John Grisham - Camino Island

The second option was to follow Bruce’s plan, one that would eventually land him in the bed with her. That, she had decided, had reached the point of being inevitable.

She poured another glass of water and eased out of bed. She stretched, took a deep breath, and already felt better. No threats of nausea. She walked to the bathroom, turned on the faucets, and found the bubble bath. A digital clock on the vanity gave the time as 8:20. In spite of her obvious physical problems, she had slept for almost ten hours.

Of course Bruce needed to check on her, to see how the bath was going. He walked in, still in his robe, and placed another bottle of sparkling water next to the tub. “How ya doing?” he asked.

“Much better,” she said. The bubbles hid most of her nakedness but not all of it. He took a long approving look and smiled. “Need anything?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“I’m busy in the kitchen. Take your time.” And he was gone.

She soaked for an hour, then got out and dried off. She found a matching bathrobe hanging on the door and put it on. In a drawer she found a stack of new toothbrushes. She opened one, brushed her teeth, and felt much better. She picked up her lingerie and found her purse next to her shorts and blouse. She removed her iPad, propped up the pillows, got in the bed, made her nest, and returned to her cloud.

She was reading when she heard noises at the door. Bruce walked in with a breakfast tray, which he placed snugly at her side. “Bacon, scrambled eggs, muffins with jam, strong coffee, and, for good measure, a mimosa.”

“I’m not sure I need more booze at this point,” she said. The food looked and smelled delicious.

“The hair of the dog. It’s good for you.” He disappeared for a second and returned with a tray for himself. When he was situated next to her, their trays side by side, in matching bathrobes, he picked up his flute and said, “Cheers.” They took a sip and began eating.

“So this is the infamous Writer’s Room,” she said.

“You’ve heard of it?”

“The ruin of many a poor girl.”

“All of them quite willing.”

“So it’s true. You get the girls and Noelle gets the boys?”

“True. Who told you about it?”

“Since when do writers keep secrets?”

Bruce laughed and shoved a strip of bacon in his mouth. After two sips of her mimosa, the buzz was back as the remnants of last night’s rum mixed with the fresh champagne. Fortunately, the long bath had settled her stomach and the food was delicious. She nodded at a long curved wall with bookshelves from floor to ceiling and asked, “So what are those? More first editions?”

“A mix, nothing of any real value. Odds and ends.”

“It’s a beautiful room, obviously put together by Noelle.”

“Let’s forget about her for the time being. She’s probably having a late lunch with Jean-Luc.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“Not in the least. Come on, Mercer, we’ve had this conversation.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes, both ignoring the coffee but not the mimosas. Under the covers, he began gently rubbing her thigh.

She said, “I can’t remember the last time I had sex with a hangover.”

“Oh, I do it all the time. It’s the best cure, actually.”

“I guess you should know.”

He wiggled out of bed and set his tray on the floor. “Finish your drink,” he said, and she did. He lifted her tray and set it aside, then he took off his bathrobe and flung it across the end of the bed. He helped her out of hers, and as soon as they were wonderfully naked they burrowed deep under the covers.

Elaine Shelby was working in her home office late Saturday morning when Graham called from Camino Island. “Touchdown,” he announced. “Looks like our girl spent the night in the big house.”

“Talk to me,” she said.

“She parked across the street around eight last night and her car’s still there. Another couple left this morning, don’t know their names. Mercer and Cable are inside. It’s raining hard here, the perfect morning to shack up. Go, girl.”

“It’s about time. Keep me posted.”

“Will do.”

“I’ll be down Monday.”

Denny and Rooker were watching too. They had traced the North Carolina license plates on Mercer’s car and done the background. They knew her name, recent employment history, current lodging at the Lighthouse Inn, publishing résumé, and partial ownership of the beach cottage. They knew Noelle Bonnet was out of town and her store was closed. They knew as much as they could possibly know, except what, exactly, to do next.

The storm lingered and became just another excuse to stay in bed. Mercer, who had not had sex in months, couldn’t get enough. Bruce, the seasoned professional, had a drive and stamina that she found amazing at times. After an hour — or was it two? — they finally collapsed and fell asleep. When she awoke, he was gone. She put on her bathrobe, went downstairs, and found him in the kitchen, decked out in the usual seersucker suit and dirty bucks, refreshed and clear-eyed as if ready for another day of rigorous bookselling. They kissed and his hands immediately went inside her bathrobe and grabbed her rear.

“Such a gorgeous body,” he said.

“You’re leaving me?”

They kissed again in a long, groping embrace. He pulled away slightly and said, “I need to check on the store. Retail’s a bitch, you know?”

“When are you coming back?”

“Soon. I’ll bring some lunch and we’ll eat on the porch.”

“I need to go,” she said halfheartedly.

“Go where? Back to the Lighthouse? Come on, Mercer, hang around here and I’ll be back before you know it. It’s raining buckets, the wind’s howling, I think we’re under a tornado watch. Hell, it’s dangerous out there. We’ll crawl into bed and read all afternoon.”

“I’m sure you’re thinking of nothing but reading.”

“Keep the bathrobe on and I’ll be back.”

They kissed again, groped again, and he finally managed to tear himself away. He pecked her on the cheek, said good-bye, and left. Mercer poured a cup of coffee and took it to the back porch, where she rocked in a swing and watched the rain. With some effort, she could almost think of herself as a whore, a bad woman being paid to use her body to further her deception, but her heart wasn’t in it. Bruce Cable was a hopeless philanderer who would sleep with anyone regardless of their motives. Now it was her. Next week it would be someone else. He cared nothing for loyalty and trust. Why should she? He asked for no commitment, expected none, gave none in return. For him it was all physical pleasure, and for her, at the moment, the same was true.

She shrugged off any hint of guilt and actually smiled at the thought of a vigorous weekend in his bed.

He wasn’t gone long. They lunched on salads and wine, and soon made their way back to the tower for another round of lovemaking. During a break, Bruce fetched a bottle of chardonnay and a thick novel. They decided to read on the back porch in wicker rockers and listen to the rain. He had his novel; she, her iPad.

“Can you really enjoy a book on that thing?” he asked.

“Sure. The words are the same. Have you ever tried one?”

“Amazon gave me one of theirs years ago. I just couldn’t focus. I could be biased.”

“No kidding. I wonder why?”

“What are you reading?”

“ For Whom the Bell Tolls . I’m alternating between Hemingway and F. Scott, trying to read them all. I finished The Last Tycoon yesterday.”

“And?”

“It’s pretty remarkable, given where he was when he wrote it. In Hollywood, trying to make some money and failing physically and emotionally. And so young. Another tragedy.”