"Isn't this a marvelous place to hold a romance writers' conference?" I asked Ada as we sat down to lunch on the porch of the restaurant overlooking the lake.
"Oh, it sure is," she agreed, "and to think that I almost didn't come. I'd never heard of Winnisquam, New Hampshire. I've learned a great deal in the last three days, and, Claire, your talk was terrific. I remember when you said that it was well known that readers liked full descriptions of the food the characters ate. Then you pointed out that meant that most romance readers were probably overweight women who were very fond of food but who still had dreams of being swept away by some gorgeous man." We both laughed. Ada quickly stopped laughing when she came to a sudden realization, "I guess I'm one of those readers since I've always had a weight problem."
"Don't forget to practice describing the cuisine whenever you get the chance," I reminded her of a tip I'd given.
"Oh, yea, like now. Another thing I'd never thought about was . . ."
I was distracted by the feeling that someone to my left was staring at me. I looked up and saw a man looking at me with a smile. I quickly looked away. He was standing three tables away, talking to the manager of the resort. I remember a feeling of fear going through me at that moment. I thought of how I would describe him--tall and strong with a well-proportioned physique and an air of mystery. I ignored him and tried to concentrate on the conversation. Ada was talking about the novel she was trying to write, her first.
By 1983 I had enjoyed enough success to be invited to talk at that five-day conference. I had published six romance novels all of which luckily had sold very well. They were sweet romances in the mold of Barbara Cartland's in which the heroine always found the right man but never lost her virginity until after the marriage ceremony. I had been very nervous about presenting my talk but later realized I shouldn't have. After all, I had been a good student at Bryn Mawr where my professors had encouraged me to become a novelist. Of course, they never had romance writing in mind.
". . . so this friend," continued Ada, "decides she's going to write a novel, too, but she comes up with this plot where this woman falls in love and marries a man who is a bigamist. Can you imagine wanting to write something like that?"
"No. Why do so many writers want to write about depressing subjects?"
The next day a short hike was scheduled in the early afternoon to discuss settings, but I decided to skip it. Since my arrival I had not had any time for the solitude to which I was accustomed. I went to lunch late and half way through, a male voice with a French accent interrupted my solitary mood.
"I hope you are enjoying your lunch."
"Oh, yes I am, thank you," I was startled but managed a calm reply. It was the man I had caught staring at me the day before.
" . . . and the fantastic view of that beautiful lake, too. Do you mind if I join you, Miss?"
"Well, I'm not going to be here for very long." He ignored the statement and took a chair anyway.
"You came for the writers' conference, right?"
"Yes."
"It is not hard to notice you. You are so beautiful." I was 26 but looked deceptively younger. "My name is Alain LaPierre, and they've told me you are the famous romance novelist, Claire Moon. I'm very pleased to meet you," he declared as he made a slight bow with his head and looked right into my eyes.
I responded courteously, all this time hurrying to finish my lunch and not looking at him very much. I felt nervous but thought I was doing a good job of hiding it. Now that I had gotten a closer look at him, I realized how handsome he was, but what most impressed me was his unrelenting confidence. He was so polished that it seemed like he had rehearsed his lines at least 40 times. He looked to be around 45 with an exciting tension in his voice and movements.
"I've always admired people of great accomplishments especially people who have gone so far at an age as young as yours, and being a woman doesn't seem to hold you back in any way."
"No. I'm definitely a believer in women's rights." He asked me questions about the conference and the talk I had given. He was warm in his manner and quick to laud me at every opportunity. "I have to be getting back now," I told him.
"I regret that I couldn't have the pleasure of your company a little longer, but I'm going to insist that we get together tomorrow evening for dinner so that we can take up this sparkling conversation once again." I wasn't prepared for the suggestion, and he noticed my hesitation. "Oh, come now. I'm sure you can spare a little time in your busy schedule."
"Well, O.K., I guess it'll be all right." I had never been particularly outgoing or quick to trust strangers, but I decided a dinner date at the same familiar restaurant was safe. I was sure nothing would come of it.
The next evening I was treated to a sumptuous dinner, which I was happy to practice describing. He then slowly led me into conversation that lasted well into the night without my noticing it. He revealed that he was the owner of the resort, and talked about how much he enjoyed managing his many properties in the United States and other countries. He invited me to visit him soon at his estate on Long Island, which was close to the estate John Lennon once lived in, but I did not accept. He asked for my address and telephone number, but I had a policy of not giving out my telephone number because I lived with my grandmother who had a heart condition and slept often. I always tried to give her every consideration. She had raised me since I was four.
On Friday he drove me in his Maserati to catch my flight back home to Staten Island. He promised to write. I received a letter the following Tuesday and again for the next several days. I didn't answer, assuming that his ardor would soon be extinguished. They were long, elegantly written letters. Each one became more melodiously romantic in tone and each day my enjoyment of them increased. He soon told me he had just finished reading all my novels and had enjoyed them very much. The day that I was sure he would not send any more letters came and went but they kept coming. He suggested meeting for dinner some evening in the most exclusive restaurant in New York City, the Jeune Fleur. He said it was known only to the cognoscenti. It didn't even have a sign on the front.
I finally answered his letters. I told him I might be interested in going to dinner, but my grandmother was going through a serious crisis in her illness, and it would probably be several weeks before I could go. Although private-duty nurses were taking care of her, I still felt I should stay home as much as I could. I felt like I hardly knew him but that was changing. From his letters, he seemed trustworthy, kind, and honest. I didn't write a letter a day like he did, but he was on my mind almost all the time. One day I realized how much he was like the ideal romantic hero I had been creating for my novels, drawn in turn upon the guidelines circulated by the romance book publishers. When I went back to look at my third novel, Finding Mr. Right, I found that the hero was almost the identical Alain LaPierre, both physically and temperamentally. I wondered whether there might not be something supernatural involved.
We eventually made arrangements for dinner. I insisted on meeting him there so I could have my own car to come home in. The days before the date I kept fantasizing what it would be like. I remember staring out the window for hours like I had done since I was a child. Then the morning of our planned rendezvous, my grandmother awoke with sharp pains in the chest and stomach area. I called Alain at his resort, but he had already left. Neither was he at his Long Island mansion. I felt I couldn't leave my grandmother so I simply didn't go. I was sure he would be upset that I hadn't notified him and didn't blame him. I immediately sent a letter of explanation, knowing it wouldn't reach him for several days. When his answer came, it started with the usual greetings and continued
" . . . . I was naturally disappointed when you didn't come. I waited for four hours just in case you got there late. I wanted that much to see you again, that inspiring smile, those enchanting eyes, that melodious voice announcing such perceptive thoughts. I grow fonder of you every day. I know you must have a good reason for not appearing. There must have been something unexpected that came up. Maybe your grandmother got sick. I trust that . . . ."
He was an angel, so understanding. I felt so reassured by his response. At the end of the letter, he regretfully announced that he had to go stay at his private Caribbean island where he stayed every winter. It was now November and he was long overdue, having stayed just in order to see me.
He continued to write long letters to me from his island called Plaisance. It was five miles long and almost as wide, and he owned it entirely. He often mentioned how happy he was that he had it all to himself and didn't have a single government telling him what to do. He was kept busy in spite of having a manager over the entire island along with other administrators and numerous workers and servants. He said there were certain duties which he simply could not delegate. He told me how much he wished I could be there and then mentioned, for the first time, that if we were married I would come live there all the time. I wondered what was so important on his island to keep him there the whole winter without leaving.
I enjoyed being independent and was proud of my professional success, but I played with the thought of being married and still continuing my career. It could offer me the financial security that would give me the option of not having to work so hard at making a living for myself and my grandmother. Besides I didn't know how long I could keep writing romance novels that always had to follow the same formula, and the romance field could dry up anytime. I'd thought about trying something more challenging but wasn't particularly eager to start. On the other hand, I had no idea what I might do with my grandmother. She had to stay close to her doctors so she couldn't come live with us on the island, and yet I couldn't imagine leaving her.
When Alain returned to New York in May, we had no problem in meeting at the Jeune Fleur. I was enchanted. I thought it had the most romantic ambience imaginable. I had seen other exclusive restaurants, had read of many more, and had imagined others for my novels, but there had never been anything like this one. In the center of the floor, there was a large sculptured fountain with cherubins playing around the water. The entire restaurant was inlaid with oak including posts, walls, banisters, and doors. The lighting was set at an ideal level with gaslight and candlelight.
Alain had arranged for a table that was cozily isolated from the others. He ordered a bottle of red French beaujoulais, vintage year 1943. As he talked, the candlelight danced on his face, which made it seem so much stronger to me. He made an excellent choice of dinner which began with a tart of olives, anchovies, and onions, tartelettes Bugnard, filet boeuf roti in brown Madeira sauce with truffles, and a delicious Black Forest cake. It was like nothing I had ever eaten before. Of course, I had a great time practicing my description of the food and the surroundings. I was so impressed with the decisive way in which Alain ordered the meal and later called for the waiters to bring more food. I thought of radio psychologist Toni Grant to whom I listened all the time. She said that men had to be given the feeling that they were capable of taking care of women and that women should let them know that it was appreciated. I gave Alain my telephone number that night. He called every day but continued to also send letters.
A month later I accepted his invitation to his Long Island mansion. He sent a chauffered limousine to my home to pick me up and talked to me on the automobile's telephone. He told me he had just returned from his island. He had needed to go back for a week. The estate was an immense holding with a large pond, a golf course, and a large garden with marble stone walks. The castle was three stories high and had 32 rooms with antique furniture that was exquisite.
At dinner the servants were very attentive and were directed by a lady named Martha, who was dressed very elegantly. I again practiced describing the food--the soup was bouillabaisse a la marseillaise, a lobster and aurugula salad, tortelli stuffed with butternut squash and sidled with slabs of grilled duck, supremes de volaille Henri IV, meuniere, and for dessert a mascarpone souffle. It was like nothing I had ever eaten before. The candlelight was low and helped give a feeling of intimacy. Afterwards, Alain led me to the drawing room, where I was delighted to find a small chamber orchestra tuning up to play. They were dressed in 17th century clothes. They played several Baroque pieces. I then remembered that in New Hampshire I had told Alain that I was fond of Baroque music. After the concert ended, Martha came to tell Alain there was a phone call for him from the island. I took the opportunity to tell Martha how much I had appreciated the dinner as well as everyone's cordiality. I added rhetorically, "Mr. LaPierre is a very nice man, isn't he?"
"Yes, he is. I've worked for him for 8 years now and I've enjoyed it. I must warn you, though. He does have his eccentricities." She said it with a serious look on her face that trailed into a sly smile as she walked out of the room, "Excuse me, I have to write a letter."
After Alain returned, we discussed the music, and it was not long before the whole house was very quiet. We were sitting on a sofa next to the window.
"There's a beautiful moon looking at us through the window, and it's inviting us to enjoy it," he said softly as he got up to open the window curtains and turn off the light. The moon did cast amazingly beautiful light and shadows inside, almost as if the room had been built specifically with that purpose in mind. He continued to tell me about different features of the mansion. I expected he would soon take me into his arms and felt sure that he would do it in just the right way. It seemed like a long time had passed when he finally took me in his arms and kissed me in one quick motion. As our kisses grew deeper and more intense, I wondered what he would do next. How far would he go and how far would he expect me to go? Earlier I had been shown my own bedroom, and from all appearances I would get to stay in it alone, but might he decide to try to come and share it with me? For the first 15 minutes, all he did was kiss me passionately and press his hands against my back and shoulders. I expected his hands to start wandering toward more alluring pastures. I didn't know what I would do when he moved his hand down. I had never allowed that to happen so soon after meeting someone. His hand would sometimes move up my stomach toward my breasts but then never reach quite that far. I wondered again how much he would push to share my bedroom tonight, and what had Martha meant about his "eccentricities"? Was he some sort of sexual pervert? And how would Martha know? We kissed for what seemed like hours.
Then suddenly he said, "I'm sorry but I am feeling very tired now. I was constantly kept busy at Plaisance." He led me up the stairs to my bedroom. "I hope you sleep well. It has been delightful to have you here. I've been waiting for months for this, and I am absolutely enchanted."
"And I'm having a wonderful time," I said as I went in.
After my return home, I kept thinking of Alain. I thought about what a real gentleman he was. Apparently he had never intended to push anything sexual between us. He wanted to wait until it was right. I decided to dismiss Martha's comment as an off-the-cuff, jesting remark about some minor quirk. Or it could have been that Martha was fond of Alain and trying to scare me off. Martha was older but still attractive, and it was conceivable that Alain could become interested in her.
Two months later Alain invited me to his mansion for a weekend. He had been very busy between the mansion, the island, the resort, and other properties. We spent much time outside boating and swimming. After Sunday dinner we sat and talked quietly. He announced without warning, "I've thought it over carefully, Claire, and I think we should get married. I think we get along marvelously, and I am so very much in love with you. You would live at Plaisance, and I know you would find it enchanting. You would also have plenty of time to continue your writing career because there everything would be done for you, and I would be too busy to put many demands on your time."
I didn't know what to say. As with other decisions, he didn't seem to have any doubts at all after making up his mind. I said, "I do love you very much, Alain, but what about my grandmother? How can I go . . ."
"Don't think I'd forgotten about her. I'll pay for the very best nursing home around. It's no problem."
"She has been saying that she wants to go to a nursing home for some time now, but I've heard so many bad things about them. Let me think about what to do with her."
"Of course, but I do have to go back to Plaisance in early October. I hope you'll say 'yes' before I leave, or otherwise I'll have to live another winter without you."
"Oh, that is a dreadful thought, isn't it. I'll try to come to a decision as soon as I can."
My grandmother was not surprised when she heard about Alain's proposal. I had told her many things about him. She expressed reservations that we hadn't known each other long enough, but she approved of the marriage. She had kept a close eye on me as I was growing up, but in the last few years she had relaxed more. I did feel uncomfortable about not being able to see Plaisance before getting married since I would live such an isolated existence there. It took several weeks to make all the necessary preparations including finding a good nursing home for grandmother. This only left time for a small wedding ceremony at Alain's mansion, after which we had to rush off to Plaisance.
It was a five-hour flight. Alain piloted all the way. On the approach, one could see the astounding blue of the water, an impressive waterfall on the beach, and dense, luxuriant trees and grass. I noticed towers that looked like small lighthouses placed at distances along the beach. As we flew past one of the towers, I noticed that machine guns were mounted on them with men watching over the ocean. Alain noticed that I had seen the guns and said, "Those watchtowers are necessary to keep out intruders and busy bodies, and no one can leave without clearing through me. Besides, the only safe way to leave is by my jet. If someone were to leave by water, they could be eaten by sharks. There are many out there." Down on the beach, I noticed a large number of young women in very scant bathing suits. Without exception, they had very well-constructed physiques.
From the airplane, we were quickly driven to the building where we were to stay. There were five large and very impressive buildings modeled after the palaces of the 18th-century French kings. All over the grounds could be seen more pretty young ladies walking around leisurely in bathing suits or very skimpy clothes. Alain introduced me to the many servants as "the new Mrs. LaPierre." After dinner, we went to the bedroom, which was every bit as luxurious as I had expected. I was very excited about finally consummating the marriage.
When I woke up the next morning, I found that Alain had already left. I thought about how romantic I had felt. A black woman came in and asked what I wanted her to bring me for breakfast. After she brought back the breakfast, we talked. She was very courteous and helpful. She told me that I would not be living in the building we were in.
After I looked out the window and saw more young women, I asked, "Who are all those young women walking around the island?"
"That's right. None of you ever know that when you get here. Ma'am, those are Mr. LaPierre's 40 other wives."
© 2023 by Louis Lopez. Written in 1984.
All rights reserved. It is allowed to reproduce and distribute copies of this book PROVIDED that (1) full credit is given to the author Louis Lopez, (2) it is copied exactly as found here without any alterations to the wording and (3) no more than $20 is charged for each copy.
A romantic story
