He smiled and said, “That’s why I’m here. That’s what I wanted.”

“An apology?”

“Yes. And I accept it. No hard feelings.”

“You’re awfully magnanimous.”

“I can afford to be,” he said and both chuckled.

“Why did you do it, Bruce? I mean, looking back, it was worth it, but at the time it was incredibly risky.”

“It wasn’t planned, believe me. I’ve bought and sold a few rare books on the black market. I guess those days are over now, but at the time I was just minding my own business when I got a call. One thing led to another and the plot gained momentum. I saw an opportunity, decided to seize it, and in short order I had possession. But I was in the dark and I had no idea how close the bad guys were until you came along. Once I realized I had a spy in the house, I had to make a move. You made it happen, Mercer.”

“Are you trying to thank me?”

“Yes. You have my sincerest gratitude.”

“Don’t mention it. As we know, I’m a lousy spy.”

Both were enjoying the conversation as they took another sip. She said, “I gotta tell you, Bruce, when I read that the manuscripts were back at Princeton, I had a good laugh. I felt sort of foolish, to get played like that, but I also said, ‘Go, Bruce.’ ”

“It was quite the adventure, but I’m one and done.”

“I doubt that.”

“I swear. Look, Mercer, I want you to come back to the island. The place means a lot to you. The cottage, the beach, the friends, the bookstore, Noelle and me. The door is always open.”

“If you say so. How’s Andy? I think about him all the time.”

“Sober, and fiercely so. He attends AA twice a week and is writing like a madman.”

“That’s wonderful news.”

“Myra and I were talking about you last week. There were questions about your abrupt departure, but no one has a clue. You belong there and I want you to feel free to come see us. Finish your novel and we’ll throw a huge party.”

“That’s very gracious, Bruce, but with you I’ll always be suspicious. I might go back, but no more fooling around.”

He squeezed her hand, stood, and said, “We’ll see.” He kissed her on the top of her head and said, “Good-bye for now.”

She watched him ease between the tables and leave the coffeehouse.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Allow me to apologize to Princeton University. If its website is accurate, and I have no reason to believe it is not, then the original handwritten manuscripts of F. Scott Fitzgerald are indeed housed in the Firestone Library. I have no firsthand knowledge of this. I have never seen that library, and I certainly stayed away from it while writing this novel. As far as I’m concerned, these manuscripts could be in the basement, the attic, or a secret tomb with armed guards. I made no effort at accuracy in this regard, primarily because I want no part of inspiring some misguided soul to get any felonious ideas.