Synopsis:
Ward DeFleur has it all. She’s a bestselling author and mother to a beautiful teenage daughter, Stevie. She resides on a fabulous estate in picture-perfect Connecticut.
But one night, as Ward is attending a book signing in conjunction with the publication of her latest book, Stevie is brutally murdered. Ward’s world is shattered, and she is consumed by grief, anger, and panic. She is unable to write another word.
Enter Bree Bennett.
Bree is a recently divorced former journalist with a daughter, Chloe, Stevie’s age who is spiraling out of control. Bree is desperate to find something other than Pilates classes and grocery shopping to occupy her time. She approaches the editor of the local newspaper about resuming her career, consumed by her determination to tell Ward’s tragic story. Ward is her favorite author. In fact, they met briefly at the book signing on the very night Stevie was murdered. Bree becomes fixated on finding Ward.
Ward doesn’t want to be found. And Stevie’s killer is still on the loose…
Perfectly Famous is a harrowing tale of one woman’s infatuation and another woman’s fear.
Review:
The inspiration for the book was Liebert’s love of “writing about strong women who are at crossroads in their lives and have to overcome whatever it is that’s impeding in order to move forward.” As the book opens, Laura Whitney, aka Ward DeFleur, is about to meet Bree Bennett, a fan who has read all of Ward’s books and attends a book signing at which she promptly bursts into tears upon meeting Ward. Bree and her husband, Jeremy, had decided to separate just two days earlier. Bree doesn’t forget Ward’s kindness and the conversation in which they engage just before Ward is informed that her daughter is missing and whisked away by her assistant. It was the fateful night when Ward’s only child was abducted and murdered. And the last time Ward was seen in public. Liebert relates that she set out to illustrate how the two women, both “enduring major, unpleasant life changes, . . . would ultimately save themselves and each other with little face-to-face interaction.”
You have to keep your loved one close if you don’t want to risk losing them. I know firsthand. ~~ Laura, aka Ward
Six months later, no one knows where Ward is. Her telephone number is disconnected and emails are returned as undeliverable, even to Ward’s agent and editor who are concerned about the additional book she is contractually obligated to deliver. Only one person — her stepmother — knows where Ward has taken refuge. She is unable to write, in part because the police believe that Stevie’s attacker was a crazed fan who staged the crime like a scene out of one of Ward’s early books. As she explains in her first-person narrative, “He’d created a cliche out of my daughter. That, I did not appreciate.” Ward is hunkered down, reliving the night that she lost Stevie. She explains, “It’s something I do often. It keeps me honest. I like to experience the grief, to let it overcome me. I have to see through every loose end, same as when I’m writing a book. Otherwise, I’ll feel haunted.”
Meanwhile, Bree describes, also via a first-person narrative, her need to find new purpose in her post-marital life. Her relationship with Chloe has been strained since Jeremy moved out of the family home. Chloe is testing her mother’s patience by coming home after her curfew, drinking, and spending time with a boyfriend that Bree neither knows nor trusts. Fortunately, Jeremy is supportive, but Bree resents that Chloe is gravitating toward him after Bree gave up her career and devoted herself to raising the girl.
Bree strikes a deal with the editor of the small town newspaper to write articles about matters of local interest. As happy as she is to be writing again, the work is not satisfying because Bree wants to pen an expansive expose. She wants to find Ward and commences an all-out search for her. So she pitches the story idea to her editor, as well as Ward’s exasperated agent. Both are enticed and green-light the project.
Meanwhile, Laura is residing in the small town where she grew up and when she runs into one of her oldest friends at the local supermarket, she is reunited with the group of friends who knew her best. That includes Alex. Everyone assumed that Laura and Alex would end up together. Now that he is in the midst of a divorce, their reunion reignites old feelings. Laura has “the powerful feeling that Alex was supposed to be the one. My one.”
Through alternating chapters, Liebert describes the women’s journeys. Laura remains in hiding, confident that her trusted friends will not reveal her whereabouts or any other details about her present-day life, while Bree follows leads and clues in her effort to find Ward and convince her to permit Bree to write her story. Even though Bree receives warnings about her activities that lead her to believe she is in danger, she forges ahead with her investigation.
Both Bree and Laura (Ward) are compelling characters. The two women have much in common. Both are devoted mothers, writers, single, and independent. Each struggles to balance their own needs and desires while managing the stresses in her life. But Laura has secrets she does not want uncovered and Bree becomes obsessed with discovering them. Liebert keeps the story moving forward at a steady pace and the women’s inner dialogues are engrossing and believable. When Laura realizes that Bree is searching for her, she takes steps to protect herself and her privacy, confiding in Alex because she finds it “so comforting to have another person in my life who I can trust fully. There are so few of them these days.”
Liebert indeed injects surprises and unexpected plot twists, and intensifies her characters’ discomfort as Bree inches incrementally closer to discovering the shocking truth. Savvy readers may correctly guess aspects of the story, but Liebert’s revised ending is deftly set up and jaw-droppingly explosive. And controversial, not only because it appears to come out of left field. It can be argued that it is gratuitous and contrived, included solely for shock value, while detracting from the ending that readers were expecting and would have found satisfying. However, in Liebert’s defense, her narrative does include subtle clues and foreshadowing . . . that could easily be overlooked by readers whose attention is focused on other plot developments. Liebert hopes “it will leave everyone thinking . . . about a sequel!”
Despite the contentious conclusion, Perfectly Famous is an entertaining, cleverly constructed thriller.
Excerpt from Perfectly Famous
PROLOGUE
Fame is like a flame. A small flourish of light that’s ignited with good intentions and kindled with aggressive aspirations. But as those dreams are stoked, the flame grows fiercer, often too hot to pass your finger through. Fame can spread like a blazing rash, infecting everything and everyone in its path. The flame is inexorable. It can’t be stopped. It won’t be stopped. Until it’s extinguished.
Of course, some notoriety cannot be snuffed out. The force of it is too robust. People covet that fame. They envy it.
Those people become increasingly resentful as their small spark remains just that. No one—they think—deserves to shine forever, to eclipse all the others who are just as worthy of recognition.
Because only one other outcome is possible when a flame refuses to be choked.
It will explode.
Chapter 1: Ward
SIX MONTHS AGO
The smooth rhythm of jazz music drifted from the radio as I gazed out the window at the cookie-cutter McMansions with their rambling green lawns, glistening blue swimming pools, and soaring oak trees in a kaleidoscope of colors. This time of year, the air is crisp but not cold. Children frolick outside until just before bedtime. Doors are left unlocked.
It’s safe here in Connecticut.
Ten minutes passed, as we traveled out of the suburban cocoon and through town, until the car pulled to a stop. I checked my reflection in the makeup compact I’d slipped into my purse at the last minute and allowed myself one final swipe of red lipstick, to match the cover of my new novel, Mysterious Stranger. Then I took a deep breath, trapped the air in my lungs for a few seconds longer than usual, and exhaled before the driver came around to open my door.
“Ready, Ms. DeFleur?” He extended his hand, and I accepted it, grateful for the support.
“Yes,” I spoke softly and stepped onto the glossy pavement, as pellets of rain struck the umbrella he was holding. One foot in front of the other, I reminded myself. I’ve done this before. Twelve times. And I’ll do it again. I hope.
“Here we go.” He hoisted me to standing, and I noticed that a bead of water had tainted my red silk flats like an inkblot in the Rorschach test. I never wear heels. When you’re five foot ten, it’s hard enough to go unnoticed. “I’ll keep you dry.”
“Thank you.” I nodded and raked my fingers through my thick, tumbling waves of auburn hair.
The line was already wrapped around the side of the building, a buzzing procession of anticipation. Instinctively, I looked behind me. As expected, the parking lot was crowded with sedans and SUVs jockeying for an open spot. To see me. Even after so many years, it’s still hard to believe.
Once we were inside, fear rose in my chest. I scanned the troop of men and women, mostly women in dark elastic jeans, stiletto boots, and flowy blouses cut to expose just enough of their assets. The landscape was dizzying. I thought about a quick pivot. I could make it back to the town car before anyone reached me. But I didn’t move.
“Hello, everyone,” I said louder than I’d expected. I sounded confident. Unlike myself. I smiled appreciatively at the light applause.
“Fabulous, you’re here.” My publicist, Gwen, swooped in, placed one hand on the small of my back, and cupped my elbow with the other. “Let’s get you settled. The signing doesn’t officially start for another twenty minutes. We can go over some important items.”
“Okay, sure.” I allowed her to cart me off.
“In here.” She thrust me into a small room with a green tweed couch and a cluttered wooden desk. “Make yourself comfortable. How are you feeling?” She motioned to the couch, dragged the metal desk chair over, and sat down on the edge of it, facing me. Her dark brown eyes were dogged. She’d rimmed them with far too much black eyeliner. And her knee was trembling. Probably from that high-octane coffee-in-a-can she drinks all day.
“Good,” I lied.
“Good?”
“Great, I mean. Definitely great,” I qualified.
“That’s better. Because tonight has to go seamlessly.” She maintained eye contact. “This is the first appearance in your fifteen-city tour.”
“I know.” Between my agent, my publisher, my editor, my editor’s assistant, Gwen, Gwen’s assistant, and all the other people at Lyons & Wilder responsible for launching my books, I’ve heard fifteen-city tour more times than my brain can metabolize.
“What I’m saying is that tonight sets the tone.” She leaned in closer and searched my face for mutual understanding. “There can’t be any…” She paused, careful to select the least offensive word. “Issues.”
“I get it.” It wasn’t hard to decipher what she meant by issues. I chose not to mention that it felt like the walls were closing in on us or that I was sweating through my blouse. “Don’t worry, it’s not my first rodeo.”
“Exactly. So here’s the plan.” Gwen lifted her chin and checked her watch. “I’m going to head out there now and make sure everything is under control and that everyone’s ready to roll. You’re going to stay here, have some water, have some fruit.” She signaled to a platter of neatly arranged slices of pineapple, mango, and cantaloupe, and a few bottles of Evian on the desk. “Then I’m going to come back and get you, and we’ll go in together. As always, there’s a table set up for you to sign at. There are plenty of Sharpies. We’re doing red for this book, as discussed. And clearly your fans are here in droves.”
“They never disappoint.” I smiled, pleased by my readers’ unwavering support.
Anxiety aside, I do realize what a gift that is. There are plenty of authors who write well-received novels, one-hit wonders that skyrocket to the top of the New York Times bestseller list and sell millions of copies. Unfortunately, their sophomore efforts frequently pale in comparison. There are other authors who write five, ten, fifteen books that all do adequately enough to turn a profit and keep their contracts coming. And then there are authors like me, whose audience has doubled, tripled, quadrupled with each new release. Thankfully, so have my advances. But above all that, I feel truly fortunate because my readers are the best readers. They communicate with me, and I communicate with them, from the very safe haven of my home office. Unseen. For that reason, among many others defined by my publishing house, I feel it’s my duty to show up for them. In this case, fifteen times over.
“And they never will disappoint,” Gwen assured me. “Just keep on being you. That’s all you have to do. They love you. Happy, authentic, engaged you.”
“Thank you.” I’ve worked with a lot of “Gwens” over the years, some grittier than others. This Gwen is a straight shooter, which I like. We both know that her little pep talk was a warning not to screw things up tonight. “I’ve got this.”
“Excellent.” I thought she was going to exhale, possibly reveal a hint of relief that her star thoroughbred was ready to race. But she’s still terrified I’ll break a leg.
She can’t be blamed for that. It has happened before, so to speak. It’s lore among the young girls who’ve passed through the halls of Lyons & Wilder. I’ve seen the way they size me up. They think I’m fragile.
Ward DeFleur sat on a wall.
Ward DeFleur had a great fall.
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men.
Couldn’t put Ward together again.
Not on Gwen’s watch, though. I guarantee she’s got an Ace bandage and a tube of Krazy Glue in her purse. She’ll repair me if it’s the last thing she ever does.
“Sit tight. I won’t be gone long.” She stood up and clipped her walkie-talkie to her belt.
“One question.” I raised my index finger.
“Shoot.” Gwen barely looked up from her cell phone. She was already sending a text, probably to my agent, Stephanie, who couldn’t be here tonight because her sister is getting married. Apparently, she asked her sister to switch the date and was horrified that she wouldn’t. In turn, I was horrified that Stephanie even asked in the first place.
“Is there security?”
“There are guards at all three doors. We’re in constant contact.”
“Just in case,” I added, so as not to seem dramatic.
“Ward,” Gwen said with intention. “You’re completely covered. Absolutely nothing will go wrong.” We locked eyes. “This is your night. Enjoy it.” She walked toward the door, turned the knob, and paused. Then she glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Lucky number thirteen.”
“Lucky number thirteen.”
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