At 7:30, Chef Claude informed Bruce that it was time to eat. Andy whispered to his host and eased away without another word. Sobriety was difficult enough during dry evenings. He wasn’t tempted to drink, but the last thing he wanted was a three-hour dinner with wine flowing.

Bruce pointed to chairs and got them seated properly. He sat at one end and Mercer, the guest of honor, had the other, with Thomas to her right. There were eleven in all, the literary mafia of Camino Island plus Nick Sutton. Bruce passed along best wishes from Noelle, who hated to miss the fun but was with them in spirit. Everyone knew she was off in Europe with her steady French boyfriend and no one was surprised. They had long ago accepted the open marriage and no one cared. If Bruce and Noelle were happy, their friends were not about to question the arrangement.

Bruce had never liked by-the-hour servers buzzing around his table and eavesdropping on the conversations, so he didn’t use them. He and Claude poured the wine and water and served the first appetizer course, a small bowl of spicy gumbo.

“It’s too hot for gumbo,” Myra growled mid-table. “I’ll be soaked.”

“Cold wine always helps,” Bruce shot back.

“What’s the main course?” she asked.

“Everything’s spicy.”

Bob Cobb said, “So, Mercer, last stop on the tour, right? And I loved the book, by the way.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Yes, the last stop.”

“Coast to coast?”

“Yes, thirty-three stops. Tomorrow is thirty-four.”

“You’ll have a huge crowd tomorrow, Mercer,” Amy said. “A lot of the locals remember your grandmother and they’re very proud of you.”

“I knew Tessa,” Bruce said. “But, as I look around the table, I believe that no one here was living on the island when she died. What was it, Mercer, twelve years ago?”

“Fourteen.”

Myra said, “We moved here thirteen years ago to get away from a bunch of writers. Look what’s happened. Everyone followed us here.”

Bob said, “And I believe I was next, about ten years ago, right after I got paroled.”

“Please, Bob,” Myra snapped. “No more prison stories. After your last book I felt like I’d been gang-raped.”

“Now Myra.”

“So you liked it?” Bob asked.

“Loved it.”

“Anyway,” Bruce said loudly. “I’d like to propose a toast to, first of all, Mr. Leo. May he remain at sea and just go away. And, more importantly, to our dear friend Mercer and her wonderful new book, number five on the big list and rising. Cheers!”

They clinked glasses and took a drink.

“I have a question, Mercer,” Leigh said. “Did your grandmother, the real Tessa, really have a steamy romance with a younger man, here on the island?”

“That was the best part,” Myra interjected quickly. “That first seduction scene made my teeth sweat. Really well done, girl.”

“Thanks, Myra,” Mercer said. “Coming from you, that’s quite a compliment.”

“Don’t mention it. Of course I would’ve gone way overboard.”

“Now Myra.”

“But yes, once I was old enough to realize what was going on, I suspected Tessa spent a lot of time with the younger man when I wasn’t around.”

“And that was Porter, in real life?” Leigh asked.

“Yes. Porter lived here for many years. Fourteen years ago they died together in a storm.”

“I remember Porter, and the storm,” Bruce said. “It was one of the worst we’ve seen on the island, short of a hurricane.”

“Who’s talking about hurricanes?” Amy asked.

“Sorry. We’ve had our share of glancing blows but nothing terrible. The storm that got Tessa and Porter was an old-fashioned summer heat cell that came from the north with no warning.”

“And where was Tessa?” Amy asked. “I’m sorry, Mercer, if you don’t want to talk about this.”

“No, it’s fine. Tessa and Porter were not far out, just a lazy summer’s day in his sailboat. Porter and the boat were never seen again. Tessa was found in the surf near the North Pier two days later.”

Myra said, “Well, thank God you didn’t kill her off in your novel. I certainly would have.”

“You killed everyone, Myra,” Leigh said. “After you ran them through the sex grinder.”

“Murder sells, Leigh, almost as much as sex. Remember that when those royalty checks arrive.”

“So what’s next, Mercer?” Bob Cobb asked.

She smiled at Thomas and said, “Rest for a couple of weeks, though I’m already being hounded by Thomas and Bruce to start another novel.”

“I need something to sell,” Bruce said.

“So do I,” added Leigh, for a laugh.

Jay, the brooding poet, said, “My last book sold twenty copies. No one reads poetry.” As always, it was an awkward effort at humor and got a sympathetic laugh or two.

Myra almost blurted something like: And no one can read the crap you write. But instead she said, “I’ve told you before, Jay, you should write some really raunchy fiction under a pen name, make some money, like Bob, and do your little poetry thing as the real you. Still won’t sell, though.”