"They're fluff, but they're fun," reclusive mystery writer Parker Evans says of his novels to editor Maris Matherly-Reed in Sandra Brown's 2001 best seller "Envy."

Indeed they are -- Brown's books, I mean. A bit of "fluff" for a day at the beach or lounging by the pool is sometimes a must, and Brown fits the bill. "Envy," in particular, is an engaging read and is the Sunday Book Club's August selection.

Brown's novel is a clever story within a story about a sophisticated editor of a New York publishing house who is drawn to the author of a story she found in a pile of unsolicited manuscripts. Maris Matherly-Reed tracks down the mysterious "P.M.S." who authored the manuscript at a run-down 18th-century plantation in Georgia's sea islands.

Parker Evans, she soon discovers, is a man full of secrets and bitterness. The main story follows their collaboration on the book and subsequent affair. Maris is fascinated by Parker's novel, titled "Envy," and Brown draws the reader into the story as well.

This secondary story follows two college friends and aspiring writers whose lives are tragically altered by one's envy of the other's success. This in itself makes for an interesting story. Of course, readers suspect from the start that Evans' novel is somehow connected to his own life. The mysterious injury that confined him to a wheelchair only reinforces that suspicion. But Brown doesn't give away too much, and doesn't spoil the surprise.

In addition to her smart plot, Brown adds a good measure of the elements romance readers have come to expect: R-rated love scenes, stereotypical bad guys (easily spotted by crude language) and a lush, romantic locale where the main characters fall in love. And believe it or not, she does a fairly good job of making the steamy beauty of the Atlantic Coast come to life:

She was beginning to think that this venture was foolhardy, that she should be sensible and retreat to the safety of her hotel room in gracious and hospitable Savannah. She could have a room-service meal, a bubble bath, a glass of wine from the mini bar. Thus restored, she could call and try to persuade the author to meet her on neutral turf.

But then she caught her first glimpse of the house and was instantly enchanted.

It was beautiful. Poignantly so. Beautiful in the way that evokes sadness. An aging film star whose once-gorgeous face now evinced the passage of decades. An antique wedding dress, its lace now yellowed and tattered. A gardenia whose creamy petals had turned brown. The house showed visible signs of former grandeur now lost.

But with its obvious flaws softened by the waning light, it was as lovely as a watercolor painted from a faded but fond memory.

Maris stepped out of the cart and followed a pathway marked by twin rows of spectacular, moss-shrouded live oaks. She climbed the steps as soundlessly as possible. When she reached the veranda, she had a silly urge to tiptoe across it as Jem Finch had done in To Kill a Mockingbird, so as not to alert the spooky Boo Radley to his presence in a place where he was a trespasser, where he didn't belong, and where he wasn't welcome.

Instead she bolstered herself with a deep breath and walked boldly to the front door and reached for the brass knocker.