She shrugged. “Yeah.”
“I can’t fathom it,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve been trying to start the next Sister Marguerite book, but writing alone isn’t like writing with you. It’s like the tank is empty at the end of the day. I keep expecting my agent to call any moment and ask when the new manuscript will be finished, and then I try not to be hopelessly offended when she doesn’t.”
Merritt gave him a gracious smile, then wiped her mouth witha napkin. “Well, I’ll read it whenever it comes out. Once I finish, what is it,A Liturgy for Mourning?”
Whit flinched, keeping one eye closed for protection. “Yes.”
“Oh, stop,” Merritt said, standing up. “I really enjoyedThe Hour of Matins. Sister Marguerite is great, and I love the whole ‘How would Father Brownreallyfeel about all these murders in his parish?’ thing. Surely that man should be having more crises of faith.”
Whit shrugged. “That is sort of the driving question... hey, wait.”
Merritt hunched her shoulders slightly, looking like she might know what he was about to say next.
“How much is left to write in your manuscript?”
She turned to walk toward the living room and spoke with her back to him. “I don’t know, not much. Just the ending, really.”
“Nearly finished!”
She nodded, still not looking. “I’m struggling with it a bit, but I’ll figure it out.”
“You know what could help... are you trying to run away right now?”
She finally turned back. “Yes, Whit. I’m not enjoying talking about this.”
“We werejusttalking about my book.”
Merritt crossed her arms. “Which has been published. After it was gone over a dozen times by your editor and agent and whoever else. It’s not the same thing.”
She was walking now, trying to retreat to her chair.
“Merritt,” he said more loudly.
“What?”
She turned back. Whit did not have a plan for what to say next. He looked around the room. On the coffee table were the remnants of a game of war between Evie and Annie.
“I’ll play you for it.”
“For what?”
“For your book. If you win, the manuscript can remain hidden from the world indefinitely. And if I win, I get to read it.”
Merritt deliberated, then smiled. “Fine,” she said, with a scheming look on her face, “but I get to pick the game.”
Now Whit considered. “Fine. What are we playing?”
“Nertz,” she said, scooping up the cards and walking back to the kitchen. “Do you have another deck of cards?”
“What’s Nertz?” he asked once they had procured a second deck and were seated again at the kitchen table.
His ignorance visibly thrilled Merritt. With her shoulders pushed back as she shuffled, almost in shimmying territory, she was suddenly looking very superior.
“Oh, it’s not hard.”
“I feel like you’re lying.”
“I’m not lying. The rules are straightforward. I’m just very good.”
