A married Senator, enjoying a tryst at his beach house with a beautiful black woman, discovers that his lover has accidentally drowned. Aware of the scandal that could ensue and destroy his political career, the Senator mounts a campaign of cover-up and cynical lies designed to deflect the potential damage.
This suspenseful tale of adultery, media manipulation, and political chicanery mirrors today's headlines and provides insights into the dark netherworld of political ambition.
"¿ Excellent. More than that, it is important and timely."
· Baltimore News American
"We especially recommend Undertow."
· West Coast Review of Books
"An explosive novel."
· Los Angeles Tribune
|Product dimensions:||5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.64(d)|
About the Author
Adler has also optioned and sold film rights for a number of his works, including Random Hearts (starring Harrison Ford and Kristin Scott Thomas) and The Sunset Gang (produced by Linda Lavin for PBS’s American Playhouse series starring Jerry Stiller, Uta Hagen, Harold Gould, and Doris Roberts), which garnered Doris Roberts an Emmy nomination for Best Supporting Actress in a Miniseries. His recent stage/film/TV developments include the Broadway adaptation of The War of the Roses, to be produced by Jay and Cindy Gutterman, The War of the Roses: The Children (Grey Eagle Films and Permut Presentations), a feature film adaptation of the sequel to Adler’s iconic divorce story, and Capitol Crimes (Grey Eagle Films and Sennet Entertainment), a television series based on his Fiona Fitzgerald mystery series. For an entire list of developments, news and updates visit www.Greyeaglefilms.com.
Adler’s works have been translated into more than 25 languages, including his staged version of The War of the Roses, which has opened to spectacular reviews worldwide. Adler has taught creative writing seminars at New York University, and has lectured on creative writing, film and television adaptation, and electronic publishing.
Read an Excerpt
From where I sat within the screened-in porch, I could see them emerging in the distance through the heavy amber mist. They walked beside an angry sea, a churning mass of whitecaps gliding toward the beaches with ends like frazzled lace. They were two barely discernible human shapes, man and woman, floating in my frame of vision as a subtle detail in an impressionistic painting. Rehoboth, off-season, in early April, shrouded in a cocoon of early spring haze, offered rare delights. Like now. Sitting on the screened-in porch, soothed by the muffled repetition of the pounding sea, hemmed in visually by a spectacular canvas of changing lights and tingling salted air, I was tranquilized. Of course, Christine’s champagne and orange juice, the bubbling eggs in the electric frying pan, the smell and sizzle of bacon, added infinite embellishments. Behind me, Christine was clinking glasses on the tabletop, rolling bright yellow napkins into tapering wine glasses, placing the centerpiece, a wicker basket of hyacinths. I watched the figures define themselves as they moved closer, the impressionism defeated by photographic reality. Don, taper-waisted, the belt on his faded denims square and centered, the tucked-in black pullover tight, as if it were painted on, the hair, peppered lightly, parted on the left in a perfect line—one might think it was all contrived, practiced. Never! Don was born that way, a fetus carved in marble. And Marlena, similarly carved out of Swiss chocolate, that long-necked gazelle look, high, smooth cheekbones, polished to a perfect shine, the clipped African hair, the question-mark stance, the dancer’s movements. The couple merged together as theyturned in toward the house, sprinkling sand as their insteps dug into white mini-dunes. I refilled my glass from the pitcher, holding it up to the light, now sparkling orange. “You do beautiful things, Christine.” “Only when it seems to be worth the effort.” She smiled and bent over to straighten an errant salt shaker, her breast mounds swinging beautifully free under her long jersey pullover. “You’re worth it,” she corrected. “You didn’t drink too much. You made love beautifully. You cuddled me all night long, and I didn’t hear a single telephone call.” “Just the sound of passion.” “From them, mostly.” She pointed toward the couple coming closer. “They do carry on,” I said. “Do you suppose it’s true what they say about black girls?” “Oh, come on, Lou. We’re all sisters under the skin.” I opened the screen door for them. “The good senator arrives from his morning constitutional,” I said, bowing cavalierly, with the exaggerated fawning of a Cyrano. “We must have hiked two miles,” Don said. “Like walking out of an airplane into a cloud layer. Talk about being alone.” He sat down at the table and looked at the pretty setting with the yellow flashes of color. “That Christine is quite a secretary. What do you think, Marlena?” “First class. Oh, Christine, you should have let me help. You should have waited.”