“I hung in there for about fifty pages,” she said. “The violence is explicit and gruesome.”

“Indeed it is,” Bruce said, still turning pages, as if he reveled in the violence. He gently closed the book and said, “A near-fine copy, as we say in the trade. Better than the one I already own.”

“And you paid how much for it?”

“Two thousand, nine years ago. I would offer four thousand for this and I would probably just keep it in my collection. Four thousand is the top.”

“That’s ten thousand for these two books. I had no idea they could be worth that much.”

“I know my stuff, Mercer. Ten thousand is a good deal for you, and for me as well. You want to sell?”

“I don’t know. I need to think about it.”

“Okay. No pressure from me. But, please allow me to keep these in my vault until you decide. As I said, the salt air is brutal.”

“Sure. Take them. Give me a couple of days and I’ll make up my mind.”

“Take your time. No rush. Now, about that champagne.”

“Yes, of course. It is pushing seven o’clock.”

“I have an idea,” Bruce said as he stood and took the books. “Let’s drink it on the beach and go for a walk. I don’t get much beach time, not in this business. I love the ocean and most days don’t even get the chance to see it.”

“Okay,” she said with a slight hesitation. Nothing like a romantic stroll in the surf with a man who claimed to be married. Mercer took a small cardboard box from the counter and handed it to him. He placed the books in it as she removed the champagne from the refrigerator.

10.

It took an hour to walk to the Ritz and back, and by the time they returned to the cottage shadows were falling across the dunes. Their glasses were bone dry and Mercer wasted no time refilling them. Bruce fell into a wicker rocker on the deck and she sat nearby.

They had covered his family: the sudden death of his father; the inheritance that bought the bookshop; his mother he hadn’t seen in almost thirty years; a distant sister; no contact with aunts, uncles, cousins; grandparents long gone. Mercer had matched him story for story, then went one up with the tragedy of her mother’s mental illness and commitment. That was something she told no one, but Bruce was easy to talk to. And to trust. And since both were scarred by the wreckage of abnormal families, they were on common ground and felt comfortable comparing notes and talking about it. The more they revealed, the more they managed to laugh.

Halfway through the second glass of champagne, Bruce said, “I disagree with Myra. You shouldn’t write about families. You’ve done it once, and brilliantly, but once is enough.”

“Don’t worry. Myra is perhaps the last person I would take advice from.”

“Don’t you love her, though, crazy as she is?”