"Dear Miss Drake,
We are pleased to offer you an advance of $20,000 to show good faith in accepting your manuscript Michael. We would like to proceed with the publishing of your book and any royalties coming from the its sales as per the contract, will be then forwarded to, you. However, we ask you to read and sign the enclosed contract first and then return it to us. Please cash the check, if you accept our offer. For further information regarding this agreement, please contact me, Russell Grant at 555-5656 in Hollywood, Florida.
Yours sincerely
R. Grant"
It took us a while to fully accept the authenticity of the letter. I read it several times to clarify each and every word Mr. Grant had written.
“Oh, my goodness,” I finally gave out a yell.
“Congratulations, Missy,” Larry pitched in.
René picked me up and twirled me around the room, obviously pleased with the outcome of my efforts as a new writer. Once my feet finally touched the floor, I ran to the phone, eyeing Larry for permission.
“Go ahead, call her,” he said, knowing exactly who I was about to call.
“Hello, Irma? It’s Missy. They bought my book, Irma. Isn’t that amazing?”
“The book is amazing, I would have been surprised had they not liked it. That’s great news. Keep writing, honey. Make us proud. You will have to send me an autographed copy of the book when it comes out.”
“I most definitely will. Thank you for the opportunity and the encouragement. I love you,” I said finally before I hung up the receiver.
For the next few weeks, I was kept very busy with Mr. Russell Grant, who became my publisher and my agent as well. I didn’t know that I needed an agent, but he had persuaded me into believing I did. I signed all the endless paperwork, which was almost as long as my book. I opened up a bank account at the closest branch near Larry’s house, first to deposit the publisher’s cheque and, also, to deposit my Nana’s precious cash.
Russell Grant was a man in his early 30s who had made it in the publishing industry by having written one bestseller at the age of 25. His book was more of a travel chronicle than a fiction, but it had caught the public’s fascination and, overnight, Russell became the talk of the literary community. He explained his story to me, mainly to impress upon me the importance of having an agent, because he had had none. Without an agent, Russell’s good fortune was very short lived. As fast as his popularity had grown, it had fizzled out even faster. He had only been a one-book wonder. After his short career as a writer, he found a position with the same publishing company. Other than minimal royalties, he was now just a salaried employee, struggling like many others to make a decent living. He had started to hire himself out as an agent and when he found new writers, he was not just feeding off their rewards, but handing out crucial information and guiding their careers so the writers didn’t end up becoming one-book wonders like him.
He was a handsome man, single and very dedicated to his clients. His vibrant personality overshadowed his physical limitations. He was not a tall fellow and had a slight limp due to a childhood bout with polio. The limp was barely noticeable, yet he used to be self-conscious as a young man thus, he never pursued the company of women.
Russell took over my life, it seemed, with endless book signings in the Hollywood area and he started to set up similar signings in other states also. I never thought being a writer would change my life in so many ways. All I wanted to do was to keep on writing. Instead, I had to spend the next two months travelling, sleeping in unfriendly hotels, meeting people who were strangers to me and signing my name in books. People lined up to beg for my autograph and requested the strangest comments as dedications.
Russell became my travel companion. The company endorsed his travels in order to promote new books and their authors because the initial campaign was paramount in the ultimate success of the book. He was also my chaperone, in a way, because of my age. I needed his presence, for in some instances, I was not even eligible to attend certain functions because of it. The age of adulthood in the USA was 21 and I was not even 19. Missy Drake became my pen name and the public ate it up with an uncanny devotion. The line-ups at bookstores were endless and I was so caught up in the frenzy that every night after a day of work, I collapsed on my hotel bed, unable to move. I missed René so much, even though we talked almost every night after completing my obligations to the publisher. I arrived back to my room those nights, next to exhausted, and to make matters worse, I was homesick, not for Montreal, but for the place where René was. My life became a struggle. The life of fame sucked. At nights, before I closed my eyes, I thought of the place where I had written my bestseller, the place where I had met Michael, the place where life was filled with love, friends and peace. My dreams, however, were forever of René.
By the end of March 1980, I completed my tour and returned to Florida again, but to my dismay, the house was empty and there was a brief letter from René waiting on my bed.
"Dearest Missy,
Larry and I have left to do a long haul. We will travel to Montreal, then down to New York City, continuing south until we will arrive at home sometime in April. I will call you often. I hope you will rest and overcome the hardships of your past few weeks. Take care of yourself.
Love
René"
Although Larry’s house provided all the comforts I needed, I didn’t like the emptiness of it. After only a few days back, I started to feel the loneliness so deeply I decided to call on Russell and invite him out for dinner. Much to my surprise, he accepted my invitation. I would have invited someone my own age had I known anyone. I was still a newcomer in Southern Florida and I had not met anyone. I had become so immersed in my career as a writer I didn’t even know the area in which I lived.
Russell arrived to pick me up in his car and at his suggestion, because I had none, we went to a French restaurant, Oceanside. He was good company and we shared our life stories with each other over wine and lobster tails. Even though he was almost twice my age, my life story was longer and more interesting, for some reason. I attributed it to the fact that as a writer of fiction, compared to his travel documents, I was more astute in telling outrageous tales. I also told him, after the third glass of wine, about my non-existent love life. He laughed, telling me he didn’t have one either. Given our differences in age, we still had many things in common. He kept insisting he liked the very same foods, same songs and same hobbies. He continued to order more wine and with our good-natured exchange of stories, drinking was an accepted activity.
He confessed he had cried after reading my story about Michael; however, he also told me that while he was reading it, he was drinking red wine known to bring him to tears as well. I laughed because I knew that men don’t usually read stories such as mine, admitting to an emotional outburst was too candid, even for him.
Russell lived in Fort Lauderdale, a city near Hollywood, and he had to pass through it to drive me home. The dinner date was pleasant and even though I was somewhat inebriated from the wine, I really didn’t want the evening to end, thus, when he suggested I visit his condo, I agreed. He was so friendly and pleasant as a host.
His condo was on the 20th floor of a high-rise complex, right on the shores of the Atlantic Ocean, where many other structures similar to his lined the coast of Southern Florida. The coastline in Florida seemed to be very congested with hotels and condos to accommodate all the people who flocked there, escaping the poor weather of the north.
He parked the car in the indoor parking complex located under the building. We took the elevator up and when he opened the door to his place, I was pleasantly surprised. It had one main living area, with windows all around and the view from the 20th floor was breath-taking. The whole coast along the beach, all the way down to Miami, was visible and absolutely beautiful. I had always loved those picture-perfect vistas of nature. Russell dimmed the lights right away claiming I could get the ideal look out.
He opened a bottle of wine and offered some to me. After the first sip, the remaining events of that night became fuzzy and confusing. I remember sitting on a white leather couch, facing the windows, and as we sipped the wine, we talked more and more. Honestly, I don’t remember talking at all, but I do remember that before long Russell slipped his arms around my shoulders as he inched his way closer and closer to me. So close, I could smell the garlic on his breath. Before I knew it, he pulled me so close to him that suddenly, though reluctantly, I succumbed to my own sexual desires. He kissed me with a determination to entice me even more.
There was no unusual force, no insistent pressure, just a natural attraction between René and me. We finally got caught up in a moment of mutual desire. I had fought my body’s sexual needs for too long and the timing that night was perfect. I closed my eyes and kissed René’s lips and pressed his firm body next to mine. Suddenly, René lifted me up and carried me into the bedroom, where our king-sized bed was waiting for us. The room was spinning but I managed to unbutton my blouse and slip out of my skirt to wait for him to continue his erotic advances, touching those parts of my body which ached for him. In the dark, I reached for his naked flesh and as he ravaged mine, I cried out from the rapid rise of my ecstasy. His tight well-formed body lay there on top of me and as he reached his own climax, we lay there, silent and spent in each other’s arms.
“Oh. René. I love you,” I whispered before passing out.
The early morning sun edged its way slowly over the horizon and as its rays became more intense, they flooded the bedroom with a blinding light that shone directly toward me, causing my eyes to open. Still half asleep, I reached over to feel René’s soft skin, but I found myself with a stranger in my bed and a sudden wave of panic swept over my entire body. I leaped out of bed glaring at Russell who was still sound asleep. I was shocked to have found that man in my bed but upon further examination of my surroundings, I came to the realization that it was not my bed, not my room, nor my house. I dressed and ran. I took a taxi home, locked all the doors, took a long shower and went to my bed to cry myself back to sleep. I was hoping to awake from a terrible nightmare.
I woke up later to the ringing of the phone beside my bed. For a moment, I hesitated, still feeling the guilt of my actions the night before and not quite sure as to what really happened.
“Hello?” I whispered.
“Missy, I called you several times last night. Where have you been? I was worried,” René said frantically.
“Everything is okay. I went to grab something to eat. I am so sorry, René, that I wasn’t here to talk with you. I wish I had not gone out,” I started to cry.
“Missy, what’s wrong?”
“I miss you so much. I don’t like being apart. I don’t feel at home.”
“I’ll be back soon. Listen, I wanted to tell you that while Larry and I were in Montreal, I picked up my real birth certificate, so now I can proceed with re-establishing my true identity. I’ll explain everything in a few days.”
“Hurry back,” I finally said.
I stayed in my bedroom for the rest of the day, too ashamed to face the world outside of it. Slowly, the events of the previous night started to come back. I blamed myself, for I had fallen into a trap I had allowed someone to set. Blaming Russell was unjust, I was the one who drank too much, I was the one who willingly went to a strange man’s home. If he took advantage of me, I was the only one to blame. My head was still heavy with a peculiar drowsiness I couldn’t understand and I finally fell into a profound sleep, again.