Camino Island

  books a year to folks who simply don’t return them, and, being a typical library, they have no real interest in tracking them down. Plus, Tessa checked out a lot of books.”

  “We went to the library every week.”

  “The story holds together. He’ll have no way of knowing the truth.”

  Mercer picked up Lonesome Dove and asked, “What if he spots this forged dust jacket?”

  “We’ve thought about that and we’re not sure we’ll use it. Last week we showed the book to a couple of old dealers, guys who’ve seen it all, and neither spotted the forgery. But you’re right. It could be a risk we decide not to take. Start with the first two, but make him wait. Drag it out as you struggle with what’s right and fair. It’s a moral dilemma for you and let’s see what kind of advice he gives.”

  Mercer left with the books in a canvas bag and returned to the beach. The ocean was still and at low tide. A full moon lightened the sand. As she walked she heard voices that slowly grew louder. To her left and halfway to the dunes she saw two young lovers frolicking on a beach towel, their whispered words punctuated by sighs and groans of erotic pleasure. She almost stopped to watch until it was over, until the final heave and thrust, but she managed to move on, absorbing it all as much as possible as she ambled along.

  She was consumed with envy. How long had it been?

  5.

  The second new novel came to an abrupt end after only five thousand words and three chapters, because by then Mercer was already tired of her characters and bored with her plot. Frustrated, depressed, even a bit angry with herself and the entire process, she put on a bikini, the skimpiest one in her growing collection, and went to the beach. It was only 10:00 a.m., but she had learned to avoid the midday sun. From noon until around five it was simply too hot to be outside, whether in the water or not. Her skin was now tanned enough and she worried about too much exposure. Ten o’clock was also about the time that the jogger came by, a stranger about her age. He ran barefoot at the edge of the water, his tall lean frame glistening with sweat. He was obviously an athlete, with a seriously flat stomach and perfect biceps and calves. He ran with an easy, fluid grace, and, she told herself, he seemed to slow just a little as she came into view. They had made eye contact on at least two occasions the previous week, and Mercer was convinced they were ready for the first hello.

  She arranged her umbrella and folding chair and covered herself with sunblock, watching all movements to the south as she did so. He always came from the south, from the direction of the Ritz and the fancy condos. She unfolded her beach towel and stretched herself in the sun. She put on her sunglasses and straw hat and waited. As always on weekdays, the beach was practically deserted. Her plan was to see him in the distance and walk casually to the water, timing her movements to coincide with his. She would nail him with a casual “Good morning,” the same as everyone else on this friendliest of beaches. She rested on her elbows, and as she waited she tried not to think of herself as just another failed writer. The five thousand words she’d just deleted was the worst junk she’d ever written.

  He had been there for at least ten days, too long for a hotel stay. Perhaps he was renting a condo for a month.

  She had no idea what to write next.

  He was always alone but too far away for her to check on a wedding band.

  After five years of lame characters and clunky prose and ideas so bad that she didn’t even like them, she was convinced she would never again finish a novel.

  Her phone rang and Bruce began with “Hope I’m not interrupting the genius at work.”

  “Not at all,” she said. In fact, I’m lying on the beach practically nude scheming to seduce a stranger. “I’m taking a break,” she said.

  “Good. Look, we have a signing this afternoon and I’m a bit worried about the crowd. It’s an unknown guy with a first novel that’s not very good.”

  What does he look like? How old is he? Straight or gay? But she said, “So this is how you sell books. You rally your writers to come to your rescue.”

  “You bet. And Noelle is doing a last-minute dinner party at the house, in his honor, of course. Just us, you, him, and Myra and Leigh. Should be fun. Whatta you say?”

  “Let me check my calendar. Yes, I’m free. What time?”

  “Six, dinner to follow.”

  “Casual attire?”

  “Are you kidding? You’re at the beach. Anything goes. Even shoes are optional.”

  By eleven, the sun was baking the sand and the breeze had moved elsewhere. Evidently, it was too hot for jogging.

  6.

  The writer’s name was Randall Zalinski, and a quick look online revealed little. His brief bio was deliberately vague and intended to give the impression that his career in “dark espionage” had given him rare insights into all manner of terrorism and cyber crime. His novel was about a futuristic showdown between the U.S., Russia, and China. Its two-paragraph summary was sensationalized to the point of being ridiculous, and Mercer found even it to be boring. His doctored photo was of a white male in his early forties. No mention of a wife or family. He lived in Michigan, where, of course, he was at work on a new novel.

  His would be the third signing Mercer had attended at Bay Books. The first two had brought back painful memories of her aborted book tour seven years earlier, and she had vowed to avoid the rest, or at least try to. Doing so, though, might be difficult. The signings gave her good reason to hang around the store, something she needed to do and something Elaine strongly suggested. And, it would be next to impossible to tell Bruce she was too busy to support touring authors, especially when he called her with a personal invitation.

  Myra had been right; the store had a loyal following and Bruce Cable could organize a crowd. There were about forty of the faithful milling around upstairs near the café when Mercer arrived. For the event, tables and shelves were shoved back to make an open space where chairs were packed haphazardly around a small podium.

  At six, the crowd filled the seats and chatted away. Most were drinking cheap wine from plastic cups and everyone seemed relaxed and happy to be there. Myra and Leigh assumed their seats in the front row, just inches from the podium, as if the best seats were always reserved for them. Myra was laughing and cackling and talking to at least three people at once. Leigh sat quietly beside her, chuckling when appropriate. Mercer stood to the side and leaned on a shelf, as if she really didn’t belong. The crowd was gray-haired and retired, and she once again noticed that she was the youngest one there. The atmosphere was warm and cozy as a bunch of book lovers gathered to enjoy a new writer.

  Mercer admitted she was envious. If she could only finish a damned book then she too could go on tour and draw admirers. Then she remembered her tour, short as it was. It made her appreciate stores like Bay Books and people like Bruce Cable, those rare booksellers who worked hard to maintain a following.

  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 bel
ieve.

  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.”

  “Too bad they’re not book collectors,” Leigh said.

  “I saved the writer’s table,” Noelle said to Mercer.

  “And Noelle is going to close for a month so she can hustle back to France and restock.”

  Noelle said, “They’re very nice people, and very knowledgeable. I’m meeting them in Provence for more shopping.”

  “Now, that sounds like fun,” Mercer said.

  “Why don’t you go with me?” Noelle said.

  “Might as well,” Myra said. “Can’t do any more damage to your novel.”

  “Now, Myra,” Leigh said.

  “Have you been to Provence?” Noelle asked.

  “No, but I’ve always wanted to see it. How long will you be there?”

  Noelle shrugged as if a schedule was not important. “Maybe a month or so.” She glanced at Bruce and something passed between them, as if the invitation to Mercer had not been discussed beforehand.

  Mercer caught it and said, “I’d better save my money for the writer’s table.”

  “Good call,” Myra said. “You’d better stay here and write. Not that you need my advice.”

  “She doesn’t,” Leigh said softly.

  They passed around a large serving bowl of shrimp risotto and a basket of bread, and after a few bites Myra began looking for trouble. “Here’s what I think we should do, if I might say so,” she said, chomping away with a mouth full of food. “This is very unusual and I’ve never done it before, which is all the more reason to do it now, you know, venture into unknown territory. We should have a literary intervention, right now, around this table. Mercer, you’ve been here for what, a month or so, and haven’t written a damned word that might one day be sold, and, frankly, I’m getting kinda tired of your moaning and bellyac
hing about not making any progress with the novel. So, it’s pretty obvious to all of us that you don’t have a story, and since you haven’t published in, what, ten years—”

  “More like five.”

  “Whatever. It’s plain as day that you need some help. So what I propose is that we intervene as your new friends and help you find a story. Just look at all the talent around the table here. Surely we can steer you in the right direction.”

  Mercer said, “Well, it can’t get any worse.”

  “See what I mean,” Myra said. “So, we’re here to help.” She gulped some beer from a bottle. “Now, for purposes of this intervention, we need to set some parameters. First and most important is to decide whether you want to write literary fiction, stuff you can’t give away, hell, Bruce can’t even sell it, or do you want to write something more popular. I’ve read your novel and your stories and I’m not the least bit surprised they didn’t sell. Forgive me, okay? This is, after all, an intervention so we have to be brutally blunt. Okay? Everybody okay with the bluntness thing?”

  “Go for it,” Mercer said with a smile. The rest nodded. We’re all having fun. Let’s hear it.

  Myra crammed in a fork stuffed with lettuce and kept talking. “I mean, you’re a beautiful writer, girl, and some of your