“Me?”

“Yes, you. As you know, writers often take sabbaticals and go away to do their work. You have the perfect cover. You practically grew up on the island. You still have an ownership interest in the cottage. You have the literary reputation. Your story is completely plausible. You’re back at the beach for six months to finish the book everybody has been waiting for.”

“I can think of perhaps three people who might be waiting for it.”

“We’ll pay a hundred thousand dollars for the six months.”

For a moment Mercer was speechless. She shook her head, pushed her salad farther away, and took a sip of water. “I’m sorry but I’m not a spy.”

“And we’re not asking you to spy, only to observe. You’re doing something that is completely natural and believable. Cable loves writers. He wines them and dines them, supports them. Many of the touring authors stay at his home, and it is spectacular, by the way. He and his wife enjoy hosting long dinners with their friends and writers.”

“And I’m supposed to waltz right in, gain his confidence, and ask him where he’s hiding the Fitzgerald manuscripts.”

Elaine smiled and let it pass. “We’re under a lot of pressure, okay? I have no idea what you might learn, but at this point anything could be helpful. There’s a good chance Cable and his wife will reach out to you, perhaps even befriend you. You could slowly work your way into their inner circle. He also drinks a lot. Maybe he’ll let something slip; maybe one of his friends will mention the vault in the basement below the store.”

“A vault?”

“Just a rumor, that’s all. But we can’t exactly pop in and ask him about it.”

“How do you know he drinks too much?”

“A lot of writers pass through and, evidently, writers are horrible gossips. Word gets around. As you know, publishing is a very small world.”

Mercer raised both hands, showed both her palms, and slid her chair back. “I’m sorry. This is not for me. I have my faults, but I am not a deceitful person. I have trouble lying and there’s no way I could fake my way through something like this. You have the wrong person.”

“Please.”

Mercer stood as if to leave and said, “Thanks for lunch.”

“Please, Mercer.”

But she was gone.

2.

At some point during the abbreviated lunch, the sun disappeared and the wind picked up. A spring shower was on the way, and Mercer, always without an umbrella, walked home as fast as possible. She lived half a mile away, in the historic section of Chapel Hill, near the campus, in a small rental house on a shaded, unpaved alley behind a fine old home. Her landlord, the owner of the old home, rented only to grad students and starving, untenured professors.

With perfect timing, she stepped onto her narrow front porch just as the first drops of rain landed hard on her tin roof. She couldn’t help but glance around, just to make sure no one was watching. Who were those people? Forget about it, she told herself. Inside, she kicked off her shoes, made a cup of tea, and for a long time sat on the sofa, taking deep breaths and listening to the music of the rain while replaying the conversation over lunch.