Джон Гришэм - Camino Winds

Mercer had deep roots on the island, having summered there as a girl with her grandmother, Tessa, the inspiration for the novel. Three years earlier she had spent a month on the beach in the family cottage and managed to entangle herself in some local mischief. She had also had a quick fling with Bruce, just another in his long line of trysts.

But Bruce wasn’t thinking about another fling, or at least he was trying to convince himself he wasn’t. He was busy running the store and drumming up a crowd for Mercer’s big event. Bay Books was a powerhouse on the national bookstore circuit because Bruce could always pull in a crowd and move the inventory. The New York publishers clamored to get their writers to the island, and many of them were young ladies on the road and looking for a good time. Bruce loved writers and he wined and dined them, promoted their books, and partied with them.

Mercer had been down that road and wasn’t going back, primarily because she was being escorted on her summer tour by a new boyfriend. Bruce didn’t care. He was just delighted she was on the island and riding high with a superb new novel. He had read the galleys six months earlier and had been promoting it ever since. As usual, when he loved a book, he had sent dozens of handwritten notes to friends and customers touting Tessa. He had called booksellers across the country and encouraged them to stock up. He had chatted with Mercer for hours on the phone and advised her on where to tour, what stores to avoid, which reviewers to ignore, and which journalists to spend time with. He had even passed along some unsolicited editorial comments, some of which she appreciated, some she ignored.

Tessa was her breakout novel, her golden moment to establish a career that Bruce had believed in since her first book, which had been largely neglected. She had never stopped adoring him, their little fling aside, along with a rather serious breach of confidence that surrounded it, for which he had forgiven her. Bruce was a lovable though roguish character and an undeniable force in the brutal world of bookselling.

3.

They met for lunch the day before her appearance at a restaurant at the end of Main Street in Santa Rosa, six blocks from the bookstore. Lunch for Bruce was always in a downtown restaurant, with a bottle of wine or two, and usually with a sales rep or a visiting writer or one of the locals he supported. Business lunches, with receipts saved for the accountant. He arrived a few minutes early and went straight to his favorite table on the deck, with a view of the busy harbor. He flirted with the waitress and ordered a bottle of Sancerre. When Mercer swept in he stood and hugged her and offered a firm handshake to Thomas, her companion these days.

They took their seats and Bruce poured the wine. Leo had to be discussed because he was still out there, but Bruce quickly dismissed him as nothing but a distraction. “He’s headed to Nags Head,” he said confidently.

Mercer was prettier than ever, her long dark hair cut shorter, her hazel eyes glowing with all the success that a bestseller could bring. She was tired of the tour, thrilled to be finished with it, but also savoring the moment. “Thirty-four stops in fifty-one days,” she said with a smile.

“You’re lucky,” Bruce said. “As you well know, publishers don’t like to spend money these days. You’re killing it, Mercer. I’ve seen eighteen reviews, all but one positive.”

“Did you see Seattle?”

“That jerk doesn’t like anything. I know him. I called him when I saw the review and said harsh things.”

“Bruce, really?”

“It’s my job. I protect my writers. I’ll punch him if I ever meet him.”

Thomas laughed and said, “Hit him a lick for me.”

Bruce raised his glass and said, “Come on, cheers to Tessa. Number five on the Times list and moving up.”

They took a celebratory sip of wine. Mercer said, “It’s still hard to believe.”

“And a new contract,” Thomas said, glancing furtively at her. “Can we break the news?”

“It’s already broken,” Bruce said. “Let’s hear it. I want the details.”

Mercer smiled again and said, “My agent called this morning. Viking is offering a nice sum for two more books.”

Bruce raised his glass again and said, “Awesome. Those people aren’t stupid. Congratulations, Mercer. Great news.” Of course, Bruce wanted all the details, especially the amount of the “nice sum,” but he had a general idea. Mercer’s agent was a tough old pro who knew the business and could now negotiate a new two-book deal for seven figures. After years of struggling, Ms. Mann was entering a new world.

“And foreign rights?” Bruce asked.

“We start selling them next week,” she said. Mercer’s first books had barely sold stateside. There were no foreign royalties.

Bruce said, “The Brits and Germans will snap it up. The French and Italians will love Tessa when it’s translated, it’s their kind of story, and they’ll be easy to deal with. You’ll be in twenty languages before you know it, Mercer. This is incredible.”

She looked at Thomas and said, “See what I mean? He knows the business.” They clinked glasses again as the waitress approached.

“This calls for champagne,” Bruce announced, then quickly ordered a bottle before anyone could object. He asked about the tour and wanted the scoop on all the stores she had visited. He knew virtually every serious bookseller in the country and visited as many as possible. For Bruce, a vacation was a week in Napa or Santa Fe for food and wine but also to scout out the best independent bookstores and network with their owners.

He asked about Square Books in Oxford, one of his favorites. Bay Books was modeled after it. These days Mercer was living in Oxford and teaching creative writing at Ole Miss, a two-year gig with one year to go and the hope of a permanent position. The success of Tessa would put her on a tenure track, at least in Bruce’s opinion, and he was scheming of ways to help.

The waitress poured champagne and took their orders. They toasted the new contract again as the clock seemed to stop.

Thomas, who had done little but listen, said, “Mercer warned me that you take your lunches seriously.”

Bruce smiled and replied, “Indeed. I work from early to late, and at noon I have to get out of the store. That’s my excuse. I usually nap off the lunch midafternoon.”

Mercer had been coy about her new friend. She had made it clear that she was seeing someone and that he would have all of her attention. Bruce respected that and was truly pleased she had found a steady, and not a bad-looking one. Thomas appeared to be in his late twenties, a few years younger than Mercer.

Bruce began chipping away. He said, “She tells me you’re a writer too.”

Thomas smiled and said, “Yes, and quite unpublished. I’m one of her MFA students.”

Bruce chuckled at this and said, “Ah, I see. Sleeping with the professor. That’ll get you high marks.”

“Come on, Bruce,” Mercer said, but she was smiling.

“What’s your background?” Bruce asked.

Thomas said, “Degree in American lit from Grinnell. Three years as a staff writer for The Atlantic. Freelance stuff for a couple of online magazines. About three dozen short stories and two dreadful novels, all fittingly unpublished. I’m hanging around Ole Miss doing the MFA thing and trying to figure out the future. For the past two months I’ve been carrying her luggage and having a grand time.”

Mercer added, “Bodyguard, chauffeur, publicist, personal assistant. And he’s a beautiful writer.”

“I’d like to see some of your stuff,” Bruce said.

Mercer looked at Thomas and said, “I told you. Bruce is always eager to help.”