“Go for it,” Mercer said with a smile. The rest nodded. We’re all having fun. Let’s hear it.

Myra crammed in a fork stuffed with lettuce and kept talking. “I mean, you’re a beautiful writer, girl, and some of your sentences just stopped me cold, which, one could argue, is not something a good sentence is supposed to do, but anyway you can write like hell and I think you can write anything. So what’s it gonna be—literary fiction or popular fiction?”

“Can’t it be both?” Bruce asked, thoroughly enjoying the conversation.

“For a handful of authors, right,” Myra replied. “But for the vast majority the answer is no.” She looked at Mercer and said, “This is something we’ve been debating for about ten years, since the first day we met. But, anyway, let’s assume that you will probably not be able to write literary fiction that will slay the critics and also rack up impressive royalties. And by the way, there is no envy here. I don’t write anymore so my career is over. I’m not sure what Leigh is doing these days but she’s damned sure not publishing anything.”

“Now, Myra.”

“So we can safely say her career is over too, and we don’t care. We’re old and we have plenty of money, so there’s no competition. You’re young and gifted and you’ll have a future if you can just figure out what to write. Thus this intervention. We’re just here to help. By the way, this risotto is delicious, Noelle.”

“Am I supposed to respond?” Mercer asked.

“No, it’s an intervention. You’re supposed to sit there and listen to us as we beat you up. Bruce, you go first. What should Mercer write?”

“I would start by asking what you read.”

“Everything by Randy Zalinski,” Mercer said and got a laugh.

“Poor guy’s laid up with a migraine and we’re trashing him over dinner,” Myra said.

“God help us,” Leigh said quietly.

Bruce asked, “What are the last three novels you read?”

Mercer took a sip of wine and thought for a second. “I loved The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah, and I believe it sold well.”

Bruce agreed. “Indeed it did. It’s out in paperback and still selling.”

Myra said, “I liked it, but you can’t make a living writing books about the Holocaust. Besides, Mercer, what do you know about the Holocaust?”

“I didn’t say I wanted to write about it. She’s written twenty books, all different.”

“Not sure it qualifies as literary fiction,” Myra said.

“Are you sure you would recognize it if you saw it?” Leigh asked with a grin.

“Was that a cheap shot, Leigh?”

“Yes.”

Bruce regained control with “Anyway, the other two novels?”

“A Spool of Blue Thread by Anne Tyler, one of my favorites, and LaRose by Louise Erdrich.”

“All girls,” Bruce said.

“Yes, I rarely read books written by men.”

“Interesting, and smart, since about 70 percent of all novels are purchased by women.”

“And all three sell, right?” Noelle asked.