Camino Winds (Camino Island #2) - John Grisham Page 0,2
a restaurant at the end of Main Street in Santa Rosa, six blocks from the bookstore. Lunch for Bruce was always in a downtown restaurant, with a bottle of wine or two, and usually with a sales rep or a visiting writer or one of the locals he supported. Business lunches, with receipts saved for the accountant. He arrived a few minutes early and went straight to his favorite table on the deck, with a view of the busy harbor. He flirted with the waitress and ordered a bottle of Sancerre. When Mercer swept in he stood and hugged her and offered a firm handshake to Thomas, her companion these days.
They took their seats and Bruce poured the wine. Leo had to be discussed because he was still out there, but Bruce quickly dismissed him as nothing but a distraction. “He’s headed to Nags Head,” he said confidently.
Mercer was prettier than ever, her long dark hair cut shorter, her hazel eyes glowing with all the success that a bestseller could bring. She was tired of the tour, thrilled to be finished with it, but also savoring the moment. “Thirty-four stops in fifty-one days,” she said with a smile.
“You’re lucky,” Bruce said. “As you well know, publishers don’t like to spend money these days. You’re killing it, Mercer. I’ve seen eighteen reviews, all but one positive.”
“Did you see Seattle?”
“That jerk doesn’t like anything. I know him. I called him when I saw the review and said harsh things.”
“Bruce, really?”
“It’s my job. I protect my writers. I’ll punch him if I ever meet him.”
Thomas laughed and said, “Hit him a lick for me.”
Bruce raised his glass and said, “Come on, cheers to Tessa. Number five on the Times list and moving up.”
They took a celebratory sip of wine. Mercer said, “It’s still hard to believe.”
“And a new contract,” Thomas said, glancing furtively at her. “Can we break the news?”
“It’s already broken,” Bruce said. “Let’s hear it. I want the details.”
Mercer smiled again and said, “My agent called this morning. Viking is offering a nice sum for two more books.”
Bruce raised his glass again and said, “Awesome. Those people aren’t stupid. Congratulations, Mercer. Great news.” Of course, Bruce wanted all the details, especially the amount of the “nice sum,” but he had a general idea. Mercer’s agent was a tough old pro who knew the business and could now negotiate a new two-book deal for seven figures. After years of struggling, Ms. Mann was entering a new world.
“And foreign rights?” Bruce asked.
“We start selling them next week,” she said. Mercer’s first books had barely sold stateside. There were no foreign royalties.
Bruce said, “The Brits and Germans will snap it up. The French and Italians will love Tessa when it’s translated, it’s their kind of story, and they’ll be easy to deal with. You’ll be in twenty languages before you know it, Mercer. This is incredible.”
She looked at Thomas and said, “See what I mean? He knows the business.” They clinked glasses again as the waitress approached.
“This calls for champagne,” Bruce announced, then quickly ordered a bottle before anyone could object. He asked about the tour and wanted the scoop on all the stores she had visited. He knew virtually every serious bookseller in the country and visited as many as possible. For Bruce, a vacation was a week in Napa or Santa Fe for food and wine but also to scout out the best independent bookstores and network with their owners.
He asked about Square Books in Oxford, one of his favorites. Bay Books was modeled after it. These days Mercer was living in Oxford and teaching creative writing at Ole Miss, a two-year gig with one year to go and the hope of a permanent position. The success of Tessa would put her on a tenure track, at least in Bruce’s opinion, and he was scheming of ways to help.
The waitress poured champagne and took their orders. They toasted