John Grisham - Camino Island

Bruce topped off their glasses and began telling a story about daiquiris, his favorite summer drink. In 1948, an American writer named A. E. Hotchner went to Cuba to track down Ernest Hemingway, who lived there in the late 1940s and early 1950s. The two became fast friends, and in 1966, a few years after Hemingway’s death, Hotchner published a famous book, Papa Hemingway .

Predictably, Mort interrupted with “I’ve met Hotchner, think he’s still alive. Must be pushing a hundred.”

Bruce replied, “Let’s assume you’ve met everybody, Mort.”

Anyway, as the story went, during Hotchner’s first visit, which was for some type of interview, Hemingway was reluctant. Hotchner pestered him and they finally met in a bar not far from Hemingway’s home. On the phone Hemingway said the place was famous for its daiquiris. Of course, Hemingway was late, so while Hotchner waited he ordered a daiquiri. It was delicious and strong, and since he was not much of a drinker, he took it slow. An hour passed. The bar was hot and sticky so he ordered another. When it was half-gone he realized he was seeing double. When Hemingway finally arrived he was treated like a celebrity. Evidently, he spent a lot of time there. They shook hands and found a table and Ernest ordered daiquiris. Hotchner toyed with his fresh one while Ernest practically drained his. Then he drained another. During his third, Ernest noticed that his new drinking buddy was not drinking, so he challenged his manhood and said that if he wished to hang out with the great Ernest Hemingway he’d better learn to drink like a man. Hotchner manned up, gave it a go, and the room was soon spinning. Later, as Hotchner tried gamely to hold up his head, Ernest lost interest in their conversation and, with a fresh daiquiri, began playing dominoes with the locals. At some point — Hotchner had lost all concept of time — Ernest stood and said it was time for dinner. Hotchner was to follow him. On the way out, Hotchner asked, “How many daiquiris did we drink?”

The bartender thought for a second and said in English, “Four for you, seven for Papa.”

“You had seven daiquiris?” Hotchner asked in disbelief.

Ernest laughed, as did the locals. “Seven is nothing, my friend. The record here is sixteen, held by me of course, and I walked home.”

Mercer was beginning to feel as though she was on number sixteen.

Mort said, “I remember reading Papa when I was in the mail room at Random.” Stuffed with tacos, he relit his cigar. “Do you have a first edition, Bruce?”

“I have two, one in fine condition, one not so fine. You don’t see many of them these days.”

“Any interesting purchases lately?” Phoebe asked.

Other than the Fitzgerald manuscripts stolen from Princeton, Mercer thought to herself, but would never be drunk enough to blurt it. Her eyelids were getting heavier.

“Not really,” Bruce said. “Picked up a copy of The Convict recently.”

Not to be outdone, Mort — and there was probably no one in the history of New York publishing who had either lived through as many drinking stories or heard them from reliable sources — charged in with a windy tale about a drunken brawl in his apartment at two in the morning when Norman Mailer couldn’t find any more rum and began throwing empty bottles at George Plimpton. It was hilarious to the point of being hard to believe, and Mort was a seasoned raconteur.

Mercer caught herself nodding off. The last sound she remembered was that of the blender revving up for another batch.

She awoke in a strange bed in a round room, and for the first few seconds she was afraid to move because any movement would sharpen the pounding in her forehead. Her eyes were burning so she closed them. Her mouth and throat were parched. A gentle rolling in her stomach warned that things might get worse. Okay, a hangover; been here before and survived, could be a long day but, hey, what the hell? No one made her drink too much. Own it, girl. The old saying from college: “If you’re gonna be stupid you gotta be tough.”

She was lying in a cloud, a deep, soft feathery mattress with layers of fine linens all around her. No doubt Noelle’s touch. With her newfound cash, Mercer had invested in prettier lingerie, and at that awful moment she was relieved to be wearing it. She hoped Bruce had been impressed. She opened her eyes again, blinked a few times, managed to focus, and saw her shorts and blouse arranged neatly on a nearby chair, his way of saying that there had been an orderly undressing, not a rip-and-tear dash for the bed. Eyes closed again, she dug deeper into the covers.

After the fading sounds of the blender, nothing. So how long had she slept in her chair on the porch while the others swapped stories and kept drinking and winked at each other as they grinned at her? Had she been able to walk away, unsteady and perhaps with a bit of help, or was Bruce forced to lug her up to the third-floor tower? Had she actually blacked out, college style, or had she merely gone to sleep and been put to bed?

Her stomach rolled again. Surely she had not ruined their little porch party with some indescribable upchucking scene that neither Bruce nor the others would ever mention? The thought of such an awful episode made her even more nauseous. Another glance at her shorts and blouse. They appeared to be free from stains, no signs of a mess.

Then a consoling thought. Mort was forty years older and had made a career out of raising hell. He’d thrown more drunks and suffered through more hangovers than all of his authors combined, so nothing would bother him. He was probably amused by it. Who cared about Phoebe? Mercer would never see her again. Besides, living with Mort she’d seen it all. Bruce certainly had.

A light tap on the door and Bruce eased into the room. He was wearing a white terry-cloth bathrobe and holding a tall bottle of water and two small glasses. “Well, good morning,” he said quietly and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Morning,” she said. “I really want some of that water.”

“I need it too,” he said, and filled the glasses. They drained them and he poured more.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Not too good. You?”

“A long night.”

“How’d I get up here?”

“You fell asleep on the porch, and I helped you to bed. Phoebe was not far behind, then Mort and I lit another cigar and kept drinking.”

“Did you beat Hemingway’s record?”

“No, but it feels like we got close.”

“Tell me, Bruce, did I make an ass of myself?”

“Not at all. You dozed off. You couldn’t drive, so I put you to bed.”

“Thanks. I don’t remember much.”

“There’s not much to remember. All of us got bombed.”

She drained her glass and he refilled it. She nodded at her shorts and blouse and asked, “Who took those off?”

“I did. A real treat.”

“Did you molest me?”

“No, but I thought about it.”

“Such a gentleman.”

“Always. Look, there’s a big claw-foot tub in the bathroom. Why don’t you take a long hot bath, keep drinking water, and I’ll go fix breakfast. I need some eggs and bacon and figure you probably do too. Make yourself at home. Mort and Phoebe are stirring and they’ll leave soon. When they’re gone, I’ll bring you breakfast in bed. A plan?”

She smiled and said, “Sounds nice. Thanks.”

He left and closed the door. She had two options. First, she could get dressed, ease downstairs, try to avoid Mort and Phoebe, tell Bruce she needed to leave, and hit the road. But moving quickly was not a good idea. She needed time, time to pull herself together, time to see if her stomach would settle down, time to relax and maybe even sleep it off. And, she wasn’t sure she should be driving. The thought of returning to her little suite at the B&B was not appealing either, and the idea of a long hot bath was irresistible at the moment.