Somewhere in the depths of the house Myra yelled again. A much smaller woman emerged from the dining room and said softly, “Hello, I’m Leigh Trane,” without offering a hand.
“A pleasure. I’m Mercer Mann.”
“I’m loving your book,” Leigh said with a smile that revealed two perfect rows of tobacco-stained teeth. Mercer had not heard anyone say that in a long time. She hesitated and managed an awkward “Well, thank you.”
“Bought a copy two hours ago, from the store, a real book. Myra is addicted to her little device and reads everything on it.”
For a second Mercer felt obligated to lie and say something nice about Leigh’s book, but Myra saved her the trouble. She lumbered back into the foyer and said, “There you are. Now that we’re all good friends, the bar is open and I need a drink. Mercer, what would you like?”
Since they didn’t drink wine, she said, “It’s hot. I’ll take a beer.”
Both women recoiled as if offended. Myra said, “Well, okay, but you should know that I brew my own beer, and it’s different.”
“It’s dreadful,” Leigh added. “I used to like beer before she started her own brewery. Now I can’t stand the stuff.”
“Just gulp your rum, sweetheart, and we’ll get along fine.” Myra looked at Mercer and said, “It’s a spicy ale that’s 8 percent alcohol. Knock you on your ass if you’re not careful.”
“Why are we still standing in the foyer?” Leigh asked.
“Damned good question,” Myra said, flinging an arm toward the stairway. “Come with me.” From behind she looked like an offensive tackle as she cleared the hallway. They followed in her wake and stopped in a family room with a television and fireplace and, in one corner, a full bar with a marble counter.
“We do have wine,” Leigh said.
“Then I’ll have some white wine,” Mercer said. Anything but the home brew.
Myra went to work behind the bar and began firing questions. “So, where are you staying?”
“I don’t suppose you remember my grandmother Tessa Magruder. She lived in a little beach house on Fernando Street.”
Both women shook their heads. No. “Name sorta rings a bell,” Myra said.
“She passed away eleven years ago.”
“We’ve been here for only ten years,” Leigh said.
Mercer said, “The family still owns the cottage and that’s where I’m staying.”
“For how long?” Myra asked.
“A few months.”
“Trying to finish a book, right?”
“Or to start one.”
“Aren’t we all?” Leigh asked.
“Got one under contract?” Myra asked, rattling bottles.
“Afraid so.”
“Be thankful for that. Who’s your publisher?”
“Viking.”
Myra waddled out from behind the bar and handed drinks to Mercer and Leigh. She grabbed a quart-sized fruit jar of thick ale and said, “Let’s go outside so we can smoke.” It was obvious that they had been smoking inside for years.
They walked across a plank deck and settled around a pretty wrought-iron table next to a fountain where a pair of bronze frogs spewed water. Old sweet gum trees blanketed the courtyard with a thick layer of shade, and from somewhere a gentle breeze settled in. The door off the porch didn’t latch and the dogs came and went as they pleased.
“This is lovely,” Mercer said as both hosts fired up cigarettes. Leigh’s was long and skinny. Myra’s was brown and potent.
“Sorry about the smoke,” Myra said, “but we’re addicted, can’t stop. Once, long ago, we tried to quit, but those days are history. So much work, effort, misery, and finally we said to hell with it. Gotta die of something, you know.” She took a long pull from her cigarette, inhaled, exhaled, then washed it all down with a slug of homemade ale. “You want a drink? Come on, try it.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Leigh said.
Mercer quickly sipped her wine and shook her head. “No thanks.”
“This cottage, you say it’s been in the family?” Myra asked. “Been coming here for a long time?”
“Yes, since I was a little girl. I spent the summers here with my grandmother Tessa.”
“How sweet. I like that.” Another slurp of the ale. Myra’s head was peeled about an inch above her ears so that her gray hair flopped from side to side when she drank, smoked, and talked. She was completely gray and about Leigh’s age. Leigh, though, had long dark hair that was pulled back into a tight ponytail and showing no gray.
Both seemed ready to pounce with questions, so Mercer took the offensive. “What brought you to Camino Island?”
They looked at each other as if the story was long and complicated. Myra said, “We lived in the Fort Lauderdale area for many years and got tired of the traffic and crowds. The pace of life here is much slower. People are nicer. Real estate is cheaper. And you? Where’s home for you these days?”
“I’ve been in Chapel Hill for the past three years, teaching. But now I’m sort of in transition.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Myra asked.
“Means I’m basically homeless and unemployed and desperate to finish a book.”
Leigh cackled and Myra guffawed as smoke streamed from their noses. “We’ve been there,” Myra said. “We met thirty years ago when neither one of us had two pennies to rub together. I was trying to write historical fiction and Leigh was trying to write that weird literary shit she’s still trying to write and nothing was selling. We were on welfare and food stamps and working for minimum wage, and, well, things were not looking too good. One day we were walking down a mall and saw a long line of people, all middle-aged women, waiting for something. Up ahead was a bookstore, one of those Walden bookshops used to be in every mall, and sitting at a table having a grand time was Roberta Doley, back then one of the bestselling romance gals in the business. I got in line — Leigh was too much of a snob — bought the book and we made each other read it. The story was about a pirate who roamed the Caribbean raiding ships and raising hell and running from the Brits, and it just so happened that everywhere he docked there was a gorgeous young virgin just waiting to be deflowered. Total crap. So we conjured up this story about a southern belle who couldn’t stay away from her slaves and got herself pregnant. We threw everything at it.”
Leigh added, “Had to buy some dirty magazines, you know, for reference materials. A lot of that stuff we didn’t know about.”
Myra laughed and continued. “We knocked it out in three months and I reluctantly sent it to my agent in New York. A week later she called and said some idiot was offering fifty grand as an advance. We published it under the name of Myra Leigh. Isn’t that clever? Within a year we had a pile of cash and never looked back.”
“So you write together?” Mercer asked.
“She writes it,” Leigh said quickly, as if to distance herself. “We work on the story together, which takes about ten minutes, then she grinds it out. Or we used to.”
“Leigh’s too much of a snob to touch it. She’ll damned sure touch the money, though.”
“Now, Myra,” Leigh said with a smile.
Myra sucked in a lungful and blew a cloud over her shoulder. “Those were the days. We cranked out a hundred books under a dozen names and couldn’t write ’em fast enough. The dirtier the better. You should try one. Pure filth.”
“I can’t wait,” Mercer said.
“Please don’t,” Leigh said. “You’re much too smart for it. I love your writing.”
Mercer was touched and quietly said, “Thank you.”
“Then we slowed down,” Myra continued. “We got sued twice by this crazy bitch up north who claimed we had stolen her stuff. Wasn’t true. Our crap was much better than her crap, but our lawyers got nervous and made us settle out of court. That led to a big fight with our publisher, then our agent, and the whole thing sort of knocked us off our stride. Somehow we got the reputation as thieves, or at least I did. Leigh did a good job of hiding behind me and dodging all the mud. Her literary reputation is still intact, such as it is.”