**

“Tell me, have you ever heard of the writer named Daryl David?”

The woman scrunched up her face and shook her head.
“He has a best-selling book about Rehoboth.”

“Oh, I heard about that. I’m a movie person.” She turned back to her friends.

“Hey! Any of you read that book, Beach something?”

“Beach Misses,” the guy a few stools down said. “Yeah, pretty good.”

I leaned over, “Do you happen to know who the author is?”

“Never heard of him.”

The others agreed and before long, they were off on another rowdy debate.
Tana returned with a mug of beer for me; she also put a fresh beer in front of the man to my right. I hadn’t seen him ask. I started to ask her about the menu, but she stopped me.

“First time here?”

I nodded.

“The Steam Pot, honey. It’s our best seller.”

“Done. I’ll take it.” I slid the menu back. “But before you go, I have a plane to catch and must leave by”—I don’t know why I looked at my watch—“eight-thirty.”

She looked up at the dingy clock made of plastic driftwood, nodded, and moved to the order screen. Someone from the group on my left called for her, but she held up a hand and entered my dinner order.

When she finished entering my order, she turned and asked, “Benny, you ready for another?” She was already pouring it.

Glancing at the man on my right, I noticed he seemed oblivious to the rowdy crowd. I said, “I hope the Steam Pot is good. I’m starved.”

“Can’t go wrong with that.” He sipped his beer.

“Mind if I ask a question?”

The man shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I need to answer.” He was the kind of person who had zero expression and less interest.

“Ever hear of Daryl David?”

“Wrote some book?”

“Right. I’m searching for him, but no one seems to know him.”

“Check the phone book?”

“I think Daryl David is a nom-de-plume, a pen name,” I added, in case he didn’t know the term.

He shot me a disgusted look. I shrugged apologetically.

“Sorry, habit. You know the man?”

“Try the bookstore.”

“I’ve been to every shop, bar, bank, and even gas station from Lewes to Dewey. Not one lead.”

“Maybe he’s not from here. They write books nowadays without ever visiting the city.” He sipped his beer.

The man wasn’t engaged; he never really looked at me. He seemed to be looking someplace far, far away.

“True, but this book started here before it hit the best-seller list. And the stories are pretty much dead-on local. I checked each location mentioned in each story.”

I sipped my beer in sync with him. He was watching Tana pour drinks, and so I guess our conversation was over.

One thing about traveling as much as I do, it gets a bit lonely, so I continued. “The thing is, how could a book sell half a million copies, and no one knows the author?”

The man looked back at me, surprised. “Where you from?”
“The New York Daily, I write the literary column.” That response always made me smile, I was proud of my job, but he frowned.

“Should have told them you were from Lewes.” He sipped. “Why do you care so much? Everyone writes a book these days.”

“The thing is, there are oddities about this book. First, there’s the title, Beach Misses. Nothing is missing that we can find, and “Misses” doesn’t seem to pertain to women.”

“We?”

“I’ve talked to the country’s best-known critics; they all have the same questions.”

He finished his beer just as Tana arrived with a fresh one.

“And the stories, there are twenty-two short stories, and each is exactly thirty-five hundred words long.”

That turned the man’s head and for the first time, he showed some emotion. “You counted?”

“We’ve all counted. Who writes twenty-two stories exactly the same length?” Just then a banged-up aluminum pot arrived. It was stuffed with clams, shrimp, and fish in an aromatic tomato broth. Steam rose from the pot like a nuclear tower, fogging my glasses. The aroma made me smile and salivate.
Tana came back and offered another beer. I declined, reminding her that I had to be in Baltimore soon.

I blew the steam off a clam and dug in. The Steam Pot was delicious. It confirmed my belief: eat where locals eat; you never go wrong.
After a few bites, I noticed the man next to me looking. He nodded. “Good?”

“Fantastic.” I wiped my mouth. “So, tell me, have your read Beach Misses?”

He nodded. “You came all the way from New York to ask a guy why his stories are, what did you say, thirty-five hundred words?”

“Every newspaper in the country is trying to interview the author. I was hoping for the scoop. But more than that, there’s a reason this book is on the best-seller’s list. The stories are wonderful. I laughed, I cried, I was holding my breath at the end of one. From the first page of the first story, I was hooked. The author took me on an emotional roller coaster ride and it’s his first book. I’ve reviewed self-published and small-press books before, but never one this good. How is it that a first-time author writes a story about a beach volleyball tournament played in drag that made my sides hurt? I teared up when the girl got the guy in the end.”

“Oh, and there’s a story called “Perfect Beach Day” about a differently-abled guy who finds utter joy learning to bodysurf. I never cry from reading but did over that story.”

I continued explaining the stories, probably listing them in order. I told the man, who now seemed interested, about each one: how they made me feel, which were funny or serious or mysterious. When I finished my dissertation, and the Steam Pot, he shook his head at me.

“Did you memorize the book?” He almost laughed.

**