She smiled and seemed amused. “No, that was a stupid idea.”
“Quite stupid, but you seemed to like it, as I recall. So what’s the story?”
Mercer took a deep breath and glanced around the room. She smiled at him and said, “It’s about Tessa, her life on the beach, and her granddaughter, and her romance with a younger man, all nice and fictionalized.”
“Porter?”
“Someone very similar to him.”
“I like it. Have they seen it in New York?”
“My agent has read the first half and is quite enthusiastic. I think it’s going to work. I can’t really believe this, Bruce, but it’s nice to see you. Now that the shock is wearing off.”
“And it’s nice to see you as well, Mercer. I wasn’t sure it would ever happen.”
“Why is it happening now?”
“Unfinished business.”
She took a sip and wiped her lips with a napkin. “Tell me, Bruce, when did you first suspect me?”
He looked at her coffee, some variety of a latte with too much foam and what appeared to be caramel squirted on top. “May I?” he asked as he reached for it. She said nothing as he took a sip.
He said, “The moment you arrived. At that time, I was on high alert and watching every new face, and with good reason. You had the perfect cover, the perfect story, and I thought it might be true. I also thought it might be a brilliant plan, hatched by someone. Whose idea was it, Mercer?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Fair enough. The closer we got the more suspicious I became. And, at the time, my gut was telling me that the bad guys were closing in. Too many strange faces in the store, too many fake tourists poking around. You confirmed my fears, so I made the move.”
“A clean getaway, huh?”
“Yes. I got lucky.”
“Congratulations.”
“You’re a great lover, Mercer, but a lousy spy.”
“I’ll take both as a compliment.” She took another sip and handed him the cup. When he gave it back, she asked, “So what’s the unfinished business?”
“To ask why you did it. You tried to put me away for a long time.”
“Isn’t that a risk all crooks take when they decide to deal in stolen goods?”
“You’re calling me a crook?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I think you’re a sneaky little bitch.”
She laughed and said, “Okay, we’re even. Any more names to call me?”
He laughed too and said, “No, not at the moment.”
She said, “Oh, I can think of a lot of things to call you, Bruce, but the good outnumber the bad.”
“Thanks, I guess. So, back to the question. Why did you do it?”
She took a deep breath and looked around again. Her friend was sitting in a corner, checking his phone. “Money. I was broke, in debt, vulnerable. A lot of excuses, really. It’s something I’ll always regret, Bruce. I’m sorry.”
He smiled and said, “That’s why I’m here. That’s what I wanted.”
“An apology?”
“Yes. And I accept it. No hard feelings.”
“You’re awfully magnanimous.”
“I can afford to be,” he said and both chuckled.
“Why did you do it, Bruce? I mean, looking back, it was worth it, but at the time it was incredibly risky.”
“It wasn’t planned, believe me. I’ve bought and sold a few rare books on the black market. I guess those days are over now, but at the time I was just minding my own business when I got a call. One thing led to another and the plot gained momentum. I saw an opportunity, decided to seize it, and in short order I had possession. But I was in the dark and I had no idea how close the bad guys were until you came along. Once I realized I had a spy in the house, I had to make a move. You made it happen, Mercer.”
“Are you trying to thank me?”
“Yes. You have my sincerest gratitude.”
“Don’t mention it. As we know, I’m a lousy spy.”
Both were enjoying the conversation as they took another sip. She said, “I gotta tell you, Bruce, when I read that the manuscripts were back at Princeton, I had a good laugh. I felt sort of foolish, to get played like that, but I also said, ‘Go, Bruce.’ ”
“It was quite the adventure, but I’m one and done.”
“I doubt that.”
“I swear. Look, Mercer, I want you to come back to the island. The place means a lot to you. The cottage, the beach, the friends, the bookstore, Noelle and me. The door is always open.”
“If you say so. How’s Andy? I think about him all the time.”
“Sober, and fiercely so. He attends AA twice a week and is writing like a madman.”
“That’s wonderful news.”
“Myra and I were talking about you last week. There were questions about your abrupt departure, but no one has a clue. You belong there and I want you to feel free to come see us. Finish your novel and we’ll throw a huge party.”
“That’s very gracious, Bruce, but with you I’ll always be suspicious. I might go back, but no more fooling around.”
He squeezed her hand, stood, and said, “We’ll see.” He kissed her on the top of her head and said, “Good-bye for now.”
She watched him ease between the tables and leave the coffeehouse.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Allow me to apologize to Princeton University. If its website is accurate, and I have no reason to believe it is not, then the original handwritten manuscripts of F. Scott Fitzgerald are indeed housed in the Firestone Library. I have no firsthand knowledge of this. I have never seen that library, and I certainly stayed away from it while writing this novel. As far as I’m concerned, these manuscripts could be in the basement, the attic, or a secret tomb with armed guards. I made no effort at accuracy in this regard, primarily because I want no part of inspiring some misguided soul to get any felonious ideas.
I learned with my first novel that writing books is far easier than selling them. Since I know nothing about the retail side of the business, I leaned on an old friend, Richard Howorth, owner of Square Books in Oxford, Mississippi. He reviewed the manuscript and found innumerable ways to improve it. Thanks, Rich.
The rare-book world is fascinating and I only dabble in it. When I needed help, I turned to Charlie Lovett; Michael Suarez; and Tom and Heidi Congalton, owners of Between the Covers Rare Books. Many thanks.
David Routh came through in the clutch at Chapel Hill, as did Todd Doughty in Carbondale.