“Come on, Mercer. You live in a world of fiction. Create some more.”

“The fiction is not going too well these days.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Mercer shrugged and took a sip of water. She stared at the books as her mind raced through various scenarios. Finally, she asked, “What can go wrong?”

“I suppose Cable could contact the library in Memphis and snoop around, but it’s a big system and he’d get nowhere. Thirty years have gone by and everything has changed. They lose about a thousand books a year to folks who simply don’t return them, and, being a typical library, they have no real interest in tracking them down. Plus, Tessa checked out a lot of books.”

“We went to the library every week.”

“The story holds together. He’ll have no way of knowing the truth.”

Mercer picked up Lonesome Dove and asked, “What if he spots this forged dust jacket?”

“We’ve thought about that and we’re not sure we’ll use it. Last week we showed the book to a couple of old dealers, guys who’ve seen it all, and neither spotted the forgery. But you’re right. It could be a risk we decide not to take. Start with the first two, but make him wait. Drag it out as you struggle with what’s right and fair. It’s a moral dilemma for you and let’s see what kind of advice he gives.”

Mercer left with the books in a canvas bag and returned to the beach. The ocean was still and at low tide. A full moon lightened the sand. As she walked she heard voices that slowly grew louder. To her left and halfway to the dunes she saw two young lovers frolicking on a beach towel, their whispered words punctuated by sighs and groans of erotic pleasure. She almost stopped to watch until it was over, until the final heave and thrust, but she managed to move on, absorbing it all as much as possible as she ambled along.

She was consumed with envy. How long had it been?

5.

The second new novel came to an abrupt end after only five thousand words and three chapters, because by then Mercer was already tired of her characters and bored with her plot. Frustrated, depressed, even a bit angry with herself and the entire process, she put on a bikini, the skimpiest one in her growing collection, and went to the beach. It was only 10:00 a.m., but she had learned to avoid the midday sun. From noon until around five it was simply too hot to be outside, whether in the water or not. Her skin was now tanned enough and she worried about too much exposure. Ten o’clock was also about the time that the jogger came by, a stranger about her age. He ran barefoot at the edge of the water, his tall lean frame glistening with sweat. He was obviously an athlete, with a seriously flat stomach and perfect biceps and calves. He ran with an easy, fluid grace, and, she told herself, he seemed to slow just a little as she came into view. They had made eye contact on at least two occasions the previous week, and Mercer was convinced they were ready for the first hello.