Nelson had gone fishing the day before and needed to relive their catches. Leigh was going through Mercer’s novel chapter by chapter and couldn’t get enough of the story. Drinks were refilled and no one was in a hurry to sit down to dinner.
The last guest to join them was Nick Sutton, a college boy who spent his summers on the island tending to a fine home owned by his grandparents. As was their annual ritual, they had fled the Florida heat and were roaming the country in a camper. Nick worked at the bookstore, and when he wasn’t on duty he surfed and sailed and looked for girls. He read at least one crime novel a day and dreamed of writing bestsellers. Bruce had read his short stories and thought the kid had talent. Nick had lobbied hard for the invitation to dinner and was almost overwhelmed to be included.
At 7:30, Chef Claude informed Bruce that it was time to eat. Andy whispered to his host and eased away without another word. Sobriety was difficult enough during dry evenings. He wasn’t tempted to drink, but the last thing he wanted was a three-hour dinner with wine flowing.
Bruce pointed to chairs and got them seated properly. He sat at one end and Mercer, the guest of honor, had the other, with Thomas to her right. There were eleven in all, the literary mafia of Camino Island plus Nick Sutton. Bruce passed along best wishes from Noelle, who hated to miss the fun but was with them in spirit. Everyone knew she was off in Europe with her steady French boyfriend and no one was surprised. They had long ago accepted the open marriage and no one cared. If Bruce and Noelle were happy, their friends were not about to question the arrangement.
Bruce had never liked by-the-hour servers buzzing around his table and eavesdropping on the conversations, so he didn’t use them. He and Claude poured the wine and water and served the first appetizer course, a small bowl of spicy gumbo.
“It’s too hot for gumbo,” Myra growled mid-table. “I’ll be soaked.”
“Cold wine always helps,” Bruce shot back.
“What’s the main course?” she asked.
“Everything’s spicy.”
Bob Cobb said, “So, Mercer, last stop on the tour, right? And I loved the book, by the way.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Yes, the last stop.”
“Coast to coast?”
“Yes, thirty-three stops. Tomorrow is thirty-four.”
“You’ll have a huge crowd tomorrow, Mercer,” Amy said. “A lot of the locals remember your grandmother and they’re very proud of you.”
“I knew Tessa,” Bruce said. “But, as I look around the table, I believe that no one here was living on the island when she died. What was it, Mercer, twelve years ago?”
“Fourteen.”
Myra said, “We moved here thirteen years ago to get away from a bunch of writers. Look what’s happened. Everyone followed us here.”
Bob said, “And I believe I was next, about ten years ago, right after I got paroled.”
“Please, Bob,” Myra snapped. “No more prison stories. After your last book I felt like I’d been gang-raped.”
“Now Myra.”
“So you liked it?” Bob asked.
“Loved it.”
“Anyway,” Bruce said loudly. “I’d like to propose a toast to, first of all, Mr. Leo. May he remain at sea and just go away. And, more importantly, to our dear friend Mercer and her wonderful new book, number five on the big list and rising. Cheers!”
They clinked glasses and took a drink.
“I have a question, Mercer,” Leigh said. “Did your grandmother, the real Tessa, really have a steamy romance with a younger man, here on the island?”
“That was the best part,” Myra interjected quickly. “That first seduction scene made my teeth sweat. Really well done, girl.”
“Thanks, Myra,” Mercer said. “Coming from you, that’s quite a compliment.”
“Don’t mention it. Of course I would’ve gone way overboard.”