“How’s his book?” Mercer asked.

“I skimmed a lot. Too much technical stuff, too much of the writer showing off how much he knows about technology and gadgets and the dark web. I put it down several times.”

“Well, I’m damned sure not picking it up,” Myra said with a laugh. “And, to be honest, I was not looking forward to dinner.”

Leigh leaned in and looked at Mercer. “Dear, don’t ever turn your back on this crowd.”

Noelle said, “Well, now that you’re okay with dinner, let’s eat.”

In a wide rear hallway, somewhere between the veranda and the kitchen, Noelle had decorated her table, a dark, round wooden piece that looked oddly contemporary. Everything else was old, from the mutton-bone chairs to the fine French flatware and large earthen plates. Again, it looked like something lifted straight from one of her books, a setting that was almost too pretty to disturb with a meal.

As they took their places and refilled their glasses, Mercer said, “Noelle, I think I want to buy that writer’s table.”

“Oh, it’s yours. I had to put a sold sign on it because so many folks have been trying to buy it.”

“It may take some time to get the money straight, but I must have it.”

“And you think that’s going to cure your writer’s block?” Myra asked. “An old table from France?”

“Who said I had writer’s block?” Mercer asked.

“Well, what do you call it then when you can’t think of anything to write?”

“How about a ‘drought’?”

“Bruce? You’re the expert.”

Bruce was holding the large salad bowl as Leigh took a serving. He said, “ ‘Block’ sounds too severe. I think I prefer ‘drought.’ But, who am I? Y’all are the wordsmiths.”

Myra laughed for no apparent reason and blurted, “Leigh, remember the time we wrote three books in a month? We had this slimeball publisher who wouldn’t pay us, and so our agent said we couldn’t jump to another house because we owed the guy three books. So Leigh and I came up with three of the worst plots ever, really ridiculous stuff, and I banged the typewriter ten hours a day for thirty straight days.”

“But we had a great one in the wings,” Leigh said, passing along the salad bowl.

Myra said, “Right, right. We had the best idea ever for a semi-serious novel, but we were not about to give it to our jackass publisher. We had to get out of his lousy contract so we could snag a better house, one that would appreciate the genius behind our great idea. That part of it worked. Two years later, the three awful books were still selling like crazy while the great novel flopped. Go figure.”

Mercer said, “I think I might want to paint it, though, the writer’s table.”

“We’ll look at some colors,” Noelle said. “And make it perfect for the cottage.”

“Have you seen the cottage?” Myra asked in mock surprise. “We haven’t seen the cottage. When do we see the cottage?”