Then a consoling thought. Mort was forty years older and had made a career out of raising hell. He’d thrown more drunks and suffered through more hangovers than all of his authors combined, so nothing would bother him. He was probably amused by it. Who cared about Phoebe? Mercer would never see her again. Besides, living with Mort she’d seen it all. Bruce certainly had.

A light tap on the door and Bruce eased into the room. He was wearing a white terry-cloth bathrobe and holding a tall bottle of water and two small glasses. “Well, good morning,” he said quietly and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Morning,” she said. “I really want some of that water.”

“I need it too,” he said, and filled the glasses. They drained them and he poured more.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Not too good. You?”

“A long night.”

“How’d I get up here?”

“You fell asleep on the porch, and I helped you to bed. Phoebe was not far behind, then Mort and I lit another cigar and kept drinking.”

“Did you beat Hemingway’s record?”

“No, but it feels like we got close.”

“Tell me, Bruce, did I make an ass of myself?”

“Not at all. You dozed off. You couldn’t drive, so I put you to bed.”

“Thanks. I don’t remember much.”

“There’s not much to remember. All of us got bombed.”

She drained her glass and he refilled it. She nodded at her shorts and blouse and asked, “Who took those off?”

“I did. A real treat.”

“Did you molest me?”

“No, but I thought about it.”

“Such a gentleman.”

“Always. Look, there’s a big claw-foot tub in the bathroom. Why don’t you take a long hot bath, keep drinking water, and I’ll go fix breakfast. I need some eggs and bacon and figure you probably do too. Make yourself at home. Mort and Phoebe are stirring and they’ll leave soon. When they’re gone, I’ll bring you breakfast in bed. A plan?”

She smiled and said, “Sounds nice. Thanks.”

He left and closed the door. She had two options. First, she could get dressed, ease downstairs, try to avoid Mort and Phoebe, tell Bruce she needed to leave, and hit the road. But moving quickly was not a good idea. She needed time, time to pull herself together, time to see if her stomach would settle down, time to relax and maybe even sleep it off. And, she wasn’t sure she should be driving. The thought of returning to her little suite at the B&B was not appealing either, and the idea of a long hot bath was irresistible at the moment.

The second option was to follow Bruce’s plan, one that would eventually land him in the bed with her. That, she had decided, had reached the point of being inevitable.

She poured another glass of water and eased out of bed. She stretched, took a deep breath, and already felt better. No threats of nausea. She walked to the bathroom, turned on the faucets, and found the bubble bath. A digital clock on the vanity gave the time as 8:20. In spite of her obvious physical problems, she had slept for almost ten hours.