“I’m bored. Be there in an hour or so.”
The bookstore was empty when she strolled in. The clerk at the front counter nodded but seemed too sleepy to speak. She went upstairs and ordered a latte and found a newspaper. Minutes later, she heard footsteps coming up the stairs and knew it was Bruce. Yellow-striped seersucker today, little green and blue bow tie. Always dapper. He got a coffee and they went outside to the balcony overhanging the sidewalk along Third Street. No one else was there. They sat in the shade at a table under a ceiling fan and sipped coffee. Bruce handed over his gift. It was obviously a book that had been wrapped in the store’s blue and white paper. Mercer tore the paper off and looked at it. The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan.
“It’s a first edition, autographed,” he said. “You mentioned her as one of your favorite contemporary writers, so I tracked it down.”
Mercer was speechless. She had no idea what the book was worth and was not about to ask, but it was a valuable first edition. “I don’t know what to say, Bruce.”
“ ‘Thanks’ always works.”
“It seems inadequate. I really can’t accept this.”
“Too late. I’ve already bought it and already given it to you. Call it a welcome-to-the-island gift.”
“Then thanks, I guess.”
“And you’re welcome. The first printing was thirty thousand copies, so it’s not that rare. It eventually sold half a million in hardback.”
“Has she been here, to the store?”
“No, she doesn’t tour much.”
“This is incredible, Bruce. You shouldn’t have.”
“But I did, and now your collection has begun.”
Mercer laughed and placed the book on the table. “I don’t exactly dream of collecting first editions. They’re a bit too pricey for me.”
“Well, I didn’t dream of being a collector either. It just sort of happened.” He glanced at his watch and asked, “Are you in a hurry?”
“I’m a writer with no deadline.”
“Good. I haven’t told this story in many years, but this is how I started my collection.” He took a sip, leaned back in his chair, put an ankle over a knee, and told the story of finding his deceased father’s rare books and plucking a few for himself.
5.
Coffee became a lunch date, and they walked to the restaurant at the harbor and sat inside, where the air was substantially cooler. As usual for his business lunches, Bruce ordered a bottle of wine; today’s was a Chablis. Mercer approved and they ordered salads and nothing more. He talked about Noelle, said she called every other day, and the search for antiques was going well.
Mercer thought of asking how her French boyfriend was doing. Once again, she found it difficult to believe that they could be so open with their affairs. It might not be unusual in France, but Mercer had never known a couple so willing to share. Sure, she knew people who had cheated, but when they got caught there was everything but acceptance. On the one hand she almost admired their ability to love each other enough to allow the other to stray at will, but on the other hand her southern modesty wanted to judge them for their sleaze.
“I have a question,” she said, changing the subject. “In Talia’s book, and specifically the story of Zelda Fitzgerald and Hemingway, how did she begin? What was her opening scene?”
Bruce smiled broadly as he wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Well, well, progress at last. Are you serious about the story?”
“Maybe. I’ve read two books about the Fitzgeralds and the Hemingways in Paris and I’ve ordered several more.”
“Ordered?”
“Yes, from Amazon. Sorry. They’re far cheaper, you know?”
“So I hear. Order from me and I’ll knock off 30 percent.”
“But I like to read e-books too.”
“The younger generation.” He smiled, took a sip of wine, and said, “Let me think. It’s been a long time, twelve, maybe thirteen years. And Talia rewrote the book so many times I was often confused.”
“From everything I’ve read so far, Zelda hated Hemingway, thought he was a bully and a brute and a bad influence on her husband.”
“That’s probably true. It seems like there was a scene in Talia’s novel when the three of them were in the South of France. Hadley, Hemingway’s wife, was back in the U.S. for some reason, and Ernest and Scott were really boozing it up. In real life, Hemingway complained several times about Scott’s inability to hold his liquor. Half a bottle of wine and he was under the table. Hemingway had a hollow leg and could outdrink anyone. Scott was a severe alcoholic at twenty and never slowed down. Morning, noon, and night, he was always ready for a drink. Zelda and Hemingway were flirting, and they finally got their chance after lunch when Scott passed out in a hammock. Did their business in a guest room not thirty feet from the guy as he snored away. Something like that, but again it’s fiction, so write whatever you want. The affair became rather torrid as Ernest drank even more and Scott tried to keep up. When he blacked out, his pal Ernie and his wife, Zelda, would hustle off to the nearest bed for a quick one. Zelda was smitten with Ernest. Ernest appeared to be crazy about her, but was only leading her on for obvious reasons. By then he was already a serial philanderer. When they returned to Paris, and when Hadley came back from the U.S., Zelda wanted to keep up the fun, but Ernest was tired of her. He said more than once she was crazy. So he stiff-armed her, jilted her, and she hated him from then on. And that, my dear, is the novel in a nutshell.”
“And you think that will sell?”
Bruce laughed and said, “My, my, you’ve become quite mercenary in the past month. You came here with literary ambitions and now you’re dreaming of royalties.”
“I don’t want to go back to the classroom, Bruce, and it’s not like I’m being chased by a lot of colleges right now. I have nothing, nothing but ten thousand dollars, courtesy of you and my dear Tessa’s sticky fingers. I need to either sell some books or quit writing.”
“Yes, it will sell. You mentioned The Paris Wife, a fine story about Hadley and Hemingway in those days, and it sold very well. You’re a beautiful writer, Mercer, and you can pull it off.”
She smiled and took a sip of wine and said, “Thanks. I need the encouragement.”
“Don’t we all?”
They ate in silence for a few moments. Bruce held up his glass and looked at the wine. “You like the Chablis?”
“It’s delicious.”
“I love wine, almost too much. For lunch, though, it’s a bad habit. It really slows down the afternoon.”
“That’s why they invented siestas,” she said helpfully, easing him along.
“Indeed. I have a little apartment on the second floor, sort of behind the coffee bar, and it’s the perfect spot for the post-lunch nap.”
“Is this an invitation, Bruce?”
“Could be.”
“Is that your best pickup line—‘Hey, baby, join me for a nap’?”