“You plan to get closer?”
“We’ll see.”
“He’s lying about his marriage.”
“True. He always refers to Noelle as his wife. I’m assuming you’re correct when you say they are not really married.”
“I’ve told you all we know. There are no records in France or here of them applying for or obtaining a marriage license. I suppose they could’ve gotten married in some other country, but that’s not their story.”
“I don’t know how close we’ll get and I’m not sure it can be planned. My point is that I think I know him well enough to detect any skepticism.”
“Then stick with his novel. It will give you the chance to talk about Fitzgerald. It’s even a good idea to write the first chapter and let him read it. Can you do that?”
“Oh, sure. It’s all fiction. Nothing in my life is real these days.”
7.
Bruce’s next effort was just as casual as his last, but it worked. He called Mercer Thursday afternoon and said that Mort Gasper, the legendary publisher of Ripley Press, was in town, passing through with his latest wife. Gasper came to the island almost every summer and stayed with Bruce and Noelle. It would be a small dinner, just the four of them, late on Friday, a pleasant way to end the week.
After a few days at the bed-and-breakfast, Mercer was claustrophobic and eager to escape. She was desperate to get her cottage back and counting the days until Connie and her gang went home. To keep from writing, Mercer was walking the beach at all hours, careful to stay miles away from the cottage and keeping a sharp eye for anyone who might be related to her.
And meeting Mort Gasper might one day help her waning career. Thirty years ago he had bought Ripley for peanuts and turned the sleepy and unprofitable little house into a major publisher, one that remained defiantly independent. With a brilliant eye for talent, he had collected and promoted a stable of writers known for their diverse literary aspirations, as well as their ability to sell books. A throwback to the golden age of publishing, Mort clung to his traditions of three-hour lunches and late night launch parties at his Upper West Side apartment. He was without a doubt the most colorful figure in publishing and showed no signs of slowing down, even as he approached seventy.
Friday afternoon, Mercer spent two hours online reading old magazine articles about Mort, none of them remotely boring. One from two years earlier told of a two-million-dollar advance Mort paid to an unknown star with a debut novel that sold ten thousand copies. He had no regrets and called it “a bargain.” One mentioned his latest marriage, to a woman about Mercer’s age. Her name was Phoebe and she was an editor at Ripley.
Phoebe met her at the front door of the Marchbanks House at 8:00 p.m. Friday, and after a pleasant hello warned her that the “boys” were already drinking. As Mercer followed her through the kitchen she heard the humming of a blender. Bruce was concocting lemon daiquiris on the rear porch and had stripped down to shorts and a golf shirt. He pecked Mercer on both cheeks and introduced her to Mort, who greeted her with a fierce hug and contagious smile. He was barefoot and his long shirttail was down to his knees. Bruce handed her a daiquiri and topped off the others, and they sat in wicker chairs around a small table stacked with books and magazines.
It was readily apparent that in situations like this, as in probably all others, Mort was expected to do the talking. This was fine with Mercer. After the third sip she felt a buzz and wondered how much rum Bruce had added to the recipe. Mort was raging about the presidential race and the worrisome state of American politics, a subject Mercer cared little for, but Bruce and Phoebe seemed engaged and managed to offer enough to keep him going.
“Mind if I smoke?” Mort asked of no one in particular as he reached for a leather case on the table. He and Bruce fired up black cigars and a blue fog soon hovered over them. Bruce got the pitcher and did another round of top-offs. During a rare lull in Mort’s monologue, Phoebe managed to inject, “So, Mercer, Bruce says you’re here working on a novel.”
Mercer knew it would be coming at some point during the evening. She smiled and said, “Bruce is being generous. Right now I’m doing more dreaming than working.”
Mort blasted forth a cloud and said, “October Rain was a fine debut. Very impressive. Who published it? I can’t remember.”
With a forgiving smile Mercer said, “Well, Ripley turned it down.”
“Indeed we did, a foolish move, but then that’s publishing. You guess right on some books and wrong on others, all part of the business.”
“It was published by Newcombe, and we had our differences.”
He snorted his disapproval and said, “A bunch of clowns. Didn’t you leave them?”
“Yes. My current contract is with Viking, if I still have a contract. The last time my editor called she informed me I was three years past due.”
Mort roared with laughter and said, “Only three years! To be so lucky. I was yelling at Doug Tannenbaum last week because he was supposed to deliver eight years ago. Writers!”
Phoebe jumped in with “Do you talk about your work?”
Mercer smiled and shook her head. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Who’s your agent?” Mort demanded.
“Gilda Savitch.”
“Love that gal. I had lunch with her last month.”
So glad you approve, Mercer almost said, the rum doing a number. “She didn’t mention my name, did she?”
“I can’t remember. It was a long lunch.” Mort roared again and then gulped his drink. Phoebe asked about Noelle and this occupied them for a few minutes. Mercer noticed there was no activity in the kitchen, no sign of food being prepared. When Mort excused himself for a bathroom break, Bruce went back to the blender for more daiquiris. The girls chatted about the summer and vacations and such. Phoebe and Mort would leave tomorrow and head to the Keys for a month. Publishing was slow in July and thoroughly dormant in August, and, well, since he was the boss they could leave the city for six weeks.
As soon as Mort returned and settled into his chair with his fresh drink and cigar, the doorbell rang and Bruce disappeared. He returned with a large box of carryout and placed it on the table. “The best fish tacos on the island. Grilled grouper caught this morning.”
“You’re serving us take-out tacos?” Mort asked in disbelief. “I don’t believe this. I take you to the finest restaurants in New York and I get this.” As he protested he almost lunged at the tacos.
Bruce said, “The last time we had lunch in the city you took me to that dreadful deli around the corner from your office and my Reuben was so bad I almost puked. And, I picked up the bill.”
“You’re just a bookseller, Bruce,” Mort said, chomping a taco in half. “The writers get the fancy meals. Mercer, next time you’re in the city we’ll do a three-star.”
“A date,” she said, knowing it would never happen. At the rate he was draining his glass, he wouldn’t remember much by morning. Bruce was letting loose too, drinking far more aggressively than anything she had seen so far. Gone were the thoughtful sips of wine, the measured refills, the chatter about the vintage and producer, the complete self-control. Now, with his hair down and his shoes off, hell it was Friday night after a long week and he was breaking bad with a partner in crime.
Mercer was sipping her icy drink and trying to remember how many she’d had. With Bruce continually topping her glass, it was difficult to keep count. She was buzzed and needed to slow down. She ate a taco and looked around for a bottle of water, or maybe even some wine, but there was nothing else on the porch. Only a fresh pitcher of daiquiris, just sitting there waiting on them.