Camino Island Read online

  people who had cheated, but when they got caught there was everything but acceptance. On the one hand she almost admired their ability to love each other enough to allow the other to stray at will, but on the other hand her southern modesty wanted to judge them for their sleaze.

  “I have a question,” she said, changing the subject. “In Talia’s book, and specifically the story of Zelda Fitzgerald and Hemingway, how did she begin? What was her opening scene?”

  Bruce smiled broadly as he wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Well, well, progress at last. Are you serious about the story?”

  “Maybe. I’ve read two books about the Fitzgeralds and the Hemingways in Paris and I’ve ordered several more.”

  “Ordered?”

  “Yes, from Amazon. Sorry. They’re far cheaper, you know?”

  “So I hear. Order from me and I’ll knock off 30 percent.”

  “But I like to read e-books too.”

  “The younger generation.” He smiled, took a sip of wine, and said, “Let me think. It’s been a long time, twelve, maybe thirteen years. And Talia rewrote the book so many times I was often confused.”

  “From everything I’ve read so far, Zelda hated Hemingway, thought he was a bully and a brute and a bad influence on her husband.”

  “That’s probably true. It seems like there was a scene in Talia’s novel when the three of them were in the South of France. Hadley, Hemingway’s wife, was back in the U.S. for some reason, and Ernest and Scott were really boozing it up. In real life, Hemingway complained several times about Scott’s inability to hold his liquor. Half a bottle of wine and he was under the table. Hemingway had a hollow leg and could outdrink anyone. Scott was a severe alcoholic at twenty and never slowed down. Morning, noon, and night, he was always ready for a drink. Zelda and Hemingway were flirting, and they finally got their chance after lunch when Scott passed out in a hammock. Did their business in a guest room not thirty feet from the guy as he snored away. Something like that, but again it’s fiction, so write whatever you want. The affair became rather torrid as Ernest drank even more and Scott tried to keep up. When he blacked out, his pal Ernie and his wife, Zelda, would hustle off to the nearest bed for a quick one. Zelda was smitten with Ernest. Ernest appeared to be crazy about her, but was only leading her on for obvious reasons. By then he was already a serial philanderer. When they returned to Paris, and when Hadley came back from the U.S., Zelda wanted to keep up the fun, but Ernest was tired of her. He said more than once she was crazy. So he stiff-armed her, jilted her, and she hated him from then on. And that, my dear, is the novel in a nutshell.”

  “And you think that will sell?”

  Bruce laughed and said, “My, my, you’ve become quite mercenary in the past month. You came here with literary ambitions and now you’re dreaming of royalties.”

  “I don’t want to go back to the classroom, Bruce, and it’s not like I’m being chased by a lot of colleges right now. I have nothing, nothing but ten thousand dollars, courtesy of you and my dear Tessa’s sticky fingers. I need to either sell some books or quit writing.”

  “Yes, it will sell. You mentioned The Paris Wife, a fine story about Hadley and Hemingway in those days, and it sold very well. You’re a beautiful writer, Mercer, and you can pull it off.”

  She smiled and took a sip of wine and said, “Thanks. I need the encouragement.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  They ate in silence for a few moments. Bruce held up his glass and looked at the wine. “You like the Chablis?”

  “It’s delicious.”

  “I love wine, almost too much. For lunch, though, it’s a bad habit. It really slows down the afternoon.”

  “That’s why they invented siestas,” she said helpfully, easing him along.

  “Indeed. I have a little apartment on the second floor, sort of behind the coffee bar, and it’s the perfect spot for the post-lunch nap.”

  “Is this an invitation, Bruce?”

  “Could be.”

  “Is that your best pickup line—‘Hey, baby, join me for a nap’?”

  “It’s worked before.”

  “Well, it’s not working now.” She glanced around and touched the corners of her mouth with the napkin. “I don’t sleep with married men, Bruce. I mean, I have, on two occasions, and neither was particularly enjoyable. Married men have baggage I don’t care to deal with. Plus, I know Noelle and I like her a lot.”

  “I assure you she doesn’t care.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  He was smiling, almost chuckling, as if she had no idea what she was talking about and he would be pleased to enlighten her. He, too, glanced around to make sure no one could possibly hear. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Noelle is in France, in Avignon, and when she goes there she stays in her apartment, one she’s had for many years. Just down the street is a much larger apartment owned by Jean-Luc, her friend. Jean-Luc is married to an older woman with plenty of money. Jean-Luc and Noelle have been close for at least ten years. In fact, she met him before I met her. They do their siestas, have dinner, hang out, even travel together when his old wife says it’s okay.”

  “So his wife approves?”

  “Of course. They’re French. It’s all quiet and discreet and very civilized.”

  “And you don’t mind? This is really bizarre.”

  “No, I don’t mind at all. That’s just the way it is. You see, Mercer, I knew many years ago that I’m simply not cut out for monogamy. I’m not sure any human really is, but I won’t argue that. By the time I got to college I realized that there are a lot of beautiful women out there and there’s no way I can be happy with just one. I’ve tried the relationship thing, been through five or six girlfriends, but nothing has ever worked because I can’t resist another beautiful woman, regardless of her age. Luckily, I found Noelle, because she feels the same way about men. Her marriage blew up years ago because she had a boyfriend on the side and was sleeping with her doctor.”

  “So you struck a deal?”

  “We didn’t shake hands, but by the time we decided to get married we knew the rules. The door is wide open, just be discreet.”

  Mercer shook her head and looked away. “I’m sorry, I’ve just never met a couple with such an arrangement.”

  “I’m not sure it’s that unusual.”

  “Oh, I promise you it’s very unusual. You just think it’s normal because you’re doing it. Look, I caught a boyfriend cheating one time and it took me a year to get over it. I still hate him.”

  “I rest my case. You take it too serious. What’s a little fling now and then?”

  “A fling? Your wife has been sleeping with her French boyfriend for at least a decade. You call that a fling?”

  “No, that’s more than a fling, but Noelle doesn’t love him. That’s all about companionship.”

  “I’ll say. So the other night when Sally Aranca was in town, was that a fling or companionship?”

  “Neither, both, who cares? Sally comes through once a year and we have some fun. Call it whatever you want.”

  “What if Noelle had been here?”

  “She doesn’t care, Mercer, listen to me. If you called Noelle right now and told her we’re doing lunch and talking about having a nap and what does she think about it, I promise Noelle would laugh and say, ‘Hey, I’ve been gone for two weeks, what’s taking so long?’ You want to call her?”

  “No.”

  Bruce laughed and said, “You’re too uptight.”

  Mercer had never thought of herself as being uptight; in fact she thought she was fairly laid-back and accepting of most anything. But at the moment she felt like a prude and hated it. “No, I’m not.”

  “Then let’s hop in the sack.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t be that casual about it.”

  “Fine. I’m not pushing. I just offered a little nap, that’s all.”

  Both chuckled, but the tension was palpable. And they knew the conversation was not ov
er.

  6.

  It was dark when they met at the beach end of the cottage boardwalk. The tide was low and the beach was wide and empty. The brightness of a full moon shimmered across the ocean. Elaine was barefoot, and Mercer kicked off her sandals. They walked to the edge of the water and strolled along, just a couple of old friends having a chat.

  As instructed, Mercer was being thorough with her nightly e-mails, down to the details of what she was reading and trying to write. Elaine knew almost everything, though Mercer had not mentioned Cable’s efforts to get her in bed. Maybe later, depending on what might happen.

  “When did you get to the island?” Mercer asked.

  “This afternoon. We’ve spent the last two days at the office with our team, all of our experts—tech guys, operations people, even my boss, the owner of the company.”

  “You have a boss?”

  “Oh yes. I’m directing this project, but my boss will make the final decisions, when we get there.”

  “Get where?”

  “Not sure right now. This is week number six, and, frankly, we’re not sure what’s next. You’ve been magnificent, Mercer, and your progress in the first five weeks has been nothing less than astonishing. We are very pleased. But now that we have the photos and videos, and now that you’ve worked your way into Cable’s circle, we’re debating our next move. Our confidence level is pretty high, but we have a ways to go.”

  “We’ll get there.”

  “We adore your confidence.”

  “Thanks,” Mercer said flatly, tired of the praise. “A question. I’m not sure it’s wise to pursue the ploy of this novel about Zelda and Hemingway. It just seems too convenient, with Cable sitting on the Fitzgerald manuscripts. Are we on the right track?”

  “But the novel was his idea.”

  “Maybe it’s his bait, his way of testing me.”

  “Do you have any reason to believe he might suspect you?”

  “Not really. I’ve been able to spend time with Bruce and I think I can read him. He’s very bright, quick, and charismatic, and he’s also an honest guy who’s easy to talk to. He may be deceptive with some of his business, but not when he’s dealing with his friends. He can be brutally honest and he doesn’t suffer fools, but there’s a sweetness to him that’s genuine. I like him, Elaine, and he likes me and wants to get closer. If he’s suspicious, I think I would know it.”

  “You plan to get closer?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “He’s lying about his marriage.”

  “True. He always refers to Noelle as his wife. I’m assuming you’re correct when you say they are not really married.”

  “I’ve told you all we know. There are no records in France or here of them applying for or obtaining a marriage license. I suppose they could’ve gotten married in some other country, but that’s not their story.”

  “I don’t know how close we’ll get and I’m not sure it can be planned. My point is that I think I know him well enough to detect any skepticism.”

  “Then stick with his novel. It will give you the chance to talk about Fitzgerald. It’s even a good idea to write the first chapter and let him read it. Can you do that?”

  “Oh, sure. It’s all fiction. Nothing in my life is real these days.”

  7.

  Bruce’s next effort was just as casual as his last, but it worked. He called Mercer Thursday afternoon and said that Mort Gasper, the legendary publisher of Ripley Press, was in town, passing through with his latest wife. Gasper came to the island almost every summer and stayed with Bruce and Noelle. It would be a small dinner, just the four of them, late on Friday, a pleasant way to end the week.

  After a few days at the bed-and-breakfast, Mercer was claustrophobic and eager to escape. She was desperate to get her cottage back and counting the days until Connie and her gang went home. To keep from writing, Mercer was walking the beach at all hours, careful to stay miles away from the cottage and keeping a sharp eye for anyone who might be related to her.

  And meeting Mort Gasper might one day help her waning career. Thirty years ago he had bought Ripley for peanuts and turned the sleepy and unprofitable little house into a major publisher, one that remained defiantly independent. With a brilliant eye for talent, he had collected and promoted a stable of writers known for their diverse literary aspirations, as well as their ability to sell books. A throwback to the golden age of publishing, Mort clung to his traditions of three-hour lunches and late night launch parties at his Upper West Side apartment. He was without a doubt the most colorful figure in publishing and showed no signs of slowing down, even as he approached seventy.

  Friday afternoon, Mercer spent two hours online reading old magazine articles about Mort, none of them remotely boring. One from two years earlier told of a two-million-dollar advance Mort paid to an unknown star with a debut novel that sold ten thousand copies. He had no regrets and called it “a bargain.” One mentioned his latest marriage, to a woman about Mercer’s age. Her name was Phoebe and she was an editor at Ripley.

  Phoebe met her at the front door of the Marchbanks House at 8:00 p.m. Friday, and after a pleasant hello warned her that the “boys” were already drinking. As Mercer followed her through the kitchen she heard the humming of a blender. Bruce was concocting lemon daiquiris on the rear porch and had stripped down to shorts and a golf shirt. He pecked Mercer on both cheeks and introduced her to Mort, who greeted her with a fierce hug and contagious smile. He was barefoot and his long shirttail was down to his knees. Bruce handed her a daiquiri and topped off the others, and they sat in wicker chairs around a small table stacked with books and magazines.

  It was readily apparent that in situations like this, as in probably all others, Mort was expected to do the talking. This was fine with Mercer. After the third sip she felt a buzz and wondered how much rum Bruce had added to the recipe. Mort was raging about the presidential race and the worrisome state of American politics, a subject Mercer cared little for, but Bruce and Phoebe seemed engaged and managed to offer enough to keep him going.

  “Mind if I smoke?” Mort asked of no one in particular as he reached for a leather case on the table. He and Bruce fired up black cigars and a blue fog soon hovered over them. Bruce got the pitcher and did another round of top-offs. During a rare lull in Mort’s monologue, Phoebe managed to inject, “So, Mercer, Bruce says you’re here working on a novel.”

  Mercer knew it would be coming at some point during the evening. She smiled and said, “Bruce is being generous. Right now I’m doing more dreaming than working.”

  Mort blasted forth a cloud and said, “October Rain was a fine debut. Very impressive. Who published it? I can’t remember.”

  With a forgiving smile Mercer said, “Well, Ripley turned it down.”

  “Indeed we did, a foolish move, but then that’s publishing. You guess right on some books and wrong on others, all part of the business.”

  “It was published by Newcombe, and we had our differences.”

  He snorted his disapproval and said, “A bunch of clowns. Didn’t you leave them?”

  “Yes. My current contract is with Viking, if I still have a contract. The last time my editor called she informed me I was three years past due.”

  Mort roared with laughter and said, “Only three years! To be so lucky. I was yelling at Doug Tannenbaum last week because he was supposed to deliver eight years ago. Writers!”

  Phoebe jumped in with “Do you talk about your work?”

  Mercer smiled and shook her head. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “Who’s your agent?” Mort demanded.

  “Gilda Savitch.”

  “Love that gal. I had lunch with her last month.”

  So glad you approve, Mercer almost said, the rum doing a number. “She didn’t mention my name, did she?”

  “I can’t remember. It was a long lunch.” Mort roared again and then gulped his drink. Phoebe asked about Noelle and this occupied them for a few minutes
. Mercer noticed there was no activity in the kitchen, no sign of food being prepared. When Mort excused himself for a bathroom break, Bruce went back to the blender for more daiquiris. The girls chatted about the summer and vacations and such. Phoebe and Mort would leave tomorrow and head to the Keys for a month. Publishing was slow in July and thoroughly dormant in August, and, well, since he was the boss they could leave the city for six weeks.

  As soon as Mort returned and settled into his chair with his fresh drink and cigar, the doorbell rang and Bruce disappeared. He returned with a large box of carryout and placed it on the table. “The best fish tacos on the island. Grilled grouper caught this morning.”

  “You’re serving us take-out tacos?” Mort asked in disbelief. “I don’t believe this. I take you to the finest restaurants in New York and I get this.” As he protested he almost lunged at the tacos.