“Keep the bathrobe on and I’ll be back.”
They kissed again, groped again, and he finally managed to tear himself away. He pecked her on the cheek, said good-bye, and left. Mercer poured a cup of coffee and took it to the back porch, where she rocked in a swing and watched the rain. With some effort, she could almost think of herself as a whore, a bad woman being paid to use her body to further her deception, but her heart wasn’t in it. Bruce Cable was a hopeless philanderer who would sleep with anyone regardless of their motives. Now it was her. Next week it would be someone else. He cared nothing for loyalty and trust. Why should she? He asked for no commitment, expected none, gave none in return. For him it was all physical pleasure, and for her, at the moment, the same was true.
She shrugged off any hint of guilt and actually smiled at the thought of a vigorous weekend in his bed.
He wasn’t gone long. They lunched on salads and wine, and soon made their way back to the tower for another round of lovemaking. During a break, Bruce fetched a bottle of chardonnay and a thick novel. They decided to read on the back porch in wicker rockers and listen to the rain. He had his novel; she, her iPad.
“Can you really enjoy a book on that thing?” he asked.
“Sure. The words are the same. Have you ever tried one?”
“Amazon gave me one of theirs years ago. I just couldn’t focus. I could be biased.”
“No kidding. I wonder why?”
“What are you reading?”
“For Whom the Bell Tolls. I’m alternating between Hemingway and F. Scott, trying to read them all. I finished The Last Tycoon yesterday.”
“And?”
“It’s pretty remarkable, given where he was when he wrote it. In Hollywood, trying to make some money and failing physically and emotionally. And so young. Another tragedy.”
“That was his last one, the one he didn’t finish?”
“That’s what they say. Such a waste of talent.”
“Is this homework for the novel?”
“Perhaps. I’m still not sure. What are you reading?”
“It’s called My Favorite Tsunami, a first novel by a guy who can’t write very well.”
“What an awful title.”
“Yes, and it doesn’t get any better. I’m fifty pages in with six hundred to go and I’m struggling. There should be a rule in publishing that debut novels are limited to three hundred pages, don’t you think?”
“I suppose. Mine was only 280.”
“Yours was perfect.”
“Thanks. So will you finish that?”
“I doubt it. I’ll give any book a hundred pages, and if by then the writer can’t hold my attention I’ll put it away. There are too many good books I want to read to waste time with a bad one.”
“Same here, but my limit is fifty pages. I’ve never understood people who grind through a book they don’t really like, determined to finish it for some unknown reason. Tessa was like that. She would toss a book after the first chapter, then pick it up and grumble and growl for four hundred pages until the bitter end. Never understood that.”
“I don’t get it.” He took a sip of wine, gazed across the backyard, and picked up the novel. She waited until he had turned a page and asked, “Got any other rules?”
He smiled and laid down the novel. “Oh, Mercer, dear, I have my list. It’s called ‘Cable’s Top Ten Rules for Writing Fiction,’ a brilliant how-to guide put together by an expert who’s read over four thousand books.”
“Do you share this?”
“Occasionally. I’ll e-mail it over, but you really don’t need it.”
“Maybe I do. I need something. Give me a hint or two.”
“Okay, I hate prologues. I just finished a novel by a guy who’s touring and will stop by next week. He always starts every book with the typical prologue, something dramatic like a killer stalking a woman or a dead body, then will leave the reader hanging, go to chapter 1, which, of course, has nothing to do with the prologue, then to chapter 2, which, of course, has nothing to do with either chapter 1 or the prologue, then after about thirty pages slam the reader back to the action in the prologue, which by then has been forgotten.”
“I like this. Keep going.”
“Another rookie mistake is to introduce twenty characters in the first chapter. Five’s enough and won’t confuse your reader. Next, if you feel the need to go to the thesaurus, look for a word with three syllables or fewer. I have a nice vocabulary and nothing ticks me off more than a writer showing off with big words I’ve never seen before. Next, please, please use quotation marks with dialogue; otherwise it’s bewildering. Rule Number Five: Most writers say too much, so always look for things to cut, like throwaway sentences and unnecessary scenes. I could go on.”
“Please do. I should be taking notes.”
“No, you shouldn’t. You don’t need advice. You’re a beautiful writer, Mercer, you just need a story.”
“Thank you, Bruce. I need the encouragement.”
“I’m dead serious, and I’m not flattering you because we’re in the midst of a little weekend orgy.”
“Is that what it’s called? Thought it was a fling.”
They laughed and took a sip of wine. The rain had stopped and a heavy mist was rolling in. She asked, “Have you ever written?”
He shrugged and looked away. “I’ve tried, several times, but never finished. It’s not my thing. That’s why I respect writers, the good ones anyway. I welcome them all and I love to promote all books, but there’s a lot of crap on the market. And I’m frustrated with people like Andy Adam who have the talent but squander it with bad habits.”
“Have you heard from him?”
“Not yet. He’s locked away with no contact. He’ll probably call in a week or so. This is either his third or fourth rehab, and I think the odds are against him. Deep inside he really doesn’t want to quit.”
“It’s so sad.”
“You look sleepy.”
“Must be the wine.”
“Let’s take a nap.”
With some effort, they managed to climb into a hammock and wedge themselves into a tight cuddle. As it rocked gently, they grew still. “Any plans for tonight?” she asked.
“I was thinking more of the same.”
“That too, but I’m getting tired of this place.”
“Well, dinner is a must.”
“But you’re a married man, Bruce, and I’m just your weekend girl. What if someone sees us?”
“I don’t care, Mercer, and Noelle doesn’t care. Why should you?”
“I don’t know. It just seems weird having dinner at a nice place on a Saturday night with a married man.”
“Who said it was a nice place? It’s a dump, a crab shack down by the river, great food, and I assure you no one there buys books.”
She kissed him and laid her head on his chest.
12.