Mercer had studied all four of Noelle’s books and easily identified the furniture and furnishings. She was admiring the writer’s table when Noelle entered the room and said, “Well, hello, Mercer. What a nice surprise.” She greeted her with the casual French salute of obligatory pecks on both cheeks.

“This place is gorgeous,” Mercer said, almost in awe.

“Welcome to Provence. What brings you here?”

“Oh, nothing. Just browsing. I love this table,” she said, touching the writer’s table. There were at least three featured in her books.

“I found it in a market in the village of Bonnieux, near Avignon. You should have it. It’s perfect for what you do.”

“I need to sell some books first.”

“Come on. I’ll show you around.” She took Mercer’s hand and led her from one room to the next, all filled with furnishings straight from her books. They climbed an elegant staircase of white stone steps and wrought-iron handrails to the second floor, where Noelle modestly showed off her inventory—more armoires and beds and dressers and tables, each with a story. She spoke so affectionately of her collection that she seemed reluctant to part with any of it. Mercer noted that not a single piece on the second floor had a price tag.

Noelle had a small office downstairs in the rear of the store, and beside its door was a small flip-top wine-tasting table. As she described it, Mercer wondered if all French tables were used for wine tasting. “Let’s have some tea,” Noelle said and pointed to a chair at the table. Mercer took a seat and they chatted as Noelle boiled water on a small stove next to a marble sink.

“I adore that writer’s table,” Mercer said. “But I’m afraid to ask its price.”

Noelle smiled and said, “For you, dear, it has a special price. For anyone else it’s three thousand, but you can have it for half of that.”

“That’s still a stretch. Let me think about it.”

“Where are you writing now?”

“At a small breakfast table in the kitchen, with a view of the ocean, but it’s not working. I’m not sure if it’s the table or the ocean, but the words are not coming.”

“What’s the book about?”

“I’m not sure. I’m trying to start a new one but it’s not going too well.”

“I just finished October Rain and think it’s brilliant.”

“You’re very kind.” Mercer was touched. Since coming to the island she had now met three people who spoke highly of her first novel, more encouragement than she had received in the past five years.

Noelle placed a porcelain tea service on the table and deftly poured boiling water into matching cups. Both added a cube of sugar but no milk, and as they stirred Noelle asked, “Do you talk about your work? I ask because most writers talk too much about what they’ve written or want to write, but a few find it difficult for some reason.”

“I prefer not to, especially about what I’m doing now. My first novel feels old and dated, like I wrote it many years ago. In many ways, it’s a curse to get published so young. Expectations are high, the pressure is on, the literary world is waiting for some great body of work. Then a few years pass and there’s no book. The promising star is slowly forgotten. After October Rain, my first agent advised me to hurry up and publish my second novel. She said that since the critics loved my first one they would certainly hate my second, whatever it was, so go ahead and get the sophomore jinx over with. Probably good advice, but the problem was I didn’t have a second novel. I guess I’m still searching.”