They walked as a group to the Marchbanks House, four long blocks from the store. Noelle, who had sort of enjoyed the first five hundred or so book signings but had long since stopped attending them, was fussing around the kitchen and veranda, waiting for her guests. All went straight to the bar, where Bruce and Noelle fixed drinks. Andy Adam finished another diet soda, gave Mercer a hug, and drifted away. After a round or two, Noelle called them to order and got them seated.

For a second, Bruce flashed back to last August when his little literary mafia had gathered at the same table. It was their last gathering before Leo, and his friend Nelson Kerr sat right over there to his left and seemed to enjoy the evening. Twenty-four hours later he would be dead.

It was Mercer’s day and all talk revolved around her, though she was weary of the attention. Salads were served, wine was poured. The spring air turned chilly and Bruce lit an outdoor heater. Hours passed as everyone seemed to talk at once.

After dessert, Bruce abruptly stood and reached for Noelle. As they held hands, he said, “Attention please. I have an important announcement. Tomorrow evening at exactly six p.m., you are invited to a wedding on the beach. Your attendance is not voluntary, but rather mandatory.”

“Who the hell’s getting married?” Myra blurted.

“We are.”

“It’s about time.”

“Hang on. You see, many years ago Noelle and I got married in the South of France. We were in a small, rustic village near Avignon, and we walked into this gorgeous little church that was five hundred years old. The place was so beautiful, so awe-inspiring, that we decided, on the spot, to get married there. So we did. No priest, no paperwork. Nothing official. We made up some vows and declared ourselves husband and wife. So for the past twenty years we’ve been—”

“Living in sin,” Myra blurted.

“Something like that. Thank you. And so now we have some paperwork, and we’ll have a real minister, and we’ll do it the right way. We will pledge our everlasting love, and faithfulness, to each other.”

The word “faithfulness” stunned them. Their jaws dropped and a couple actually gasped. Was the open marriage finally coming to a close? Was Bruce Cable, playboy extraordinaire and legendary stalker of lonely female authors on tour, finally growing up? Was Noelle finished with her French-style affairs across the ocean?

Myra, on a roll and fairly well liquored-up, asked, “Did you say ‘faithfulness’?” The others laughed nervously as they breathed again.

“I did.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Now, Myra,” Leigh chided.

Bob Cobb looked at Myra and cut his throat with an index finger. Shut up!

She did.

“We expect you all to be there. On the beach, so shoes are optional. No gifts, please.”

7.

The caterer pitched a party tent not far from the Main Pier, which had been rebuilt and christened with a ribbon cutting only a week earlier. Half the island turned out for the party, and politicians spoke for hours. The new pier was a welcome symbol that the famous twelve-mile stretch of open and wide sand was now clean and ready for a new future.

Under the tent, two clerks from the store, earning double time, poured champagne while soft jazz emanated from hidden speakers. Two waiters circulated with trays of fresh raw oysters and marinated shrimp on skewers. There were about fifty in attendance and everyone felt honored to be included. All friends, no family. Noelle’s parents had divorced years earlier and didn’t speak. Bruce’s father was dead and his mother lived in Atlanta, which was not that far away but dealing with her was not worth the trouble. He was somewhat friendly with his sister but she was too busy for an impromptu wedding.

Noelle was stunning in a white linen pantsuit with the cuffs rolled halfway up to the knees. Bruce, true to form, wore a brand-new white seersucker suit with shorts instead of pants. No shoes for either. At 6:30, as the sun began to fade, they gathered in a semicircle at the water’s edge. The officiant was a young Presbyterian minister from the island who had worked in the store through high school. In bare feet, he welcomed the friends and offered a prayer, followed by a verse from Second Timothy. Bruce and Noelle exchanged vows they had written, the crux of which was that they were renewing their love and devotion, and basically dedicating themselves to a new lifestyle, one in which they were completely committed to each other.

It was over in fifteen minutes, and, once pronounced husband and wife, Bruce pulled out a sheet of paper, the marriage certificate, for all to see as proof that this time they were properly hitched.

The wedding party then returned to the tent for more champagne and oysters.

8.

The second yellow envelope arrived with Tuesday’s mail. Bruce stared at it for a long time. No return. A preprinted mailing label was addressed to him at the store. And, remarkably, a postmark dated yesterday from the Santa Rosa post office across the street.

“So he was here,” Bruce said under his breath. “And probably in the store.”

He thought about taking a quick photo of the envelope, but then changed his mind. Everything was hackable, right? If the bad guys were watching and listening with sophistication far beyond his comprehension, then why couldn’t they steal his photos?

He slowly opened the envelope and removed one folded sheet of paper, the same color yellow. The typed message read: