Джон Гришэм - Camino Winds

Thomas said, “Deal. When I have something worth reading I’ll let you know.”

Mercer knew that before dinner Bruce would dig online and find every story Thomas had written for The Atlantic and every other publication and would have a fairly firm opinion about his talents.

The crab salads arrived and Bruce poured more champagne. He noticed that his two guests were, so far, light drinkers. It was a habit he couldn’t shake. At every lunch and dinner table, and at every bar, Bruce noticed. Most of the female writers he entertained hit the booze lightly. Most of the males were hard drinkers. A few were in recovery, and for those Bruce stuck strictly to iced tea.

He looked at Mercer and said, “And your next novel?”

“Come on, Bruce. I’m living the moment and writing nothing these days. We have two more weeks here before classes start and I’m determined not to write a single word.”

“Smart, but don’t wait too long. That two-book contract will get heavier as the days go by. And you can’t wait three years before the next novel.”

“Okay, okay,” she said. “But can I have just a few days off?”

“One week, that’s all. Look, dinner will be a blast tonight. Are you up for it?”

“Of course. All the gang?”

“They wouldn’t miss it. Noelle is in Europe and she sends her regards, but everybody else is quite eager to see you. They’ve all read the book and love it.”

“And how’s Andy?” she asked.

“Still sober, so he won’t be there. His last book was pretty good and sold well. He’s writing a lot. You’ll see him around.”

“I’ve thought about him a lot. Such a sweet guy.”

“He’s doing well, Mercer. The gang is still together and looking forward to a long dinner.”

4.

Thomas excused himself to find the restroom, and as soon as he was gone Bruce leaned in and asked, “Does he know about us?”

“What about us?”

“You’ve forgotten already? Our little weekend together. It was delightful, as I recall.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Bruce. It never happened.”

“Okay. Fine with me. And nothing about the manuscripts?”

“What manuscripts? That’s a part of my past I’m trying to forget.”

“Wonderful. No one knows but you, me, Noelle, and of course the folks who paid the ransom.”

“Nothing from me.” She took a sip of wine, then leaned in low herself. “But where’s all that money, Bruce?”

“Buried offshore and drawing interest. I have no plans to touch it.”

“But it’s a fortune. Why are you still working so hard?”

A big smile, a big sip. “This is not work, Mercer. This is who I am. I love this business and would be lost without it.”

“Does the business still include dabbling in the black market?”

“Of course not. There are too many people watching right now, and, obviously, I don’t need that anymore.”

“So you’ve gone straight?”

“Clean as a whistle. I love the world of rare books and I’m buying even more these days, all legit. From time to time I get approached with something suspicious. There’s still a lot of thievery out there, and I confess that I’m tempted. But it’s too dicey.”

“At the moment.”

“At the moment.”

She shook her head and smiled. “You’re hopeless, Bruce. A hopeless flirt, philanderer, and book thief.”

“True, and I’ll also sell more copies of your book than anyone else. You gotta love me, Mercer.”

“I wouldn’t call it love.”

“Okay. How about adoration?”

“I’ll try that. Changing the subject, is there anything I should know about tonight?”

“I don’t think so. Everyone is excited to see you again. There were some questions when you disappeared three years ago, but I covered for you, said you had some family drama back home, wherever home might be. Then you got a couple of gigs teaching and just haven’t had the time to get back to the island.”

“Same characters?”

“Yes, minus Noelle, as I said. Andy will probably stop by for a glass of water and a hello. He asks about you. And there’s a new writer you might find interesting. Name’s Nelson Kerr, a former lawyer with a big firm in San Francisco. He ratted out a client, a defense contractor who was illegally selling high-tech military stuff to the Iranians and North Koreans, nice guys like that. It was a big stink about ten years ago, now it’s long since forgotten.”

“Why would I follow that?”

“Right, anyway, his career flamed out but he collected a ton for blowing the whistle. Now he’s sort of hiding out. Early forties, divorced, no kids, keeps to himself.”

“This place attracts the misfits, doesn’t it?”

“Always has. He’s a nice guy but doesn’t say much. Bought a nice condo down by the Hilton. Travels a lot.”

“What about his books?”

“He writes what he knows, international arms smuggling, money laundering. Good thrillers.”

“Sounds awful. Does he sell?”

“So-so, but he has potential. You wouldn’t like his stuff but you’ll probably like him.”

Thomas returned and the conversation switched to the latest publishing scandal.

5.

Bruce lived in a Victorian home ten minutes by foot from Bay Books. After the obligatory post-lunch siesta in his office at the store, he left midafternoon and walked home to prepare for dinner. Even in the depths of summer, he preferred to have his fancy meals on the veranda, under a couple of creaky old fans and next to a gurgling fountain. His favorite cuisine came from south Louisiana, and for the evening he had hired Chef Claude, a bona-fide Cajun who’d been on the island for thirty years. He was already in the kitchen, whistling as he hovered over a large copper pot on the stove. They bantered for a moment but Bruce knew better than to hang around. The chef was a big talker and when fully engaged often forgot about his food.

The temperature was in the low nineties and Bruce went upstairs to change. He peeled out of his daily seersucker and bow tie and put on grungy shorts and a T-shirt, no shoes. Back in the kitchen, he opened two cold bottles of beer, gave one to the chef, and took the other one to the veranda to set the table.

At these moments he really missed Noelle. She imported antiques from the South of France and was a master at decorating. Her favorite chore was preparing a table for a dinner party. Her collection of vintage china, glasses, and flatware was astonishing and still growing. Some she bought to stock her store, but the rarest stuff, and the most beautiful, she kept for their private use. In Noelle’s book, a gorgeous table was a gift to their guests, and no one could do it like her. She often photographed them both before and during the dinners, and framed the best ones to hang for her customers to admire.

The table was twelve feet long and for centuries had been used in a winery in Languedoc. They had found it together a year earlier when they spent a month on a shopping spree. Flush with ill-gotten cash, they had virtually raided Provence and bought so much stuff that they rented space in a warehouse in Avignon.

On a sideboard in the dining room, Noelle had carefully laid out the perfect dishes. Twelve vintage porcelain plates that had been hand-painted for a minor count in the 1700s. Lots of silverware, six pieces for each setting. And dozens of glasses for water and wine and digestifs.

The wineglasses were often problematic. Evidently Noelle’s French ancestors didn’t drink as much as Bruce’s American writers, and the old glasses held barely three ounces when fully loaded. At a rowdy dinner party years earlier, Bruce and his guests had become frustrated with the need to refill the dainty glasses every ten minutes or so. Since then, he insisted on more modern versions that held eight ounces of red, six for white. Noelle, who drank little, had acquiesced and found a collection of goblets from Burgundy that would impress an Irish rugby team.