“Coffee, not booze.”

It was just after nine and Mercer had nothing to do at the cottage. Maybe having a coffee with Andy would help him. They crossed the street and entered an empty coffee bar. The barista said it would close in thirty minutes. They ordered two cups of decaf and took them outside to a table. The bookstore was across the street. After a few minutes, Bruce and Sally left it and disappeared down the street, in the direction of the Marchbanks House.

“She’ll stay at his place tonight,” Andy said. “A lot of the writers do.”

Mercer absorbed this and asked, “Does Noelle figure into their plans?”

“Not at all. Bruce has his favorites. Noelle has hers. At the top of the tower there’s a round room, known as the Writer’s Room. It sees a lot of activity.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Mercer said, though she did so perfectly.

“They have an open marriage, Mercer, and sleeping around is accepted, probably even encouraged. I suppose they love each other but they have no rules.”

“That’s pretty bizarre.”

“Not for them. They seem to be happy.”

Finally, some of Elaine’s gossip was being verified.

He said, “One reason Noelle spends so much time in France is that she has a longtime boyfriend there. I think he’s married too.”

“Oh why not. Of course he is.”

“And you’ve never been married, right?”

“Correct.”

“Well, I’ve tried it twice and I’m not sure I can recommend it. Are you dating anyone?”

“No. The last boyfriend hit the road a year ago.”

“Met anyone interesting around here?”

“Sure. You, Bruce, Noelle, Myra, Leigh, Bob Cobb. Lots of interesting folks around here.”

“Anyone you want to date?”

He was at least fifteen years older, a fierce drinker, a barroom brawler with scars to prove it, a real brute of a man who offered nothing of interest. “Are you trying to pick me up, Andy?”

“No. I was thinking about dinner sometime.”

“Aren’t you leaving real soon for, how does Myra put it, booze camp?”

“In three days, and I’m trying like hell to stay sober until then. It’s not easy. In fact I’m sipping this lukewarm coffee with no caffeine and trying to pretend it’s a double vodka on the rocks. I can almost taste it. And I’m killing time because I don’t want to go home, even though there’s not a drop in the house. On the way there I’ll pass two liquor stores, still open, and I’ll have to fight myself to keep the car in the road.” His voice was fading.

“I’m sorry, Andy.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just don’t get in this shape. It’s awful.”

“I wish I could help.”

“You can. Say a prayer for me, okay? I hate being this weak.” As if to get away from the coffee and the conversation, he suddenly stood and began walking. Mercer tried to say something but found no words. She watched him until he turned a corner.

She took the cups to the counter. The streets were quiet; only the bookstore and the fudge shop were still open, along with the coffee bar. Her car was parked on Third, and for some reason she walked past it. She made the block and kept walking until she passed the Marchbanks House. Up in the tower, a light was on in the Writer’s Room. She slowed a step or two, and, as if on cue, the light went off.