“I like this. Keep going.”

“Another rookie mistake is to introduce twenty characters in the first chapter. Five’s enough and won’t confuse your reader. Next, if you feel the need to go to the thesaurus, look for a word with three syllables or fewer. I have a nice vocabulary and nothing ticks me off more than a writer showing off with big words I’ve never seen before. Next, please, please use quotation marks with dialogue; otherwise it’s bewildering. Rule Number Five: Most writers say too much, so always look for things to cut, like throwaway sentences and unnecessary scenes. I could go on.”

“Please do. I should be taking notes.”

“No, you shouldn’t. You don’t need advice. You’re a beautiful writer, Mercer, you just need a story.”

“Thank you, Bruce. I need the encouragement.”

“I’m dead serious, and I’m not flattering you because we’re in the midst of a little weekend orgy.”

“Is that what it’s called? Thought it was a fling.”

They laughed and took a sip of wine. The rain had stopped and a heavy mist was rolling in. She asked, “Have you ever written?”

He shrugged and looked away. “I’ve tried, several times, but never finished. It’s not my thing. That’s why I respect writers, the good ones anyway. I welcome them all and I love to promote all books, but there’s a lot of crap on the market. And I’m frustrated with people like Andy Adam who have the talent but squander it with bad habits.”

“Have you heard from him?”

“Not yet. He’s locked away with no contact. He’ll probably call in a week or so. This is either his third or fourth rehab, and I think the odds are against him. Deep inside he really doesn’t want to quit.”

“It’s so sad.”

“You look sleepy.”

“Must be the wine.”

“Let’s take a nap.”

With some effort, they managed to climb into a hammock and wedge themselves into a tight cuddle. As it rocked gently, they grew still. “Any plans for tonight?” she asked.

“I was thinking more of the same.”

“That too, but I’m getting tired of this place.”

“Well, dinner is a must.”

“But you’re a married man, Bruce, and I’m just your weekend girl. What if someone sees us?”

“I don’t care, Mercer, and Noelle doesn’t care. Why should you?”

“I don’t know. It just seems weird having dinner at a nice place on a Saturday night with a married man.”

“Who said it was a nice place? It’s a dump, a crab shack down by the river, great food, and I assure you no one there buys books.”

She kissed him and laid her head on his chest.

12.

Sunday began in much the same fashion as Saturday, without the hangovers. Bruce served breakfast in bed, pancakes and sausage, and they spent two hours scanning the New York Times. As noon approached, Mercer needed a break. She was about to begin her farewell when Bruce said, “Look, I’m shorthanded at the store this afternoon and the place will be crawling. I need to go to work.”