Lisette Brooks loved southern Florida in late January, with its longer days and reliably warm temperatures. The dreaded tourist season didn’t kick off until next month, allowing the locals to enjoy the area’s natural bounty in relative peace and quiet. Snowbirds irritated her. They brought with them packed streets and crowded restaurants. Thirty years in Boca Raton allowed her to call herself a native.
She hadn’t yet decided where to take her winter holiday. Like many of her acquaintances, she normally decamped in February. She spoke a bit of Spanish and often ended up visiting friends in Chile or Argentina, where she could be assured of a decent social life. Sometimes a man might factor into her decision about where she vacationed. Nevertheless, it always remained her decision. Lisette had sworn she would never again let any male interfere with her life’s plan. She didn’t need to. Money bought many advantages, chief among them the freedom to make arrangements at the last minute.
She didn't have any idea writing would make her wealthy. She became a novelist because she wanted to, and because she was prepared to work at her craft. As it turned out, she had a talent for telling suspenseful stories in which a strong heroine always overcame the problem or maneuvered around the obstacles that stood in her way. Love played a role at times, but the protagonist never reinvented herself for any man. The female leads skewed young but not too young, beautiful but not impossibly so, and educated but not unapproachable. Trained in a variety of martial arts and weapons use, they nonetheless relied first and foremost on their mental acumen. Her girls were clever, resourceful, and above all, independent.
Though she hadn’t continued her formal education beyond high school, Lisette always read avidly. She wrote whenever possible, mostly journal entries about the life she wanted, and essays about the life she observed. She studied authors and their styles during her time at City Lights Bookstore. She also made mental notes about the customers, particularly those who gravitated to fiction. A good book, she knew, provided entertainment. A great book, she believed, celebrated its readers and treated them as members of an exclusive club. Lisette already excelled in the art of making people feel special. She used that talent as an author.
As a result, she became not simply a novelist but a hugely popular one. Her books regularly entered the bestseller lists and stayed there for weeks at a time. Critics called her “the thinking woman’s Jackie Collins.”
She created two series. For the second one, she used the pen name J. J. Boyle after her mother Janice. Her books were available in print and ebook format. Most of them had been recorded. One had already been made into a television serial starring a mid-list actress who found fame with the part. J. J. Boyle's debut novel had just been optioned for a film. Lisette arranged to consult on the project. She wanted to insure her loyal readers got the script they deserved. She also thought she’d enjoy flying to Hollywood and being treated like royalty.
Her global fanbase wrote letters and emails. They established clubs and social media pages and engaged in endless discussions centered on plot points and character development. Mostly female, they remained steadfast in their admiration. Lisette had never had much use for women in her younger years. Now she acknowledged their considerable consumer power. She liked having fans.
Meanwhile, she made money hand-over-fist, money she could never hope to spend. She didn’t do book tours anymore. She occasionally consented to a reading, although she no longer trusted her voice to sound as youthful as she wanted. Her team—accountant, agent, assistant, attorney, and publicist—handled it all. All she had to do was write books.
Not bad for a woman at a certain point in her life.
Lisette moved languidly around the lounge chairs and toward her favorite semi-private enclosure where she could relax without being bothered. She looked forward to seeing her favorite cabana boy. It was a near daily ritual, this flirtation with the handsome young man who served her margaritas while she lolled on the chaise. Lisette never came down before four, in part because she wrote until then, in part because she preferred that time of day. The sun hung lower in the sky. She’d put in a day’s work. Time for fun.
She wore the requisite oversized sunglasses and big hat. Her sheer cover-ups blocked the late-day sun while offering the outline of a still-shapely body. Even with all the time and money she’d invested, it was best at her age to present a peek of this, a hint of that, the mere suggestion of sensuality. Smoke and mirrors.
Lisette understood how the game was played. Wealth could slow the aging process. It couldn’t stop it. She detested the idea of growing old. Who didn’t? She’d been blessedly free of any health issues. Her joints, all of them original, functioned well. Her organs were apparently in mint condition. She lived relatively pain-free, an anomaly she appreciated. Skilled cosmetic surgeons had done whatever she decided her appearance required in as subtle a fashion as possible. Not for her the packed in, pulled back, sewn together look of so many of her contemporaries.
For years, she skirted the age issue. It made sense to maintain a certain air of mystery. The Internet and the increase in the number of nosy entertainment reporters made that increasingly difficult. She had a daughter in her fifties and a grandson who just turned twenty-eight. Once those facts were made public, anyone could do the math.
Women were judged by their age as well as their appearance, whether they were housewives, television stars, or best-selling authors. At the same time, everyone was becoming more candid these days. At least fame allowed for some narrative control. She could reveal details about her past life when she was ready. She’d once or twice indicated she had a family from whom she’d long been estranged. When pressed, she’d allow that it was all too difficult to discuss. The young reporters pushed, but Lisette Brooks was more than capable of holding her own.
After Michael’s recent near-death experience, her outlook underwent a seismic shift. She’d always accepted her on-again off-again connection with her daughter. She realized she might have been a more active parent, might have paid more attention to Suzanne. But what could she have done? She had to deal with her lunatic husband. Once she got rid of him, she had to provide for the two of them. Her early choices hadn’t always been wise, she conceded. At the outset, she’d been convinced her sullen and sensitive daughter was to blame for whatever she claimed had happened to her. These days, she wasn’t so sure.
Though Lisette visited New York several times during the nineties to meet with her publisher, she connected with Suzanne just twice. Her daughter had grown into a most attractive woman. She’d clearly achieved some measure of success, though Lisette was in the dark as to what the younger woman did for a living. Suzanne refused to discuss work in any detail, though she shared amusing details about corporate meetings. An executive of some kind, Lisette surmised.
They dined both times at an out of the way bistro instead of the trendy place Lisette thought might be fun. Conversation touched on cultural and social events. Suzanne appeared to be adept in the art of polite conversation. She’d even read a few of her mother’s books, which pleased Lisette more than the older woman let on.
At the end of one meal Suzanne insisted was her treat, the waiter returned with a credit card. He handed it back with a small nod and said, “Thank you, Miss Smith.”
Lisette cocked an eyebrow.
“Nom de plume, mother. Like your J.J. Boyle. Although in my case, you might say nom de guerre.”
Well, that’s cryptic, Lisette thought. What was her daughter fighting? “Should I be calling you Miss Smith?” she asked.
“Why not?”
Suzanne clearly had secrets to keep. Perhaps she left a failing marriage or fled an abusive relationship. She might even be involved in some sort of covert operations. She'd once mentioned that military service had brought out her natural talent as a markswoman. Just like her grandfather, she noted. Lisette found the idea of an undercover daughter intriguing. It had the makings of a dramatic story.
Lisette didn't probe. She had no idea what might be considered appropriate inquiry between a mother and her daughter. She scarcely knew this expensively dressed woman who sat across from her. None of her business, she decided, though she experienced an unfamiliar tug of concern.
They stayed in touch by phone. More precisely, Suzanne called twice a year. Lisette didn’t have contact information or any idea where her daughter lived. In 2006, Suzanne telephoned her to say she’d taken early retirement and would be traveling and out of touch for some time. Lisette didn’t hear from her daughter for five years.
When they at last spoke, Lisette discovered more than she could have imagined. Suzanne and her family—her daughter had both a husband and an adult son, which was shocking enough—had been in hiding all that time. Her daughter couldn’t talk about it except to say they were all safe. She allowed as she’d married a man who taught and did “government consulting.” Lisette determined he worked as some sort of intelligence officer. Perhaps they worked together. His and her spies, which sounded dangerous but also oddly reassuring.
Suzanne was much more forthcoming about her son. She shared with her mother details about his plans to be an engineer and his engagement to a budding architect, the daughter of a member of the House of Lords. Michael was marrying into a noble family! The idea of a royal wedding thrilled Lisette.
Then the awful (and still unsolved) incident occurred. Lisette wanted nothing more than to fly to London and stand vigil for her only grandson alongside her only child. Family mattered, she realized. Even this late in life, perhaps especially this late in life. That she suppressed her selfish inclinations and remained in Florida as Suzanne requested surprised her. Maybe she wasn’t too far along to change after all.
Besides, she’d been thinking about what a brilliant coda to her autobiography the reunion would make. Married to an addicted Beat poet, our heroine lived among pre-revolutionary types during the height of the hippie movement, then enjoyed a swinging couples-swapping life in 1970’s California. Inspired by the feminist revolution, the budding writer determined to chart her own course. She found her destiny, became a renowned author, and reunited with her daughter. Her grandson married the daughter of an English nobleman.
It promised to be a bestseller. Lisette could almost see her agent salivating.
As she glided toward her regular spot, Lisette was surprised to see not blond and buff Rory but an older man. Lisette had a keen eye when it came to judging age. This man was perhaps in his fifties and quite well preserved. No, better than that: he was, if she had to be honest, absolutely gorgeous. A few strands of silver at the temples in a full head of otherwise ebony hair. Wide shoulders, broad chest, and slim hips owed more to nature than any gym routine.
A man, Lisette decided, not a boy with aspirations.
He’d been setting towels inside the small tent. Now he straightened, turned, and favored her with a gleaming white smile.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Brooks. I have everything set up for you. My name is Gabriel, by the way. Like the archangel.” His English was impeccable, just the faintest trace of an accent.
“What happened to Rory?”
“Rory went back to school, I believe. The young are always bent on self-improvement, which is most admirable. I hope my presence does not disappoint. Let me amend that.” He broadened his smile. “I will make certain my presence does not disappoint.”
Good-looking and bold, Lisette thought approvingly. None of the obsequiousness that those serving the wealthy often exhibit. This man knew his place; he also knew his power. She arched an eyebrow and curved her lips ever so slightly.
“I have no doubt you will succeed.”
~
Gabriel issues his report a week later.
“She’s smart and careful. Not one to share. This one, she listens as much as she talks. Very unusual, especially for a woman. It appears she has accepted that I am an unemployed teacher hoping for better luck in the United States.”
“Don’t get too inventive. You are not the storyteller; she is.”
The comment stung. Gabriel felt he deserved far better from his employer. He resisted an easy retort.
“I am aware of that. You might be interested to know I am using her predilections to great advantage.”
“Of course you are. Please continue.”
That’s better, Gabriel thought. All he asked for was a modicum of respect.
“The woman has never been open about having a daughter. Now she intends to disclose all in advance of the union between her grandson and the child of some nobleman. She’s quite taken with the whole notion. Naturally, any announcement will be tied to some sort of book promotion. She remains quite ambitious. The wedding date isn’t set, owing to what she refers to as ‘a tragic incident.’ I made sympathetic noises and suggested she must have planned to fly over in her family’s time of need. She told me she was asked to remain stateside. And here’s where we run into a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“She doesn’t know where they’re currently living.”