But Tessa was gone now, and Mercer had seen enough sunrises. She slept until after nine and reluctantly got out of bed. As the coffee brewed, she roamed around the cottage in search of the perfect writing space and didn’t find one. She felt no pressure and was determined to write only if she had something to say. Her novel was three years past due anyway. If they could wait for three years in New York, then they could certainly handle four. Her agent checked in occasionally, but with less frequency. Their conversations were brief. During her long drives from Chapel Hill to Memphis to Florida, she had loafed and dreamed and plotted and at times felt as though her novel was finding its voice. She planned to toss the scraps that she’d already written and start over, but this time with a serious new beginning. Now that she was no longer in debt, and no longer worried about the next job, her mind was wonderfully uncluttered with the nagging irritations of everyday life. Once she was settled and rested, she would plunge into her work and average at least a thousand words a day.

But for her current job, the one for which she was being handsomely paid, she had no idea what she was doing, and no idea how long it might take to do whatever she was supposed to do, so she decided there was no benefit in wasting a day. She went online and checked her e-mails. Not surprisingly, ever-efficient Elaine had dropped a note during the night with some useful addresses.

Mercer typed an e-mail to the Queen Bee: “Dear Myra Beckwith. I’m Mercer Mann, a novelist house-sitting on the beach for a few months while I work on a book. I know virtually no one here and so I’m taking a chance by saying hello and suggesting we—you, Ms. Trane, me—get together for a drink. I’ll bring a bottle of wine.”

At ten on the dot, the doorbell rang. When Mercer opened the front door an unmarked box was on the porch but there was no delivery guy in sight. She took it to the kitchen table, where she opened and unpacked it. As promised, there were the four large picture books by Noelle Bonnet, three novels by Serena Roach, the rather slim literary edition by Leigh Trane, and half a dozen romance novels with artwork that fairly sizzled. All manner of skin was being groped by gorgeous young maidens and their handsome lovers with impossibly flat stomachs. Each was by a different author, though all were written by Myra Beckwith. She would save those for later.

Nothing she saw inspired her to pursue her own novel.

She ate some granola as she flipped through Noelle’s book about the Marchbanks House.

At 10:37 her cell phone buzzed, caller unknown. She barely said “Hello” before a frantic, high-pitched voice declared, “We don’t drink wine. I do beer and Leigh prefers rum, and the cabinet’s stocked full so you don’t have to bring your own bottle. Welcome to the island. This is Myra.”