John Grisham - Camino Island

“Do tell. Who doesn’t like dirt?”

“For the past ten years they’ve told everyone that they’re married, got hitched on a hillside above Nice. It’s a romantic story but it’s not true. They’re not married, and they appear to have a rather open marriage. He strays, she strays, but they always find their way back.”

“How in the world would you know this?”

“Again, writers are blabbermouths. Evidently, some are rather promiscuous.”

“Don’t include me.”

“I wasn’t. I’m speaking in general terms.”

“Go on.”

“We’ve checked everywhere and there’s no record of a marriage, here or in France. A lot of writers pass through. Bruce plays his games with the women. Noelle does the same with the men. Their home has a tower with a bedroom on the third floor and that’s where the visitors sleep over. And not always alone.”

“So I’ll be expected to give up everything for the team?”

“You’ll be expected to get as close as possible. How you choose to do that is up to you.”

The spring rolls arrived. Mercer ordered lobster dumplings in broth. Elaine wanted the pepper shrimp, and she chose a bottle of Sancerre. Mercer took two bites and realized the first martini had deadened everything.

Elaine ignored her second drink and eventually said, “May I ask something personal?”

Mercer laughed, perhaps a bit too loud, and said, “Oh why not? Is there something you don’t know?”

“Lots. Why haven’t you been back to the cottage since Tessa died?”

Mercer looked away, sadly, and thought about her response. “It’s too painful. I spent every summer there from the age of six through the age of nineteen, just Tessa and me, roaming the beach, swimming in the ocean, talking and talking and talking. She was much more than a grandmother. She was my rock, my mom, my best friend, my everything. I would spend nine miserable months with my father, counting the days until school was out so I could escape to the beach and hang out with Tessa. I begged my father to let me live with her year-round, but he would not allow it. I suppose you know about my mother.”

Elaine shrugged and said, “Just what’s in the records.”

“She was sent away when I was six, driven crazy by her demons and I suspect by my father as well.”

“Did your father get along with Tessa?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Nobody in my family gets along with anybody else. He hated Tessa because she was a snob who thought my mother married badly. Herbert was a poor kid from a bad section of Memphis who made a fortune selling used cars, then new ones. Tessa’s family was old Memphis with lots of history and airs and such, but no real money. You’ve heard the old saying ‘Too poor to paint and too proud to whitewash.’ That’s the perfect description of Tessa’s family.”

“She had three children.”

“Yes. My mother, my aunt Jane, and my uncle Holstead. Who would name a kid Holstead? Tessa. It came from her family.”

“And Holstead lives in California?”

“Yes, he fled the South fifty years ago and moved into a commune. He eventually married a druggie and they have four children, all total whack jobs. Because of my mother they think we’re all crazy but they’re the real loonies. It’s a glorious family.”

“That’s pretty harsh.”

“I’m actually being kind. None of them bothered to attend Tessa’s funeral, so I haven’t seen them since I was a kid. And, believe me, there are no plans for any reunion.”

“ October Rain deals with a dysfunctional family. Was it autobiographical?”

“They certainly thought so. Holstead wrote me a filthy letter that I considered framing. That was the last nail in the coffin.” She ate half a spring roll and followed it with water. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Good idea. You said you have questions.”

“And you asked why I haven’t been back to the beach cottage. It will never be the same and the memories will be hard to deal with. Think about it. I’m thirty-one years old and the happiest days of my life are behind me, in that cottage with Tessa. I’m not sure I can go back.”

“You don’t have to. We’ll rent a nice place for six months. But your cover works better if you use the cottage.”

“Assuming I can. My sister uses it for two weeks every July and there may be some other rentals. Aunt Jane takes care of it and occasionally rents it to friends. A Canadian family takes it every November. Jane winters there from January through March.”

Elaine took a bite and then a sip of her drink.

“Just curious,” Mercer said. “Have you seen it?”

“Yes. Two weeks ago. Part of the preparation.”

“How does it look?”

“Pretty. Well cared for. I’d like to stay there.”

“Still a bunch of rentals up and down the beach?”

“Sure. I doubt if much has changed in eleven years. The area has sort of an old-time vacation feel to it. The beach is beautiful and not crowded.”

“We lived on that beach. Tessa had me up with the sun, checking on the turtles, the new arrivals that made their nests during the night.”

“You wrote about that, a lovely story.”

“Thank you.”

They finished their drinks as the entrées arrived. Elaine approved of the wine and the waitress poured some in both glasses. Mercer took a bite and put down her fork. “Look, Elaine, I’m just not up to this. You’ve got the wrong person, okay? I’m a terrible liar and I’m just not good at deceiving people. I cannot wiggle my way into the lives of Bruce Cable and Noelle Bonnet and their little literary gang and come away with anything that might be valuable.”

“You’ve already said this. You’re a writer living at the beach for a few months in the family cottage. You’re hard at work on a novel. It’s the perfect story, Mercer, because it’s true. And you have the perfect personality because you’re genuine. If we needed a con artist we wouldn’t be talking right now. Are you afraid?”

“No. I don’t know. Should I be?”

“No. I’ve promised you that nothing we put before you will be illegal, and nothing will be dangerous. I’ll see you every week—”

“You’ll be there?”

“I’ll come and go, and if you need a buddy, male or female, we can arrange to have one nearby.”

“I don’t need a babysitter, and I’m not afraid of anything but failure. You’d be paying me a lot of money to do something I can’t begin to imagine, something important, and you obviously expect results. What if Cable is as smart and tough as you think he is and reveals nothing? What if I do something stupid and he gets suspicious and moves the manuscripts? I can see a lot of ways to screw this up, Elaine. I have no experience and no clue.”

“And I love your honesty. That’s why you’re perfect, Mercer. You’re direct, sincere, and transparent. You’re also very attractive and Cable will immediately like you.”

“Are we back to sex? Is that part of this job description?”

“No. Again, what you do is up to you.”

“But I have no idea what to do!” Mercer said, raising her voice and catching a glance from the nearest table. She lowered her head and said, “Sorry.” They ate for a few minutes in silence.

“You like the wine?” Elaine asked.

“It’s very good, thank you.”

“It’s one of my favorites.”

“What if I say no again? What do you do then?”

Elaine tapped her lips with her napkin and drank some water. “We have a very short list of other possible writers, none as interesting as you. To be honest, Mercer, we’re so convinced you’re the perfect person that we’ve put all of our eggs in your basket. If you say no, we’ll probably scrap the entire plan and move on to the next one.”