Chapter Four The Contract

Gifford’s idea of a book tour was to sail his yacht from its home port near Charleston down to St. Augustine in Florida, then up to the Outer Banks of North Carolina for a stop in the coastal town of Manteo. He liked the bookstore there because it drew crowds when he was in town, and also because its owner was an old girlfriend he was still fond of. He finished a book every three years and usually got a new wife once he turned in a fresh manuscript. He’d had so many, books and wives. They, the exes, came and went because they inevitably got bored living on a boat in Charleston’s harbor.

On each tour he visited the same thirteen bookstores and was never in a hurry. His signings went on for hours as his fans waited patiently for a word and an autograph. The exploits of his protagonist, Bake Boudreau, had been entertaining readers for over twenty years and Gifford couldn’t write fast enough. Not for his fans, anyway. However, his pace suited him perfectly since he could hammer one out in six months, then travel and play golf the rest of the year. Truth was, he was quite lazy and needed plenty of down time between tours.

He was a son of the Low Country. He spoke the language and knew the culture and cared deeply about its preservation. A lot of his money was spent fighting those who wanted to disrupt his land. He held a passionate hatred of developers. He gave speeches, wrote op-ed pieces and nice checks, and in doing so managed to attract a lot of attention for himself. He even funded a documentary film about the fight to protect a swamp in Georgia. In it, he made his acting debut and loved being on camera. Like most documentaries, it was an hour too long and failed to find an audience.

When his boat, a sixty-foot beauty, slipped into the Santa Rosa harbor, Bruce was waiting. Gifford yelled an obscene greeting when he saw him, then bounded off the boat before his deckhand had time to moor it. They hugged on the pier like long-lost frat brothers and made their way to the dockside café, both talking at once. Lunch would last at least two hours.

The current wife was rarely invited on a book tour. Gifford didn’t want the restraints, so he sent them to Europe or California. At that moment, Bruce couldn’t think of the current one’s name. They ordered wine and seafood and caught up with the publishing gossip. Gifford took pride in the fact that he had not been to New York in ten years. He loathed his publisher and was convinced he was being cheated out of royalties.

“Bought any more stolen manuscripts lately?” he asked. A bit too loud.

“Of course not. I’ve gone straight.”

Among a handful of friends it was believed that Bruce had made a killing years earlier when he brokered a deal to return the stolen manuscripts of F. Scott Fitzgerald, a rumor that he strenuously denied. The FBI had snooped around and he assumed their file was still open. The Princeton library had the manuscripts back in its vault. Everyone was happy. Let it go.

Bruce said, “You’ve heard the latest about Dark Isle?”

Gifford chewed a mouthful, offered a blank look, and shook his head.

Bruce pointed across the water and said, “It’s about two miles over there, you can barely see it.”

“The old slave island.”

“That’s it. Deserted years ago. Now it’s been discovered by some real estate swingers from South Florida. Ever hear of Tidal Breeze?”

“Maybe.”

“Big private company with plenty of projects under its belt. Resorts, casinos, golf, the works. Now they’ve renamed it Panther Cay and printed up all the usual brochures. Got a fancy website. Lots for sale in due course.”

“That’s awful.”

“That’s Florida.”

“Can we stop them?”

Gifford was never shy about jumping into the fray. He’d even been arrested several times while staring down bulldozers. Each arrest, of course, was well documented by the news crews who’d been tipped off. The fact that he had already adopted a “we” posture was no surprise.

“Oh, it’ll be a fight. We might need you to lean on some of your tree-hugger groups for support. I gave you a book called Tessa. Ring a bell?”

“Afraid not.” Unlike most writers, Gifford didn’t read much. Nor did he pretend to. “Who wrote it?”

“A lady named Mercer Mann, sort of a local, got a cottage on the beach and spends her summers here.”

“Who summers in Florida? Thought you were supposed to go to the mountains.”

“Ask her tonight. She’ll be at dinner, along with her new husband. She just got married last month here on the beach, so hands off.”

“If you say so.”

“Anyway, she’s considering a book about Dark Isle, its history and so forth, and the fight to preserve it. She’s given me a ten-page rough draft of a book proposal which I think is excellent. Care to take a look?”

“Not really. I’m not much of an editor.”

“Come on. It’s a favor. You know these stories better than anyone. It’ll take fifteen minutes to read.”

“And what if I don’t like it?”

“You will.”

“Okay, what if I do like it? What am I supposed to do?”

“Enjoy it, and file it away. I want you to open some doors with your environmental crowd. You know every group from here to Washington, even beyond, and we’ll need plenty of help.”

“Sounds like fun. I’m always ready for a fight.”

“That’s one of the few things I like about you.”

“Fair enough. And no one expects me to call my publisher and gush about this proposal.”

“No one. Mercer has her own publisher.”

“Good. I’m thinking about suing mine.”

“Don’t do that. They’re paying you plenty. What’s the first printing this time out?”

Gifford could not suppress a proud smile. He drank some wine, savored the moment, and said, “Bruce, I’m now officially over half a million in hardback. Same for ebooks. I’m in the top ten, buddy. Can you believe it?”

Bruce smiled too and they clinked glasses. “Congratulations, Gifford. You deserve it. I devoured your latest book in one night. Great stuff.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“No, Bruce, I’m sincere. I owe you a lot. We were sitting right here almost twenty years ago when you, rather bluntly, told me I was wasting my time with literary fiction. Said I wasn’t complicated enough, as I recall.”

“You still aren’t and that’s why you have a million fans.”

“And you convinced me that the route to success, at least for me, was to create a great character and use him over and over. It’s working. Here’s to Bake.”

They clinked glasses again. “Love that guy,” Bruce said.

They drove to Bruce’s home where Gifford spent two hours in a hammock snoring off his lunch. At 5:00 p.m. they went to the bookstore where a line had already formed out the front door and down the sidewalk along Main Street. The star kicked into high gear and spent hours autographing his novels, posing for photographs, greeting old friends, hitting on attractive women, chatting with local journalists, and all the while sipping his favorite Chardonnay that Bruce was required to furnish. At 8:00, he left with apologies but promised to return at noon the following day for round two, then he would do a reading at 5:00 p.m. and take questions.

The literary crowd reconvened on Bruce’s patio. Gifford hugged and kissed Leigh and Myra, squeezed a bit too hard on young Amy Slater, swapped insults with Bob Cobb, practically fondled Noelle, who had just returned from France, and gushed over Mercer and Thomas. Over another glass of wine, he confided in her that her proposal was brilliant and had all the makings of an important work of nonfiction. He would be happy to help in any way, except speak to his publisher. They were not on speaking terms and any communication had to go through his lawyer.

Most participants in polite dinner conversation are aware of their floor time and limit what they say. They deem it important to make sure everyone at the table is engaged. Not Gifford. Half drunk and getting louder, he hogged the spotlight and drowned out all other voices. At other times he might have been an obnoxious bore, but his stories were so outlandish, and told with such colorful language, that the other guests were often laughing so hard they couldn’t eat. They loved the one about his last arrest, the prior year, when he and some other activists chained themselves to a gate in a national park to disrupt a logging operation. Before the police arrived, an angry logger with a large pistol stood very close to them and fired shots in the air. Gifford’s ears rang for a week. The activists next to him started crying. The local sheriff refused them bail and they were locked up for a week. It was their finest hour.

When his bladder was finally full, he excused himself and staggered away. Myra was quick to say, “Thank God he only publishes every three years. I couldn’t take many more of these dinners.”

“Now Myra,” Leigh chided.

They were all shaking their heads and enjoying a brief respite. Mercer said, “This guy’s insane. I assume these stories are true.”

Bruce shook his head. “I have no idea. He spends a lot of time and money with environmental groups. Check out his website. He rants and raves and features a montage of photos of his arrests. I told him about the new plans for Dark Isle and he went ballistic. He’ll be an ally when we need him.”

Mercer frowned as if she wasn’t so sure.

Amy Slater asked, “Are they serious about putting a casino on that island?”

Steven Mahon answered, “Dead serious.”

Myra said softly, “Here he comes.”

They took a collective deep breath as Gifford found his seat. He was quiet for a few minutes as they passed around a platter of grilled grouper. Myra asked loudly, “So who’s coming next week, Bruce?”

Bay Books maintained an endless schedule of signings, and Bruce expected his gang to show up for most of the events. Myra and Leigh especially enjoyed meeting the touring writers and seldom missed a signing.

Bruce said, “A young man from Kentucky with a debut novel. Rick Barber is his name. We need a crowd, next Tuesday.”

“What kind of book?” Bob Cobb asked.

“A collection of stories about tough times in rural Kentucky.”

“It’s not grit-lit, is it, Bruce?” Myra asked.

“Well, it’s not called that officially, but it has the elements.”

“I can’t take any more of that shit, Bruce. They’re all the same. My beer’s hot. My girl’s cold. My dog’s dead. My truck won’t start. I need a job but I’d rather drink. Mama’s on pills. Daddy’s in prison. Come on, Bruce. Give us a break. Grit-lit is out of control.”

“I’m not the author, Myra. I’m just the bookseller. If you don’t like it then don’t read it.”

Thomas said, “I saw a review in the Post. Very positive, said Barber has a distinctive new Southern voice.”

“Great, just what we need,” Myra said. “A dazzling new grit-lit star. I’ll bet he won’t sell five thousand copies, hardback and paper. Mind if I skip it, Bruce?”

“I’m not sure I want you there.”

Gifford said, “I met Barber last month at a book festival in Savannah. Nice guy.”

“Is he cute?” Myra asked.

“Now Myra.”

“You don’t do guys,” Bob Cobb said.

“I can look, you know? I might need a new character. A handsome new author who writes about roadkill and such. You like it, Bruce?”

“No.”

“I don’t either.”

Gifford had been quiet long enough. He asked, “Has anyone been to Dark Isle?”

For the first time in hours the room was instantly quiet. Total silence, then some squirming. Bruce looked around the table and said, “I suppose I’ve lived here longer than anyone else, and I’ve never heard of anyone going to the island.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one, it’s uninhabitable. There’s nothing there but thick woods and wildlife. Hurricane Leo did a lot of damage, I’m told.”

Bob Cobb said, “Plus there’s plenty of sand around here. If you want a beach, they’re not hard to find.”

Gifford said, “I want to go see it. I may sail out day after tomorrow and have a look. Anybody up for a boat ride?”

More silence. Bruce finally said, “A sailboat won’t get there. It’s too shallow.”

“Okay. I’ll find another rig. Nobody wants to go?”

“That’s not a good idea, Gifford,” Mercer said. “There are a lot of bad stories about people who ventured onto the island. Few, if any, returned. You should read Lovely Jackson’s book about Dark Isle. It’s frightening.”

“And this is the book you want to write too?”

“I’m seriously considering it, from a different angle, of course.”

“Okay. Here’s my offer. When you are ready to explore the island, let me know. I’m not afraid of ghosts and spirits and legends and stuff like that. We’ll put together a little patrol, boat out to the island, and have a look around. Deal?”

“I don’t know. We’ll see. Until then, read Lovely’s book. It’s fascinating.”

The first obstacle was cajoling a “yes” out of Lovely. For two weeks she was not responsive to the invitation to sit down and talk. And since all communications had to go through Miss Naomi, progress was slow.

The second obstacle was where to meet. Mercer was quick to offer the hospitality of her beach cottage. She would be delighted to welcome Lovely for a long conversation and maybe even lunch, with complete privacy. Two days later the answer came back—no thanks. She suggested the bookstore, since Lovely seemed to be comfortable there. Two days later there was another no. Mercer really wanted to see Lovely’s home in The Docks. She dropped a few hints and waited for the invitation, but it never came. What about the county library, where there was plenty of room and privacy? Two days later Miss Naomi called to report that Lovely wouldn’t go there. She had been turned away from the library when she was a teenager, back when it was for whites only.

After three strikes, Mercer was out of suggestions and wondering if they would ever meet again. She was also mildly discouraged that their collaboration, or whatever it was to be called, was off to such a labored start. Given what had already been written, and what was brewing over Dark Isle now, she could certainly write the story in 100,000 words and publish a compelling work of nonfiction. But she would not do that. It would put her in the position of being accused of exploiting Lovely’s past. If Lovely chose not to cooperate, Mercer would move on.

Miss Naomi finally called with the news that Lovely would agree to have a brief chat at a church in The Docks—the World Harvest Tabernacle Temple. With such a spectacular name, Mercer envisioned a sprawling megachurch with thousands of members. A glance at the website, though, revealed a modest redbrick building with a leaning steeple and two converted school buses in the parking lot. It was the domain of Reverend Samuel and his wife, Reverend Betty. In the photo they wore matching burgundy robes with gold trim and offered matching kilowatt smiles.

Robeless, they greeted Mercer and Thomas at the door to the Fellowship Center, an aging metal building stuck to the rear of the church. “Welcome to Harvest,” Reverend Samuel beamed. Everyone shook hands warmly and went inside to a long dining room next to a kitchen. Reverend Betty frowned when Mercer and Thomas declined beverages. She said, “In this weather, you must have some sweet tea.”

They acquiesced and she served them tea in quart fruit jars. One sip, and Mercer knew that she held in her hand more calories than a chocolate milkshake. As they waited for Lovely, they talked about the church—“Harvest”—and its ministries in the community. Trolling for details, Mercer asked how long Lovely had been a member. The two Reverends glanced at each other before he said, “Well, she’s not officially a member, you see. But she comes occasionally.”

It was obvious she rarely came at all and that this was possibly a sore subject. Then she arrived with her entourage—Miss Naomi and the granddaughters. Lovely wore a long flowing dress that was bright orange and topped it off with a matching orange turban wrapped fiercely on top of her head. Mercer, in jeans, sandals, and a loose cotton blouse, wondered if Lovely ever left the house dressed as anything but an African queen. She looked spectacular, with bangles on both wrists and oversized necklaces around her neck.

They settled into folding chairs at the end of a long table and everyone sipped sweet tea. It quickly became apparent that both Reverends, along with Miss Naomi and her granddaughters, planned to participate in, or at least listen to, whatever conversation was to follow. The room was muggy and not well air-conditioned. Miss Naomi commented on the current heat wave and the weather was batted around. Everyone agreed that it was indeed hot. Lovely said nothing. She smiled and listened and seemed to ignore the meaningless prattling around her.

Conversation lagged and things grew even more awkward. Mercer was not going to start asking serious questions with an audience, but as a guest herself, she was not in position to ask anyone to leave.

Thomas finally took the hint and asked Reverend Samuel if he would show him the sanctuary, said he was fascinated by the architecture of small Southern churches. It was a lame effort—one glance at the building and you knew its builders had not bothered to fool with an architect—but it worked. Though it was an unusual request, both Reverends stood and left the room with Thomas.

Lovely asked Mercer, “How long do you want to talk today?”

Mercer looked at Miss Naomi and said, “Oh, we should wrap things up in about an hour.” It was almost a direct command to leave and return in an hour, but Miss Naomi didn’t take it that way. She and the girls hung around as Mercer fiddled with her recorder, then her pen and notebook.

“What’s that?” Lovely asked, nodding at the table.

“It’s a small recorder. I hope to use it if you don’t mind.”

“I’ve never been recorded.”

Mercer almost said it was a first for her too. She was a novelist, not a journalist. “It’s a good way to remember everything that’s said. But if you don’t want to use it, then no problem.”

“I still don’t know why you want to write this book.”

“I’m fascinated by your story, Lovely. The history of your people and their survival on the island. And now a new threat that will destroy it.”

The girls were suddenly bored and giggled at something. Lovely glared at them and they froze. She said to Miss Naomi, “We’ll be right here for an hour. If you make it to town, please see Henry at the nursing home.”

Miss Naomi gathered her purse and nodded at the girls.

When they were finally alone, Lovely said, “I already wrote that story.”

“Yes you have, and I enjoyed it, as I said. But there’s more to it now. I want to take the past, with all its complexities, and tie it to the present, with all its conflicts.”

“Sounds like a lot of work just to sell a few books.”

“Oh, it will sell, Lovely. I’m almost finished with a book proposal that I’ll send to my agent in New York. If she likes it, and I know she will, then she’ll try to sell the idea to a big publisher. Maybe we’ll get a book deal.”

“You mean a real book, like those in Bruce’s store?”

“Sure.”

“Like Tessa?”

“Exactly. That’s what I have in mind.”

Lovely smiled and asked, “How much money are we gonna make?”

Mercer was anticipating this. “It’s too early to talk about money. Let’s wait and see if we find a publisher, then we’ll negotiate the deal.”

“So I get some of the money?”

“That’s only fair, Lovely, but I have no idea how much at this point.”

Lovely stopped smiling and gazed at a window in the distance. The glow was back in her eyes and her thoughts had left the room. Mercer almost said something, but decided to wait. If these long pauses were normal, she needed to learn to adjust.

Finally, Lovely said, “Seems to me the best course is to wait and see if you get a deal up in New York. No sense doing a lot of talking now if it ain’t going nowhere. You agree?”

Mercer preferred to work now. In three weeks she would leave the island and return to Ole Miss for the fall semester. Since Lovely avoided the telephone, the interviews would be difficult. Now, though, they could talk and record for hours. Her impulse was to push a bit and start asking questions; she had pages of them.

Lovely, though, projected the aura of someone who reacted badly when pushed. All of her words and motions were deliberate. And she was right. Why waste time if there was no book deal?

“I suppose,” Mercer said, shrugging. “I’ll send the proposal to New York this afternoon. I have a copy for you.”

“That’d be nice.”

“Since we have a few minutes, could I ask a question?”

“Of course you can, dear.”

“How much of the story did you leave out of your book?”

Lovely flashed a wide smile. “Why do you ask that?”

“Because I got the feeling that some things were left out.”

“Such as?”

“Was Nalla pregnant when she landed on Dark Isle?”

Lovely thought about it for a long time, then said, “Yes she was. It was not at all unusual for young women to be raped on the slave ships. Six weeks at sea, and a lot of them were pregnant when they got to this country.”

“Who was the father?”

“The child was half white.”

“Monk?”

Her eyes narrowed and flashed hot. She said, “She sliced his throat, didn’t she?” The word “sliced” was uttered with a touch of satisfaction.

One of Mercer’s more pliable rules for writing fiction was to keep quiet about your work. She had long since tired of windy writers going on and on about their current projects, most of which were never finished. Writers, especially when drinking, which was most of the time it seemed, liked to try out their new material over dinner or cocktails, as if they needed the approval of their captive audience. She knew of many novels that had been described for years, yet not a word had been seen on paper. “Don’t talk about it, just do it,” she told her students. “Once the story is finished, then you have something to talk about.” Her students found it ironic that she made them discuss their ideas in class before writing their stories.

Like her other rules, she often violated this one. Now she found herself in the middle of a major violation. After showing her proposal to Thomas, Bruce, Steven Mahon, and Lovely, she felt as though she had been blabbing about it all summer. So she spent two days trimming it—Bruce in particular thought it too long for a simple proposal—and sent it, all five pages, to Etta Shuttleworth, her agent in New York.

It was the first of August, a month in which no one in New York publishing would be caught dead actually working. Etta was “summering” in Sag Harbor and reading, of course, nonstop. August reading was not considered working, and everyone—editors, agents, publishers—worked hard to give the impression that they read many hours each day. One was supposed to believe that they had little time for swimming, sailing, fishing, beachcombing, partying, or porch-sitting due to the stacks of books they were devouring.

At any rate, Etta managed to open her laptop a few minutes each day to take a peek at who might be looking for her. Mercer called and said the proposal was on the way and it was imperative that Etta read it immediately. It was only five pages.

Remarkably, within the hour the agent was on the phone gushing. Once she’d waded through the avalanche of superlatives, she said, “We should send it to Lana right now.”

“Hang on,” Mercer said. Lana Gallagher was her patient editor at Viking who had been waiting far too long for the next idea. “Are you sure it’s for her? It is nonfiction.”

“I know, but we have to start with Lana. She may decide to hand it off to a colleague, but your contract requires a first look for her.”

Mercer said, “It’s August. Have you ever sold a book in August?”

“No, don’t think so, but there’s always a first.”

“Where is Lana?”

“She has a place in Maine. I’m sure she has plenty of time to read, especially something this quick. I’ll send it to her and pester her to take a look.”

“What’s it worth?”

“That’s a tough one. Let’s wait until we hear from Lana. If she likes it then we’ll talk about money.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“She will, Mercer. Trust me. This is a great proposal for a great book, fiction or otherwise.”

“Thank you, Etta, but it’s not my idea. The story was lived by other people. I’m just an observer.”

“It’s brilliant, Mercer.”

“You really think so?”

“Yes I do. When are you leaving the island?”

“In two weeks. Classes start at the end of the month. I’d like to spend some time with Lovely but she is hesitant. She’s not convinced there’s going to be a real book.”

“Okay, look Mercer. I’m your agent and you need to trust me here. I’ll call Lana right now, tell her I’m sending your proposal for a brilliant work of nonfiction, and insist that she read it immediately.”

“Okay.”

Evidently, Lana was having a slow day in Maine. An hour later, Etta called, gushing again. “Mercer! She loves it! She wants to buy it now and publish as soon as possible.”

“Well, that may be a bit down the road since I haven’t started writing it yet.”

“There is one problem, though, and it’s rather obvious.”

“The lawsuit?”

“The lawsuit. In your proposal you write that the lawsuit could take years to resolve, especially if it turns into a huge environmental fight. Viking doesn’t want to sit on the sidelines for a few years waiting for the litigation to end.”

“I know. Believe me, I’ve thought about that. Thomas and I have discussed it for hours and we have an idea. I write the book now, starting with Nalla and the slave story, and cover two hundred years of history. Basically the same material Lovely has in her book but with a lot of extras. She’s already told me that there are stories and twists and turns that she left out. Good stuff. I’ll end the book with the court’s ruling on the title to the land. If Lovely wins, then the story is over and everybody’s happy.”

“Except Tidal Breeze.”

“Except Tidal Breeze, of course, but who cares. If Lovely loses the title fight and the island ends up in the hands of Tidal Breeze, then the other lawsuits will rage. I’ll be there and write about that too. Maybe a sequel.”

“I love it. You haven’t written the first word and you’re already thinking about the sequel.”

“You’re an agent. You’re supposed to love sequels.”

“I do. Sounds like a plan. I’ll explain this to Lana.”

“Do that. And when do we get around to the issue of compensation?”

There was a long pause on the other end as this delicate issue rattled around. Publishing contracts were all about advances—how much could the writer get up front? How much should the publisher offer and still protect itself from a flop? Tessa sold 90,000 in hardback and ebook combined and spent four weeks on the New York Times bestseller lists. In paperback its sales had slowed considerably but were inching close to 200,000. Since its publication three years earlier, Mercer had netted roughly $375,000. Nice money and all, and most of it was still in the bank, but she wasn’t ready to retire yet. What Mercer desperately needed was another big book. Two of them, back to back, and she could ditch the teaching gig and join the slim ranks of the lucky writers who didn’t have real jobs.

That was her dream, anyway.

Etta said, “If it were a novel, I would ask for seven-fifty. The nonfiction angle will cause Lana to offer less, I suppose. It usually works that way. You have no track record with nonfiction. Plus, there is the complication of the litigation. That could really slow down the project.”

Mercer said, “Four hundred thousand is a fair number, Etta. Spread over several years, it’s not much. I’ll need all of it to survive and do my research. Plus, there is another complication. Lovely deserves some of the money.”

“Oh dear.”

“Yes. We’ve had a preliminary chat about the money and I’m certain she’ll want some of it.”

“Okay. I’ll run this by Lana and see how generous she feels.”

After the call, Mercer and Thomas went for a sunset walk on the beach. As she kicked water in the surf, she couldn’t help but laugh.

“Okay, what’s so funny?” he asked.

“Life. Five years ago a budget got cut and I was the lowest form of life on the English faculty. My job disappeared. I came here to get away and to spy on Bruce. Then Tessa hit and everything changed. Now I’m telling my agent that I think four hundred thousand dollars is a fair price for my next book. Who do I think I am?”

Thomas saw the humor and said, “You’re Mercer Mann, bestselling writer, rising literary star, author of a great novel that a lot of people enjoyed. This is where you are in life, dear, and those are the numbers that go along with it. Savor the moment because it may not last.”

She stopped laughing and bent to pick up a shell. She studied it, then tossed it back into the water. “So true. Think of all the writers we know who found success before the age of forty and can’t find a publisher at fifty. The mid-list group. They sold enough to barely get by and showed a lot of promise, now they’re practically forgotten. It’s such a brutal business.”

“We know writers who’ve quit.”

“Yes, and the ones who can’t even find a job on a campus. They give up and find another calling.”

“That’s not going to happen to you, Mercer. Believe me.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. No, I’m going to write this book and make enough money to survive on, but I’m still searching for the great American novel, Thomas.”

“I know, and you’ll find it. It’s out there somewhere, just waiting for you.”

“You really believe that?”

“I do. And so do a lot of people.”

She grabbed him and held him close, and for a long time they stood in the surf as the warm water rose and fell while the sun dipped behind the clouds.

The lawsuit was filed in the Camino County courthouse, five blocks east of Bay Books on Main Street. It was a beautiful old courthouse dating back to the 1870s and had been carefully renovated through the years. The formal courtroom was on the second floor and the judges kept their offices nearby. The clerks tended to their business on the ground floor, and it was there that Steven Mahon walked in with his lawsuit and filed it in chancery court. He could have done so online, but he still enjoyed the ritual of “filing” by presenting it to a clerk, who stamped several copies and gave one back to him.

Thus the battle began, but without the drama that often surrounded big cases. The lawsuit itself was rather bland reading and did not seek a fortune in damages. It did not contain the usual allegations of bad or reckless behavior. It did not demand punitive damages. It did not insist that the judge step in immediately with an injunction to stop something. Though it was destined to mushroom into a larger brawl, it began as a simple petition to “quiet a title.”

As far as lawsuits go, it was rather brief, only four pages. In broad strokes, Steven laid out the history of Dark Isle, beginning with the Franco-Spanish struggle dating back to 1565 and leading up to 1740 when the Spanish claimed sovereignty over the region after ruling it for two hundred years. Dark Isle was considered part of Camino Island, and it first appeared on a map in 1764 when the British seized the territory. Then they lost it to the French, who in turn lost it again to the Spanish. The three countries sparred for a few decades, each winning land and then losing it, often making individual land ownership impossible to determine. Native tribes still occupied most of the land, but that would soon change. In 1821, America cut a deal with the Spanish and got all of Florida. By then, Dark Isle had been a refuge for runaway slaves for almost a hundred years and no one else really wanted it. Florida was admitted to the Union as a slave state in 1845.

The plaintiff, Lovely Jackson, claimed to be a direct descendant of slaves who’d lived on Dark Isle since the early 1700s. She was born there in 1940, to Jeremiah and Ruth Jackson. Her father died in 1948 of typhoid, leaving Ruth and Lovely as the only two survivors on the island. They barely managed to survive for a few years, then left for Santa Rosa in 1955, the last residents of Dark Isle.

Like those before her, there was no official record of her birth. She had been delivered by a midwife, same as everyone else. There were no records of the births and deaths of her parents, or grandparents.

Her claim of ownership was based on the legal principle of adverse possession. She and her ancestors had lived on the island “openly” and “notoriously” and without interference or interruption for over two hundred years. Florida law required only seven. Though she was forced to leave in 1955, she did not abandon her ancestral home. For decades, she and a friend or two traveled by boat to the island several times each year to tend to the graves of her people. They walked the island from north to south looking for trespassers and squatters. They found none. Then Hurricane Leo did enormous damage to Dark Isle. It destroyed what was left of the settlement where she and her ancestors lived. It washed away centuries’ worth of artifacts and ruins.

Attorney Mahon requested a hearing within thirty days, as required by the statute, though he knew it would take months. As a courtesy, he sent a copy of the petition to the in-house counsel for Tidal Breeze in Miami. He also sent a copy to a contact in the Attorney General’s office in Tallahassee. The state of Florida would be party to the lawsuit.

One of many rumors swirling around the Panther Cay project was that the state would claim ownership, as it had for hundreds of other uninhabited islands, and then, once cleared, quickly sell it to Tidal Breeze for a fair price and get out of the way. The skids had been greased in Tallahassee. The politicians and bureaucrats were in line.

Steven walked up the stairs to say hello to Judge Lydia Salazar, the presiding chancellor. He’d met her once at a bar lunch but rarely appeared before her. Steven’s cases kept him in federal court and he seldom ventured into local courthouses. However, under Florida law, land and title disputes were the sole jurisdiction of chancery court, to be decided without juries. Thus, Judge Salazar would have enormous power over the future of Dark Isle. She enjoyed a solid reputation as a firm and fair jurist, though one lawyer had told Steven over coffee that she was known to talk too much about her cases. Out of school. Over drinks at cocktail parties. Loose lips sink ships and all that.

Steven just wanted to say hello, but her secretary said she had the day off.

His downtown stroll continued to the offices of The Register, the island’s newspaper. He paid for a legal notice that would advertise the filing of the petition and the hearing in thirty days. The owner/editor, Sid Larramore, was an acquaintance and they enjoyed an occasional coffee. Steven handed him a copy of the petition and waited as he read through it. They had already discussed its contents.

Sid was also a transplant from the D.C. area. He had retired to Santa Rosa for health reasons but, like Steven, had found retirement to be unhealthy. So he started writing for TheRegister and bought it when the owner died and no one else wanted it. In his opinion, one that he rarely shared with his readers, the island’s rebound after Leo was creating enough work for everyone. The comeback was strong. Traffic was heavy enough. The last thing they needed was a huge resort and casino. Sid was also fascinated with the legend of Dark Isle. He’d read Lovely’s book years earlier, had even tried to do a feature but got nowhere. He’d heard the rumor, probably from Bruce Cable, who often started them just to see how fast they would travel, that Mercer Mann was interested in writing about Dark Isle and the upcoming battle over its future. He had interviewed Mercer twice and was a fan.

“She’ll slay this story,” Sid said.

“I think so too. Bruce told me her publisher likes it.”

“She and Thomas have been digging through our archives for a month. They know more of the history of this place than anyone. They told me last week that they cannot find any reference to a white person who has ventured onto the island and lived to talk about it. Several have tried. Mercer thinks there’s an old voodoo curse still hovering over the island.”

“I’m not going over there.”

“I suppose you’d like this on the front page as soon as possible.”

“I’m a lawyer. Of course I want the front page.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“You’re the owner, editor, publisher, and only full-time reporter. You can do anything you want.”

They shared a laugh and Sid promised to find room on the front page.

Another late afternoon thunderstorm had blown through, drenching the island and breaking the humidity. It was now pleasant enough to eat outdoors on the veranda, Bruce’s preferred spot in the rear of his cherished Victorian home. When the table was cleared they moved to the side and settled into cushioned wicker rockers. Frogs and crickets began a loud chorus. The old rattan ceiling fans rattled above and kept the air moving. Bruce fired up a cigar and offered one to Thomas, who waved him off. They were finishing a bottle of Chablis.

The topic of the evening was the quandary over Mercer’s book proposal. Etta, always the agent, had suggested the amount of $500,000 for an advance against royalties. It was an aggressive opening and she justified it by the performance of Mercer’s last book, Tessa. The success of that novel, plus the compelling story at hand, was more than enough to support such an advance. Mercer was thirty-six, an accomplished writer with three books to her credit and many more to come. As usual, Etta had implied that if Viking couldn’t handle such up-front money, then Mercer might be forced to shop around.

The vague threat went nowhere. Lana Gallagher was a tough editor who gently deflected such warnings as just another part of the agent’s routine. She countered with $200,000, and showed barely enough enthusiasm to placate the author. Viking had two major concerns: nonfiction was something new for Mercer and, in the broadest of terms, paid less than popular fiction; and the near certainty of protracted litigation could delay the project for years.

To make the offer even less attractive, Viking proposed to string out the payments over the next several years: one-fourth at signing, one-fourth upon delivery of the manuscript, one-fourth upon hardback publication, and the last check when the paperback came out. If the book sold as well as hoped, and the advance “earned out,” the prospect of royalties might kick in even further down the road.

Mercer was disappointed with the offer but did manage to find humor in the fact that she was disappointed with a contract worth $200,000. She still had the fresh memories of being the impoverished grad student, then the adjunct professor with a one-year contract. Her future was far from certain. She did not have tenure at Ole Miss. Her salary was a wonderful cushion but budget cuts were always hovering. She dreamed of writing books for the rest of her life but lived with the fear of not having the next story. Only a few years ago she would have fainted if Etta had called with a $200,000 offer.

Bruce commiserated with her and, as always, sided with his writer. But he knew the offer was reasonable. He also remembered that four years earlier, Mercer had been delighted with the $50,000 advance she had received for Tessa. He also knew from years of observation that new writers needed two or three bestsellers in a row to establish themselves and expect bigger contracts. Mercer wasn’t quite there yet.

She said, “Etta wants to shop it around. What do you think about that?”

Since most of the writers on the island confided in Bruce, he knew the ins and outs of the business. They trusted his advice and spoke openly to him about money. He was discreet and fiercely protective of their business.

He replied, “That always sounds good, but the problem is that it could damage your relationship with Viking, and the bigger danger is further rejections. What if you shop around and get less, or nothing, from other publishers? Lana will be ticked off, and she’ll also be proven correct. Don’t run from happiness, Mercer. If you’re happy at Viking, stay there. I’ve seen so many writers hurt themselves by hopping from one publisher to the next chasing a few extra bucks. You don’t want that reputation. Lana is a great editor and Viking is, well, it’s Viking. One of the legendary houses.”

“What would you do?” Thomas asked.

“Counter at three hundred and push hard. Tighten up the schedule and get more money sooner. One-third at contract, same at delivery, same at hardback publication.”

They pondered this for a moment as Bruce poured more wine. Noelle excused herself and retired for the evening.

Mercer asked, “And what about Lovely?”

Along with the disappointment of Viking’s offer was the complicating and quite sticky issue of Lovely’s expectations.

“How much does she want?” Bruce asked.

“We didn’t get that far, but it was obvious she expects to be compensated. And I’m fine with that, to a point.”

“Ten percent?” Bruce said.

“That seems low. I don’t want to insult her and I don’t want to give the impression that us white folks are once again taking advantage. On the other hand, I could reach a threshold where I ask myself if the whole project is worth it. If she wants too much and I walk away, then she gets nothing.”

Thomas said, “We’ve talked about this endlessly. Mercer is basically taking her story and relying on her memory and history. Let’s say that’s half the book, and much of the work has already been done. The other half is the fight to save the island. There, Mercer will do all the heavy lifting.”

“You’ll help,” she said.

“Of course I will.”

Bruce blew a cloud of smoke at the creaky fans and said, “Look, why not just talk to Lovely and see what she wants? She’s never had a dime. She spent her life working here on the island, first in the canneries, then in the hotels, cleaning rooms and doing laundry. Now she lives on Social Security. She has no family to support, and as far as we know there’s no one looking for a handout. It’s hard to believe she’s expecting a big windfall. Keep in mind she knows something about publishing and selling books, although hers has yet to top a hundred copies.”

Mercer said, “I know. I just want to be fair.”

“Then talk to her. Meet her at the store tomorrow. Use my office. I’ll make sure you have some privacy.”

“Thanks, Bruce.”

“And when are you guys leaving? Myra wants to have a proper send-off, a small dinner, one final booze-up before you have to go back to work.”

“Saturday. She called today and said she and Leigh are having a party. Didn’t ask if we wanted to be included, just assumed so.”

“I’m sure you agreed.”

“Of course. Who says no to Myra?”

“No one in this town.”

Since the first two meetings with Lovely took over a week to arrange, Mercer was surprised when Miss Naomi called back and said they would be at the bookstore at ten o’clock the following morning. Mercer suspected the granddaughters wanted some more books. A clerk welcomed them to the kids’ section and showed them some new arrivals. Thomas managed to occupy Miss Naomi in the cookbook section with a discussion about Low Country recipes. Bruce turned off his desk phone and locked the doors.

When they were alone, Mercer explained what was happening with the book proposal in New York. Etta had wrangled $250,000 out of Viking as an advance. Miss Lovely absorbed this figure without a reaction.

Mercer was saying, “This sounds like a lot of money, but it’s really not. Fifteen percent goes off the top to the literary agent, then about thirty percent goes for taxes. The money will be spread over four years, maybe five, depending on how long it takes me to write it.”

“How long will it take?” Lovely asked.

“It’s hard to say. A lot depends on what happens to the island now, and that’s tied up in court. With court cases, it’s difficult to predict anything.”

“But you have an idea.”

“Yes, in two years I should be finished with a draft that is publishable. How long did it take you to write your book?”

“Oh Lord, Mercer, I worked on that book forever. I have some old notebooks that go way back to when I was a kid in high school. I did finish school, you know? Wasn’t easy but I was determined to finish. We went to the colored school back then. It’s gone now. Been gone.”

Mercer smiled as she listened to her soft, slow voice, one that seemed to reach back for centuries. They were sitting knee to knee, almost touching, almost to the point where they could talk about anything.

Mercer said, “It’s only fair that you get some of the money. It’s the story of you and your people. I’ll need to spend a lot of time with you to get all of the details and background. It’s not going to be easy, writing is never easy.”

“Hardest thing I ever did.”

Mercer chuckled and wanted to say her book was far more interesting than most of what she read. She knew Lovely was not experienced in deal-making, so she cut to the chase. “I think fifty percent of the advance is too much, and ten percent is too little. What do you have in mind?”

“I had nothing in mind, until now. If I say twenty-five percent, how much will I get?”

“About fifty thousand dollars, before taxes, spread over the next three or four years.”

She closed her eyes and thought for a long time. Mercer took the opportunity to examine her turban of the day, a lime green and bright yellow headdress wrapped as tight as always. Her robe was a lively blue and red floral pattern. Yielding to the modern world, on her feet she wore a pair of brown sandals with a small Nike swoosh along the side.

She opened her eyes and said, “That sounds good to me. If I get some money I want to clean up the island and fix up the cemetery.”

“It’s still there?”

“Oh yes, honey. I know where it is but nobody else can find it. My parents, grandparents, lot of great-grandparents are buried there. I know where they are. Can’t nobody else find ’em, but I can.”

Mercer took a deep breath and said, “We have so much to talk about.”