“Don’t think so. I can remember visiting the store a few times when I was a kid, but I can’t say that I met him.”

Myra said, “When it comes to books and writers, everything revolves around the store. Thus, everything revolves around Bruce. He’s the Man.”

“And this is a good thing?”

“Oh, we adore Bruce. He has the greatest bookstore in the country and he loves writers. Years ago, before we moved here and back when I was writing and publishing, he invited me to a book signing at his store. It’s a bit unusual for a serious bookstore to host a romance writer, but Bruce didn’t care. We had a helluva party, sold a bunch of books, got drunk on cheap champagne, and kept the store open until midnight. Hell, he even had a book signing for Leigh.”

“Now, Myra.”

“It’s true, and she sold fourteen books.”

“Fifteen. My biggest signing ever.”

“My record is five,” Mercer said. “And that was my first signing. Sold four at the next, then zero at the third. After that I called New York and canceled everything.”

“Go, girl,” Myra said. “You quit?”

“I did, and if I ever publish again I will not go on tour.”

“Why didn’t you come here, to Bay Books?”

“It was on the schedule, but I freaked out and pulled the plug.”

“You should’ve started here. Bruce can always drum up a crowd. Hell, he calls us all the time, says there’s a writer coming in and we might really like his or her book. That means get our butts down to the store for the signing and buy the damned book! We never miss.”

“And we have a lot of books, all signed by the authors and most unread,” Leigh added.

“Have you been to the store?” Myra asked.

“I stopped by on the way here. It’s lovely.”

“It’s civilization, an oasis. Let’s meet there for lunch and I’ll introduce you to Bruce. You’ll like him and I can assure you he’ll fancy you. He loves all writers, but the young pretty females get special attention.”

“Is he married?”

“Oh yes. His wife is Noelle and she’s usually around. A real character.”

“I like her,” Leigh said, almost defensively, as if most people felt otherwise.

“What does she do?” Mercer asked as innocently as possible.

“She sells French antiques, next door to the bookstore,” Myra said. “Who needs another drink?”

Mercer and Leigh had hardly touched their drinks. Myra stomped away to refill her fruit jar. At least three dogs followed her. Leigh lit another cigarette and asked, “So tell me about your novel, your work in progress.”

Mercer took a sip of warm Chablis and said, “I really can’t talk about it. It’s a little rule I have. I hate to hear writers talk about their work, don’t you?”

“I suppose. I’d love to discuss my work but she won’t listen. It seems as though talking about your work would motivate you to actually write. Me, I’ve had writer’s block for the past eight years.” She chuckled and took a quick puff. “But then she’s not much help. I’m almost afraid to write because of her.”