“Now Myra.”
“But yes, once I was old enough to realize what was going on, I suspected Tessa spent a lot of time with the younger man when I wasn’t around.”
“And that was Porter, in real life?” Leigh asked.
“Yes. Porter lived here for many years. Fourteen years ago they died together in a storm.”
“I remember Porter, and the storm,” Bruce said. “It was one of the worst we’ve seen on the island, short of a hurricane.”
“Who’s talking about hurricanes?” Amy asked.
“Sorry. We’ve had our share of glancing blows but nothing terrible. The storm that got Tessa and Porter was an old-fashioned summer heat cell that came from the north with no warning.”
“And where was Tessa?” Amy asked. “I’m sorry, Mercer, if you don’t want to talk about this.”
“No, it’s fine. Tessa and Porter were not far out, just a lazy summer’s day in his sailboat. Porter and the boat were never seen again. Tessa was found in the surf near the North Pier two days later.”
Myra said, “Well, thank God you didn’t kill her off in your novel. I certainly would have.”
“You killed everyone, Myra,” Leigh said. “After you ran them through the sex grinder.”
“Murder sells, Leigh, almost as much as sex. Remember that when those royalty checks arrive.”
“So what’s next, Mercer?” Bob Cobb asked.
She smiled at Thomas and said, “Rest for a couple of weeks, though I’m already being hounded by Thomas and Bruce to start another novel.”
“I need something to sell,” Bruce said.
“So do I,” added Leigh, for a laugh.
Jay, the brooding poet, said, “My last book sold twenty copies. No one reads poetry.” As always, it was an awkward effort at humor and got a sympathetic laugh or two.
Myra almost blurted something like: And no one can read the crap you write. But instead she said, “I’ve told you before, Jay, you should write some really raunchy fiction under a pen name, make some money, like Bob, and do your little poetry thing as the real you. Still won’t sell, though.”
Bruce had seen this conversation go off the rails before, and he quickly intervened with “Can we toast the new deal, Mercer?”
She smiled and said, “Oh why not? Secrets are hard to keep around here.”
Bruce said, “A new two-book deal with Viking, as of this morning.”
They cheered and took turns congratulating Mercer as Claude removed the bowls. He poured more wine, a cold Chablis, and began serving the next course, a small platter of smoked oysters. A breeze materialized from the east and gently ruffled the thick air.
On his trips to and from the kitchen, Claude kept one eye on the small television near the stove. Leo was still out there, drifting, churning, puzzling the experts, with no apparent destination.
7.
Bruce preferred long dinners with gaps between courses for wine and conversation. After he and Claude cleared the oyster shells, they refilled the wineglasses and announced that the main dish would be blackened redfish, a delicacy that might take some time.
Claude went to the stove, where his cast-iron skillet was already warm. From the fridge he removed a tray of marinated fillets and carefully placed two in the skillet. He covered them with his own recipe of Cajun seasoning—garlic, paprika, onion, salt, and spices. The aroma was pungent, delicious.
He hummed as he cooked, happy as always to be at the stove, and he sipped wine and enjoyed the waves of laughter from the veranda. Dinner parties at Bruce’s were always an event. Great wines and food, interesting guests, no hurries, no worries.
The evening broke up at midnight when Mercer and Thomas finally said good night. Bruce and Claude cleared the table and stacked the dishes on the counter. Someone else would clean up tomorrow. Regardless of how late he went to bed, Bruce was an early riser and walked to the bookstore each morning