She shrugged off any hint of guilt and actually smiled at the thought of a vigorous weekend in his bed.

He wasn’t gone long. They lunched on salads and wine, and soon made their way back to the tower for another round of lovemaking. During a break, Bruce fetched a bottle of chardonnay and a thick novel. They decided to read on the back porch in wicker rockers and listen to the rain. He had his novel; she, her iPad.

“Can you really enjoy a book on that thing?” he asked.

“Sure. The words are the same. Have you ever tried one?”

“Amazon gave me one of theirs years ago. I just couldn’t focus. I could be biased.”

“No kidding. I wonder why?”

“What are you reading?”

“For Whom the Bell Tolls. I’m alternating between Hemingway and F. Scott, trying to read them all. I finished The Last Tycoon yesterday.”

“And?”

“It’s pretty remarkable, given where he was when he wrote it. In Hollywood, trying to make some money and failing physically and emotionally. And so young. Another tragedy.”

“That was his last one, the one he didn’t finish?”

“That’s what they say. Such a waste of talent.”

“Is this homework for the novel?”

“Perhaps. I’m still not sure. What are you reading?”

“It’s called My Favorite Tsunami, a first novel by a guy who can’t write very well.”

“What an awful title.”

“Yes, and it doesn’t get any better. I’m fifty pages in with six hundred to go and I’m struggling. There should be a rule in publishing that debut novels are limited to three hundred pages, don’t you think?”

“I suppose. Mine was only 280.”

“Yours was perfect.”

“Thanks. So will you finish that?”

“I doubt it. I’ll give any book a hundred pages, and if by then the writer can’t hold my attention I’ll put it away. There are too many good books I want to read to waste time with a bad one.”

“Same here, but my limit is fifty pages. I’ve never understood people who grind through a book they don’t really like, determined to finish it for some unknown reason. Tessa was like that. She would toss a book after the first chapter, then pick it up and grumble and growl for four hundred pages until the bitter end. Never understood that.”

“I don’t get it.” He took a sip of wine, gazed across the backyard, and picked up the novel. She waited until he had turned a page and asked, “Got any other rules?”

He smiled and laid down the novel. “Oh, Mercer, dear, I have my list. It’s called ‘Cable’s Top Ten Rules for Writing Fiction,’ a brilliant how-to guide put together by an expert who’s read over four thousand books.”

“Do you share this?”

“Occasionally. I’ll e-mail it over, but you really don’t need it.”

“Maybe I do. I need something. Give me a hint or two.”

“Okay, I hate prologues. I just finished a novel by a guy who’s touring and will stop by next week. He always starts every book with the typical prologue, something dramatic like a killer stalking a woman or a dead body, then will leave the reader hanging, go to chapter 1, which, of course, has nothing to do with the prologue, then to chapter 2, which, of course, has nothing to do with either chapter 1 or the prologue, then after about thirty pages slam the reader back to the action in the prologue, which by then has been forgotten.”