John Grisham - Camino Island

Though she told her stories without a trace of smugness, Mercer could not help but feel a twinge of envy. Sally was writing full-time. Gone were the cheap jobs and loans from her parents, and she was producing a book a year. It all sounded so easy. And Mercer could freely admit to herself that every writer she’d ever met carried a mean streak of envy; it was the nature of the breed.

Over entrées, the conversation suddenly turned to drinking, and Andy admitted he was having problems. Sally was compassionate but tough, and offered advice. She had been sober for seven years and the change had saved her life. She was inspiring, and Andy thanked her for her honesty. At times, Mercer felt as though she was sitting through an AA meeting.

Bruce was obviously quite fond of Ms. Aranca, and as the dinner dragged on Mercer realized she was getting less of his attention. Don’t be ridiculous, Mercer thought, they’ve known each other for years. But once she realized this she couldn’t let it go, and it became more obvious, at least to her. Bruce touched Sally a few times, little affectionate pats on the shoulder as his hand lingered.

They skipped dessert and Bruce paid the bill. Walking along Main Street, he said he needed to stop by the bookstore to check on the night clerk. Sally went with him. Everyone said good night and Sally promised to send Mercer an e-mail and stay in touch. As Mercer was walking away, Andy said, “Hey, got time for a drink?”

She stopped and faced him. “No, Andy, that’s not a good idea. Not after that dinner.”

“Coffee, not booze.”

It was just after nine and Mercer had nothing to do at the cottage. Maybe having a coffee with Andy would help him. They crossed the street and entered an empty coffee bar. The barista said it would close in thirty minutes. They ordered two cups of decaf and took them outside to a table. The bookstore was across the street. After a few minutes, Bruce and Sally left it and disappeared down the street, in the direction of the Marchbanks House.

“She’ll stay at his place tonight,” Andy said. “A lot of the writers do.”

Mercer absorbed this and asked, “Does Noelle figure into their plans?”

“Not at all. Bruce has his favorites. Noelle has hers. At the top of the tower there’s a round room, known as the Writer’s Room. It sees a lot of activity.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Mercer said, though she did so perfectly.

“They have an open marriage, Mercer, and sleeping around is accepted, probably even encouraged. I suppose they love each other but they have no rules.”

“That’s pretty bizarre.”

“Not for them. They seem to be happy.”

Finally, some of Elaine’s gossip was being verified.

He said, “One reason Noelle spends so much time in France is that she has a longtime boyfriend there. I think he’s married too.”

“Oh why not. Of course he is.”

“And you’ve never been married, right?”

“Correct.”

“Well, I’ve tried it twice and I’m not sure I can recommend it. Are you dating anyone?”

“No. The last boyfriend hit the road a year ago.”

“Met anyone interesting around here?”

“Sure. You, Bruce, Noelle, Myra, Leigh, Bob Cobb. Lots of interesting folks around here.”

“Anyone you want to date?”

He was at least fifteen years older, a fierce drinker, a barroom brawler with scars to prove it, a real brute of a man who offered nothing of interest. “Are you trying to pick me up, Andy?”

“No. I was thinking about dinner sometime.”

“Aren’t you leaving real soon for, how does Myra put it, booze camp?”

“In three days, and I’m trying like hell to stay sober until then. It’s not easy. In fact I’m sipping this lukewarm coffee with no caffeine and trying to pretend it’s a double vodka on the rocks. I can almost taste it. And I’m killing time because I don’t want to go home, even though there’s not a drop in the house. On the way there I’ll pass two liquor stores, still open, and I’ll have to fight myself to keep the car in the road.” His voice was fading.

“I’m sorry, Andy.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just don’t get in this shape. It’s awful.”

“I wish I could help.”

“You can. Say a prayer for me, okay? I hate being this weak.” As if to get away from the coffee and the conversation, he suddenly stood and began walking. Mercer tried to say something but found no words. She watched him until he turned a corner.

She took the cups to the counter. The streets were quiet; only the bookstore and the fudge shop were still open, along with the coffee bar. Her car was parked on Third, and for some reason she walked past it. She made the block and kept walking until she passed the Marchbanks House. Up in the tower, a light was on in the Writer’s Room. She slowed a step or two, and, as if on cue, the light went off.

She admitted she was curious, but could she also admit to a trace of jealousy?

After five weeks in the cottage, it was time to get away for a few days. Connie and her husband and two teenage girls were on the way for their annual two-week vacation at the beach. Connie had politely, almost dutifully, invited Mercer to join them, but there was no way. Mercer knew the girls would do nothing but stare at their phones all day, and the husband would talk of nothing but his frozen yogurt shops. Though he was modest about his success he worked nonstop. Mercer knew he would be up by five each morning, slugging down coffee as he fired off e-mails and checked shipments and such, and would probably never get his feet wet in the ocean. Connie had joked that he had never lasted the full two weeks. Some crisis would always intervene and he would rush back to Nashville to save his company.

Writing would be out of the question, though at her current pace she couldn’t fall much farther behind.

As for Connie, who was nine years older, the two had never been close. With their mother away and their father too self-absorbed, the girls practically raised themselves. Connie fled home at the age of eighteen for college at SMU and never returned. She had spent one summer at the beach with Tessa and Mercer, but by then she was boy crazy and bored with the beach walking and turtle watching and nonstop reading. She left when Tessa caught her smoking pot.

Now the sisters e-mailed once a week; chatted by phone once a month; kept things civil and upbeat. Mercer dropped by occasionally when she was near Nashville, often at a different address. They moved a lot, and always to larger homes in nicer neighborhoods. They were chasing something, a vague dream, and Mercer often wondered where they would be when they found it. The more money they made the more they spent, and Mercer, living in poverty, marveled at their consumption.

There was a backstory that had never been discussed, primarily because a discussion would lead to nothing but hard feelings. Connie had the good fortune of receiving four years of private college education without incurring a dime in student debt, courtesy of their father, Herbert, and his Ford business. However, by the time Mercer enrolled at Sewanee, the old boy was losing his shirt and staring at bankruptcy. For years she had resented her sister’s luck, and it was not worth mentioning that Connie had never offered a dime of support. Now that her student debt had miraculously vanished, Mercer was determined to get past the resentment. It might be a challenge, though, with Connie’s homes getting grander by the year while Mercer wasn’t sure where she’d be sleeping in a few months.

The truth was that Mercer did not want to spend time with her sister. They were living in different worlds and growing farther apart. So she had thanked Connie for the invitation to stay with her family, and both were relieved when Mercer said no. She said she might be leaving the island for a few days, needed a break and all that, might go here or there to see a friend. Elaine arranged a small suite in a bed-and-breakfast on the beach two miles north of the cottage because Mercer had no plans to go anywhere. The next move was Cable’s, and she could not afford to be off the island.