because Andy Adam was also invited and Bruce was insisting that the night be alcohol-free. Dry also because the touring writer, one Sally Aranca, had kicked the booze a few years back and preferred not to be around the stuff.
Bruce told Mercer on the phone that Andy was about to go away for another detox and was trying desperately to stay sober until he went into lockdown. Mercer was eager to help and happily agreed to the rules.
At the signing, Ms. Aranca charmed her audience of about fifty as she discussed her work and read a brief scene from her latest novel. She was making a name for herself in crime fiction with a series based on a female private investigator in San Francisco, her home. Mercer had skimmed the book during the afternoon, and as she watched and listened to Sally perform she realized that her protagonist was much like Sally herself: early forties, recovering alcoholic, divorced with no kids, quick and witty, savvy and tough, and, of course, quite attractive. She published once a year and toured extensively, always stopping at Bay Books and usually when Noelle was out of town.
After the signing, the four walked down the street to Le Rocher, a small French place with a good reputation. Bruce quickly ordered two bottles of sparkling water and handed the wine list back to the waitress. Andy glanced around a few times at the other tables and seemed eager to snatch a glass of wine, but instead added a slice of lemon to his water and settled down. He was haggling with his publisher over his latest contract, one that included a smaller advance than his last deal. With a fine flair for humor and self-deprecation, he told how he had jumped from publisher to publisher until all of New York was weary of him. He’d burned them all. Over appetizers, Sally recounted her early frustrations at getting published. Her first novel had been rejected by a dozen agents and even more publishers, but she kept writing. And drinking. Her first marriage blew up when she caught her husband cheating, and her life was a mess. Her second and third novels were rejected. Thankfully, some friends intervened and she found the will to stop drinking. With her fourth novel she turned to crime, created her protagonist, and suddenly agents were calling her. The film rights were optioned and she was off and running. Now, eight novels later, the series was established and gaining popularity.
Though she told her stories without a trace of smugness, Mercer could not help but feel a twinge of envy. Sally was writing full-time. Gone were the cheap jobs and loans from her parents, and she was producing a book a year. It all sounded so easy. And Mercer could freely admit to herself that every writer she’d ever met carried a mean streak of envy; it was the nature of the breed.
Over entrées, the conversation suddenly turned to drinking, and Andy admitted he was having problems. Sally was compassionate but tough, and offered advice. She had been sober for seven years and the change had saved her life. She was inspiring, and Andy thanked her for her honesty. At times, Mercer felt as though she was sitting through an AA meeting.
Bruce was obviously quite fond of Ms. Aranca, and as the dinner dragged on Mercer realized she was getting less of his attention. Don’t be ridiculous, Mercer thought, they’ve known each other for years. But once she realized this she couldn’t let it go, and it became more obvious, at least to her. Bruce touched Sally a few times, little affectionate pats on the shoulder as his hand lingered.
They skipped dessert and Bruce paid the bill. Walking along Main Street, he said he needed to stop by the bookstore to check on the night clerk. Sally went with him. Everyone said good night and Sally promised to send Mercer an e-mail and stay in touch. As Mercer was walking away, Andy said, “Hey, got time for a drink?”
She stopped and faced him. “No, Andy, that’s not a good idea. Not after that dinner.”
“Coffee, not booze.”
It was just after nine and Mercer had nothing to do at the cottage. Maybe having a coffee with Andy would help him. They crossed the street and entered an empty coffee bar. The barista said it would close in thirty minutes. They ordered two cups of decaf and took them outside to a table. The bookstore was across the street. After a few minutes, Bruce and Sally left it and disappeared down the street, in the direction of the Marchbanks House.
“She’ll stay at his place tonight,” Andy said. “A lot of the writers do.”
Mercer absorbed this and asked, “Does Noelle figure into their plans?”
“Not at all. Bruce has his favorites. Noelle has hers. At the top of the tower there’s a round room, known as the Writer’s Room. It sees a lot of activity.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Mercer said, though she did so perfectly.
“They have an open marriage, Mercer, and sleeping around is accepted, probably even encouraged. I suppose they love each other but they have no rules.”
“That’s pretty bizarre.”
“Not for them. They seem to be happy.”
Finally, some of Elaine’s gossip was being verified.
He said, “One reason Noelle spends so much time in France is that she has a longtime boyfriend there. I think he’s married too.”
“Oh why not. Of course he is.”
“And you’ve never been married, right?”
“Correct.”
“Well, I’ve tried it twice and I’m not sure I can recommend it. Are you dating anyone?”
“No. The last boyfriend hit the road a year ago.”
“Met anyone interesting around here?”
“Sure. You, Bruce, Noelle, Myra, Leigh, Bob Cobb. Lots of interesting folks around here.”
“Anyone you want to date?”
He was at least fifteen years older, a fierce drinker, a barroom brawler with scars to prove it, a real brute of a man who offered nothing of interest. “Are you trying to pick me up, Andy?”
“No. I was thinking about dinner sometime.”
“Aren’t you leaving real soon for, how does Myra put it, booze camp?”
“In three days, and I’m trying like hell to stay sober until then. It’s not easy. In fact I’m sipping this lukewarm coffee with no caffeine and trying to pretend it’s a double vodka on the rocks. I can almost taste it. And I’m killing time because I don’t want to go home, even though there’s not a drop in the house. On the way there I’ll pass two liquor stores, still open, and I’ll have to fight myself to keep the car in the road.” His voice was fading.
“I’m sorry, Andy.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just don’t get in this shape. It’s awful.”
“I wish I could help.”
“You can. Say a prayer for me, okay? I hate being this weak.” As if to get away from the coffee and the conversation, he suddenly stood and began walking. Mercer tried to say something but found no words. She watched him until he turned a corner.
She took the cups to the counter. The streets were quiet; only the bookstore and the fudge shop were still open, along with the coffee bar. Her car was parked on Third, and for some reason she walked past it. She made the block and kept walking until she passed the Marchbanks House. Up in the tower, a light was on in the Writer’s Room. She slowed a step or two, and, as if on cue, the light went off.
She admitted she was curious, but could she also admit to a trace of jealousy?
2.