Camino Island Read online

  outline. A half-moon peeked through the clouds and helped define the loggerhead.

  The trance held; the laying continued without interruption. When the clutch held a hundred eggs, she was finished for the night and began covering them with sand. When the cavity was filled, she packed the sand and used her front flippers to refill the body pit and disguise the nest.

  When she began moving, Mercer knew the nesting was over and the eggs were safe. She gave the mother a wide berth and settled into a dark spot at the toe of another dune, hidden in the dark. She watched as the turtle carefully spread sand over her nest and scattered it in all directions to fool any predators.

  Satisfied her nest was safe, the turtle began her cumbersome crawl back to the water, leaving behind eggs she would never bother with again. She would repeat the nesting once or twice during the season before migrating back to her feeding ground, hundreds of miles away. In a year or two, maybe three or four, she would return to the same beach and nest again.

  For five nights a month, from May through August, Tessa had walked this section of the beach looking for the tracks of nesting loggerheads. Her granddaughter had been at her side, thoroughly captivated by the hunt. Discovering the tracks had always been exciting. Finding a mother actually laying her eggs had been an indescribable thrill.

  Now Mercer reclined on the dune and waited. The Turtle Watch volunteers would come along soon and do their work. Tessa had been the president of that club for many years. She had fought fiercely to protect the nests and many times had chastised vacationers for tampering with the protected areas. Mercer remembered at least two occasions on which her grandmother had called the police. The law was on her side, and that of the turtles, and she wanted it enforced.

  That strong and vibrant voice was now silent, and the beach would never be the same, at least not for Mercer. She gazed at the lights of the shrimp boats on the horizon and smiled at the memories of Tessa and her turtles. The wind picked up and she folded her arms over her chest to stay warm.

  In sixty days or so, depending on the temperature of the sand, the hatchlings would come to life. With no help from their mother, they would crack open their shells and dig out in a group effort that could take days. When the time was right, usually at night or in a rainstorm when the temperature was cooler, they would make a run for it. Together they would burst from the cavity, take a second to get oriented, then hustle down to the water and swim away. The odds were stacked against them. The ocean was a minefield with so many predators that only one baby turtle in a thousand would see adulthood.

  Two figures were approaching at the shoreline. They stopped when they saw the tracks, then slowly followed them to the nest. When they were certain the mother was gone and the eggs had been laid, they studied the sight with flashlights, made a circle in the sand around it, and sunk a small stake with yellow tape. Mercer could hear their soft voices—two women—but was safely hidden from their view. They would return at daylight to secure the nest with wire fencing and signage, something she and Tessa had done many times. As they walked away, they carefully kicked sand over the turtle’s tracks to make them disappear.

  Long after they were gone, Mercer decided to wait for the sun. She had never spent the night on the beach, so she nestled into the sand, reclined comfortably against the dune, and eventually fell asleep.

  4.

  Evidently, the island’s literary gang was too afraid of Myra Beckwith to say no to a last-minute invitation to dinner. No one wanted to offend her. And, Mercer suspected, no one wanted to risk missing a gathering where they would almost certainly be talked about in their absence. Out of self-defense, and curiosity, they began arriving at the Vicker House late Sunday afternoon for drinks and dinner to honor their newest member, albeit a temporary one. It was Memorial Day weekend, the start of summer. The invitation by e-mail said 6:00 p.m., but for a bunch of writers that hour meant nothing. No one was on time.

  Bob Cobb arrived first and immediately cornered Mercer on the back porch and began asking questions about her work. He had long gray hair and the bronze tan of a man who spent too much time outside, and he wore a gaudy floral-print shirt with the top buttons open to reveal a brown chest with matching gray hair. According to Myra, the rumor was that Cobb had just submitted his latest novel and his editor wasn’t happy with it. How she knew this she wouldn’t say. He sipped her homemade brew from a fruit jar and stood uncomfortably close to Mercer as they talked.

  Amy Slater, the “vampire girl,” came to her rescue and welcomed her to the island. She went on about her three kids and claimed to be thrilled to get out of the house for the evening. Leigh Trane joined the circle but said little. Myra was stomping around the house in a hot pink flowing dress the size of a small tent, barking instructions to the caterer, fetching drinks, and ignoring the pack of dogs that had the run of the place.

  Bruce and Noelle arrived next, and Mercer finally met the man responsible for her little sabbatical. He wore a soft yellow seersucker suit with a bow tie, though the invitation clearly said “extreme casual.” But Mercer had long since learned that with a literary crowd anything goes. Cobb was wearing rugby shorts. Noelle was beautiful in a simple white cotton shift, a narrow one that hung perfectly on her slender frame. Damn French, Mercer thought, as she sipped Chablis and tried to keep up her end of the small talk.

  Some writers are seasoned raconteurs with an endless supply of stories and quips and one-liners. Others are reclusive and introverted souls who labor in their solitary worlds and struggle to mix and mingle. Mercer was somewhere in between. Her lonely childhood had given her the ability to live in her own world, where little was said. Because of this, she pushed herself to laugh and chatter and enjoy a joke.

  Andy Adam showed up and immediately asked for a double vodka on the rocks. Myra handed it to him and cast a wary look at Bruce. They knew Andy was “off the wagon” and this was a concern. When he introduced himself to Mercer she immediately noticed a small scar above his left eye and thought about his penchant for brawling in bars. He and Cobb were about the same age, both divorced, both hard-drinking beach bums who were lucky enough to sell well and enjoy undisciplined lives. They soon gravitated to each other and began talking about fishing.

  Jay Arklerood, the brooding poet and frustrated literary star, arrived just after seven, which, according to Myra, was early for him. He took a glass of wine, said hello to Bruce, but did not introduce himself to Mercer. With the gang all there, Myra called for quiet and proposed a toast. “A drink to our new friend, Mercer Mann, who’ll be here a spell in the hope that she’ll find inspiration in the sun and on the beach and finish that damned novel that’s now three years past due. Cheers!”

  “Only three years?” Leigh said and got a laugh.

  “Mercer,” Myra said, prompting.

  Mercer smiled and said, “Thank you. I’m delighted to be here. From the age of six I came here every summer to stay with my grandmother Tessa Magruder. Some of you might have known her. The happiest days of my life, so far at least, were spent with her on the beach and on the island. It’s been a long time, but I’m delighted to be back. And delighted to be here tonight.”

  “Welcome,” Bob Cobb said as he lifted his drink. The others did too, offered a hearty “Cheers!” and began talking at once.

  Bruce stepped closer to Mercer and quietly said, “I knew Tessa. She and Porter died in a storm.”

  “Yes, eleven years ago,” Mercer said.

  “I’m sorry,” Bruce said, somewhat awkwardly.

  “No, it’s okay. It has been a long time.”

  Myra charged in with “Oh well, I’m hungry. Bring your drinks to the table and we’ll have dinner.”

  They made their way inside to the dining room. The table was narrow and not long enough for nine people, but had there been twenty, Myra would have packed them around it anyway. It was surrounded by a collection of mismatched chairs. The setting, though, was beautiful, with a row of short candles down the middle and lo
ts of flowers. The china and stemware were old and smartly matched. The vintage silver was perfectly arranged. The white cloth napkins had just been ironed and folded. Myra held a sheet of paper with the seating arrangement, one that she and Leigh had obviously debated, and barked instructions. Mercer was seated between Bruce and Noelle, and after the usual complaining and grumbling the rest of them fell into place. At least three separate conversations began as Dora, the caterer, poured wine. The air was warm and the windows were open. An old fan rattled not far above them.

  Myra said, “Okay, here are the rules. No talking about your own books, and no politics. There are some Republicans here.”

  “What!” Andy said. “Who invited them?”

  “I did, and if you don’t like it you can leave now.”

  “Who are they?” Andy demanded.

  “Me,” Amy said, raising her hand proudly. It was obvious this had happened before.

  “I’m a Republican too,” Cobb said. “Even though I’ve been to prison and roughed up by the FBI, I’m still a loyal Republican.”

  “God help us,” Andy mumbled.

  “See what I mean,” Myra said. “No politics.”

  “How about football?” Cobb asked.

  “And no football,” Myra said with a smile. “Bruce, what would you like to talk about?”

  “Politics and football,” Bruce said and everyone laughed.

  “What’s happening at the store this week?”

  “Well, Wednesday Serena Roach is back. I expect to see you all at the store for the signing.”

  “She got trashed in the Times this morning,” Amy said, with a hint of satisfaction. “Did y’all see it?”

  “Who reads the Times?” Cobb asked. “Left-wing garbage.”

  “I’d love to be trashed in the Times, or anywhere else for that matter,” Leigh said. “What’s her book about?”

  “It’s her fourth novel and it’s about a single woman in New York City who’s having relationship problems.”

  “How original,” Andy blurted. “Can’t wait to read that one.” He drained his second double vodka and asked Dora for another. Myra frowned at Bruce, who shrugged as if to say, “He’s a grown man.”

  “Gazpacho,” Myra said as she picked up her spoon. “Dig in.”

  Within seconds they were all chatting at once as separate conversations spun off. Cobb and Andy quietly discussed politics. Leigh and Jay huddled at the end of the table and talked about someone’s novel. Myra and Amy were curious about a new restaurant. And in a soft voice Bruce said to Mercer, “I’m sorry I brought up Tessa’s death. It was quite rude.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” she said. “It was a long time ago.”

  “I knew Porter well. He was a regular at the store, loved detective stories. Tessa dropped in once a year but didn’t buy a lot of books. Seems like I vaguely remember a granddaughter many years ago.”

  “How long are you here?” Noelle asked.

  Mercer was confident that everything she had told Myra had already been relayed to Bruce. “A few months. I’m between jobs, or I should say that I’m out of work. For the past three years I’ve been teaching but I hope that’s behind me. And you? Tell me about your store.”

  “I sell French antiques. I have a shop next door to the bookstore. I’m from New Orleans but I met Bruce and moved here. Just after Katrina.”

  Soft, clear, perfect diction, with no trace of New Orleans. No trace of anything. And no wedding ring but plenty of jewelry.

  Mercer said, “That was 2005. A month after Tessa’s accident. I remember it well.”

  Bruce asked, “Were you here when it happened?”

  “No, that was the first summer in fourteen years that I did not spend here. I had to get a job to pay for college and I was working in Memphis, my hometown.”

  Dora was removing the bowls and pouring more wine. Andy was getting louder.

  “Do you have children?” Mercer asked.

  Both Bruce and Noelle smiled and shook their heads. “We’ve never had the time,” she said. “I travel a lot, buying and selling, mainly to France, and Bruce is at the store seven days a week.”

  “You don’t go with her?” Mercer asked Bruce.

  “Not very often. We were married there.”

  No you weren’t. It was such an easy, casual lie, one they had been living for a long time. Mercer took a sip of wine and reminded herself that she was sitting next to one of the most successful dealers of stolen rare books in the country. As they talked about the South of France and the antiques trade there, Mercer wondered how much Noelle knew about his business. If he had really paid a million bucks for the Fitzgerald manuscripts, surely she would know it. Right? He was not a tycoon with interests around the world and ways to move and hide money. He was a small-town bookseller who practically lived in his store. He couldn’t hide that much money from her, could he? Noelle had to know.

  Bruce admired October Rain and was curious about the abrupt end to Mercer’s first book tour. Myra overheard this and called for quiet as she prompted Mercer to tell her story. While Dora served baked pompano, the conversation settled on the topic of book tours and everyone had a story. Leigh, Jay, and Cobb confessed that they, too, had wasted an hour or two in the back of stores selling zero copies. Andy drew small crowds with his first book, and, not surprisingly, was kicked out of a bookstore when he got drunk and insulted customers who wouldn’t buy it. Even Amy, the bestseller, had a few bad days before she discovered vampires.

  During dinner, Andy switched to ice water, and the entire table seemed to relax.

  Cobb got wound up with a story from prison. It was about an eighteen-year-old kid who was sexually abused by his cellmate, a real predator. Years later, after both had been paroled, the kid tracked down his old cellie, found him living the quiet life in the suburbs, his past forgotten. Time for revenge.

  It was a long, interesting story, and when Cobb finished, Andy said, “What a crock. Pure fiction, right? That’s your next novel.”

  “No, I swear it’s true.”

  “Bullshit. You’ve done this before, regaled us with a tall tale to see how we react to it, then a year later it’s a novel.”

  “Well, I have thought about it. What do you think? Commercial enough?”

  “I like it,” Bruce said. “But go easy on the prison rape scenes. You’ve overplayed those a bit, I think.”

  “You sound like my agent,” Cobb mumbled. He pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket as if he needed to start taking notes. “Anything else? Mercer, what do you think?”

  “I get a vote?”

  “Sure, why not? Your vote will mean as much as the rest of these hacks.”

  “I might use the story,” Andy said and everyone laughed.

  “Well, you damned sure need a good story. Did you make your deadline?”

  “Yes, I’ve sent it in and they’ve already sent it back. Structural problems.”

  “Same as your last book, but they published it anyway.”

  “And a good move on their part. They couldn’t print ’em fast enough.”

  “Now, boys,” Myra said. “You’re breaking the first rule. No talking about your own books.”

  “This could go on all night,” Bruce whispered to Mercer, just loud enough for the rest to hear. She loved the bantering, as they all did. She had never been with a group of writers so eager to jab each other, but all in fun.

  Amy, whose cheeks were red from the wine, said, “What if the kid from prison is really a vampire?” The table erupted with even more laughter.

  Cobb quickly replied, “Hey, I hadn’t thought about that. We could start a new series about vampires in prison. I like it. You want to collaborate?”

  Amy said, “I’ll get my agent to call your agent, see if they can work something out.”

  With perfect timing Leigh said, “And you wonder why books are declining.” When the laughter died, Cobb said, “Once again shot down by the literary mafia.”

  Things were quieter
for a few minutes as they worked on dinner. Cobb started chuckling and said, “Structural problems. What does that mean?”

  “Means the plot sucks, which it does. I never really felt that good about it, frankly.”

  “You could always self-publish it, you know. Bruce will put it on that folding card table in the back of the store, his own slush pile.”

  Bruce replied, “Please. That table is full.”

  Myra changed the subject by asking, “So, Mercer, you’ve been here a few days. Can we ask how the writing is going?”

  “That’s a bad question,” Mercer replied with a smile.

  “Are you trying to finish a book, or start one?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “The current one will probably get tossed, then I’ll start a new one. I’m still undecided.”

  “Well, if you need any advice whatsoever, about any aspect of writing or publishing, or romance or relationships, food, wine, travel, politics, anything under the sun, you’ve come to the right place. Just look around this table. Experts everywhere.”

  “So I gather.”

  5.

  At midnight, Mercer was sitting on the bottom step of the boardwalk, her bare feet in the sand, the waves rolling in. She would never tire of the sound of the ocean, the gentle breaking of the waves with a calm sea, or the crashing surf in a storm. Tonight there was no wind and the tide was low. A lone figure walked south in the distance, at the edge of the water.