“I might use the story,” Andy said and everyone laughed.

“Well, you damned sure need a good story. Did you make your deadline?”

“Yes, I’ve sent it in and they’ve already sent it back. Structural problems.”

“Same as your last book, but they published it anyway.”

“And a good move on their part. They couldn’t print ’em fast enough.”

“Now, boys,” Myra said. “You’re breaking the first rule. No talking about your own books.”

“This could go on all night,” Bruce whispered to Mercer, just loud enough for the rest to hear. She loved the bantering, as they all did. She had never been with a group of writers so eager to jab each other, but all in fun.

Amy, whose cheeks were red from the wine, said, “What if the kid from prison is really a vampire?” The table erupted with even more laughter.

Cobb quickly replied, “Hey, I hadn’t thought about that. We could start a new series about vampires in prison. I like it. You want to collaborate?”

Amy said, “I’ll get my agent to call your agent, see if they can work something out.”

With perfect timing Leigh said, “And you wonder why books are declining.” When the laughter died, Cobb said, “Once again shot down by the literary mafia.”

Things were quieter for a few minutes as they worked on dinner. Cobb started chuckling and said, “Structural problems. What does that mean?”

“Means the plot sucks, which it does. I never really felt that good about it, frankly.”

“You could always self-publish it, you know. Bruce will put it on that folding card table in the back of the store, his own slush pile.”

Bruce replied, “Please. That table is full.”

Myra changed the subject by asking, “So, Mercer, you’ve been here a few days. Can we ask how the writing is going?”

“That’s a bad question,” Mercer replied with a smile.

“Are you trying to finish a book, or start one?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “The current one will probably get tossed, then I’ll start a new one. I’m still undecided.”

“Well, if you need any advice whatsoever, about any aspect of writing or publishing, or romance or relationships, food, wine, travel, politics, anything under the sun, you’ve come to the right place. Just look around this table. Experts everywhere.”

“So I gather.”

5.

At midnight, Mercer was sitting on the bottom step of the boardwalk, her bare feet in the sand, the waves rolling in. She would never tire of the sound of the ocean, the gentle breaking of the waves with a calm sea, or the crashing surf in a storm. Tonight there was no wind and the tide was low. A lone figure walked south in the distance, at the edge of the water.

She was still amused by the dinner and tried to remember as much as possible. The more she thought the more astonishing it became. A room filled with writers, with their insecurities and egos and jealousies, and with wine flowing, and not a single argument, not even a harsh word. The popular authors—Amy, Cobb, and Andy—longed for critical acclaim, while the literary ones—Leigh, Jay, and Mercer—longed for greater royalties. Myra didn’t give a damn one way or the other. Bruce and Noelle were content to stay in the middle and encourage them all.