After the signing, the four walked down the street to Le Rocher, a small French place with a good reputation. Bruce quickly ordered two bottles of sparkling water and handed the wine list back to the waitress. Andy glanced around a few times at the other tables and seemed eager to snatch a glass of wine, but instead added a slice of lemon to his water and settled down. He was haggling with his publisher over his latest contract, one that included a smaller advance than his last deal. With a fine flair for humor and self-deprecation, he told how he had jumped from publisher to publisher until all of New York was weary of him. He’d burned them all. Over appetizers, Sally recounted her early frustrations at getting published. Her first novel had been rejected by a dozen agents and even more publishers, but she kept writing. And drinking. Her first marriage blew up when she caught her husband cheating, and her life was a mess. Her second and third novels were rejected. Thankfully, some friends intervened and she found the will to stop drinking. With her fourth novel she turned to crime, created her protagonist, and suddenly agents were calling her. The film rights were optioned and she was off and running. Now, eight novels later, the series was established and gaining popularity.

Though she told her stories without a trace of smugness, Mercer could not help but feel a twinge of envy. Sally was writing full-time. Gone were the cheap jobs and loans from her parents, and she was producing a book a year. It all sounded so easy. And Mercer could freely admit to herself that every writer she’d ever met carried a mean streak of envy; it was the nature of the breed.

Over entrées, the conversation suddenly turned to drinking, and Andy admitted he was having problems. Sally was compassionate but tough, and offered advice. She had been sober for seven years and the change had saved her life. She was inspiring, and Andy thanked her for her honesty. At times, Mercer felt as though she was sitting through an AA meeting.

Bruce was obviously quite fond of Ms. Aranca, and as the dinner dragged on Mercer realized she was getting less of his attention. Don’t be ridiculous, Mercer thought, they’ve known each other for years. But once she realized this she couldn’t let it go, and it became more obvious, at least to her. Bruce touched Sally a few times, little affectionate pats on the shoulder as his hand lingered.

They skipped dessert and Bruce paid the bill. Walking along Main Street, he said he needed to stop by the bookstore to check on the night clerk. Sally went with him. Everyone said good night and Sally promised to send Mercer an e-mail and stay in touch. As Mercer was walking away, Andy said, “Hey, got time for a drink?”

She stopped and faced him. “No, Andy, that’s not a good idea. Not after that dinner.”