“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?
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
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.”
