“Searching for what?”

“A story.”

“Most writers say the people come first. Once they are onstage, they somehow find a plot. Not you?”

“Not yet.”

“What inspired October Rain?”

“When I was in college I read a story about a missing child, one who was never found, and what it did to the family. It was an incredibly sad, haunting story, but also beautiful in many ways. I couldn’t forget about it, so I borrowed the story, fictionalized it thoroughly, and wrote the novel in less than a year. That seems hard to believe now, working that fast. Back then I looked forward to every morning, to the first cup of coffee and the next page. It’s not happening now.”

“I’m sure it will. You’re in the perfect place to do nothing but write.”

“We’ll see. Frankly, Noelle, I need to sell some books. I don’t want to teach and I don’t want to find a job. I’ve even thought about writing under a pen name and cranking out mysteries or something that might sell.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. Sell some books and then you can write whatever you want.”

“That plan is slowly taking shape.”

“Have you thought about talking to Bruce?”

“No. Why would I?”

“He knows the business and the art from every angle. He reads everything, knows hundreds of writers and agents and editors, and they often come to him for his insights, not necessarily his advice. He won’t give any, unless he’s asked. He likes you and he admires your work and he would probably say something helpful.”

Mercer shrugged as if the idea might have merit. The front door opened and Noelle said, “Excuse me, but I may have a customer.” She left the table and disappeared. For a few moments, Mercer sipped her tea and felt like a fraud. She wasn’t there to shop for furniture or chat about writing or pretend to be another lonely, troubled author trying to make friends. No, she was there snooping for any scrap of information she could hand over to Elaine, who might one day use it against Noelle and Bruce. A sharp pain hit deep in her bowels as a wave of nausea swept over her. She endured it, waited for it to pass, then stood and steadied herself. She walked to the front of the store, where Noelle was helping a customer who appeared to be serious about a dresser.

“I need to be going,” Mercer said.

“Of course,” Noelle said almost in a whisper. “Bruce and I would love to have you over for dinner soon.”

“How lovely. I’m free for the rest of the summer.”

“I’ll call.”

2.

Later in the afternoon, Noelle was arranging a collection of small ceramic urns when a well-dressed couple in their forties entered the store. Her first glance told her they were far more affluent than the average tourists who dropped in from the street, browsed long enough to understand the prices, then hustled away empty-handed.