Smuggler's Cove

Book 1: Twin Lights

by Fern Michaels

Genres: Domestic Thrillers; Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

Book 1 in the brand-new Twin Lights series from the beloved author of The Sisterhood!

In a fresh, new series for fans of Nora Roberts, Danielle Steel, and Melida Leigh, #1 New York Times bestselling author Fern Michaels introduces siblings Madison and Lincoln Taylor, whose Jersey Shore inheritance plunges them into a world of mystery and mayhem . . .

Growing up, Madison Taylor and her younger brother Lincoln lived in privilege, but their sheltered existence abruptly ended when their father was arrested for fraud and the family assets were seized. Since then, Madison has carved out a new path, studying fashion and working her way up to editor in chief of La Femme magazine, while Lincoln teaches wealth management at a small college outside the city. Both have separated themselves from their family and their past—until an unexpected bequest arrives from their late uncle.

Madison and Lincoln are now the new co-owners of a marina at Smugglers Cove on the Navesink river. Instead of a fabulous, Hamptons-style property, Smugglers Cove offers little beyond a dilapidated dock, a few gas pumps, and a handful of clam boats. Madison’s plan to sell the property goes awry when a dead body is found floating under their dock and transforms their new inheritance into a crime scene.

Suddenly, Madison is swapping her city-girl wardrobe for cargo pants and flannel shirts, while she and Lincoln receive a crash course in small-town Jersey shore life, complete with quirky characters, pirate legends, and a mysterious treasure map. They’re discovering more about themselves and each other every day, but with a mystery to solve, and big decisions to make, these are lessons they’ll need to learn fast . . .

Release date: August 26, 2025

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

Gwendolyn Wainwright was born into a middle-class family in a small town in Connecticut. She was one of the millions to become the baby boomer generation. Her father was a World War II veteran; her mother, a homemaker. Like most American families, at the time people were readjusting to a postwar culture and society. Hollywood was launching movies by the hundreds, with blockbusters like Around the World in Eighty Days, Singin’ in the Rain, and Ben-Hur. And television was becoming a common source of entertainment, bringing shows like I Love Lucy, The Honeymooners, and Leave It to Beaver into households across the country, while Frank Sinatra, Sam Cooke, and a gyrating young man from Memphis named Elvis Presley filled the airwaves.

Gwendolyn’s childhood was well-adjusted, and everything seemed alright in the world. Even as the ’50s turned into the turbulent 1960s, Gwen remained sheltered in the suburbs of Connecticut. Despite protests over U.S. involvement in Vietnam, civil rights, and women’s rights going on in the country, she preferred not to engage in politics. Instead, she was interested in books—literary fiction and poetry.

In 1968, Gwendolyn turned eighteen years old and headed off to college to major in English at Western Connecticut State University. It was far enough away from home for her to feel independent, but close enough to get back in under two hours. The school was small enough so she wouldn’t get lost in a huge student body, but large enough to feel that she really left home and was out of high school.

Gwen was good-natured, and a good student. The combination gave her a measure of popularity, and she would often take day trips into New York City with some of her female classmates. Regardless of what the plans for the day entailed, Gwen would insist they stop at Rizzoli Bookstore on Fifth Avenue.

After several treks into the posh bookstore, she began to imagine herself working under the chandeliers among the beautifully illustrated books and gliding across the marble floors as she ran her hand along the polished oak paneling, or gazing down from the second-floor balcony that flanked the sides of the store, while customers perused the vast collection of titles.

Gwen had no solid plans for what she would do after she graduated. She thought maybe she’d pursue a career in publishing, but mainly she assumed her life would go on as most others: she would meet someone, get married, have a kid, and then figure it out. Although many of her contemporaries had bigger visions for themselves, Gwen willingly went with the flow. There was enough turmoil brewing around the world. She didn’t need to feed her head with more by worrying about the future.

In a snap of a finger, before she knew it, four years were behind her, and she was about to graduate. But there was no future husband in sight. Not yet. She weighed her options. She could move back in with her parents. And do what? No. Gwen knew there was more, and like many young women of the early 1970s, she wanted to see the world. Experience life. And what better place than New York City? It wasn’t the brightest time for the Big Apple. Cities were in decline, and New York was not immune. But Gwen couldn’t let that deter her. Things would have to improve at some point. Didn’t they always?

Two months before graduation, Gwen made a list of employment agencies in Manhattan and lined up as many appointments she could cover in one day. She was determined to accomplish her goal of finding a job and a place to live. She wasn’t sure which would be more difficult, but she wasn’t going to stop. It took several interviews until she finally landed a job as a receptionist at a small bank near Wall Street. It was a few miles from Rizzoli, and a twenty-minute subway ride could get her there. In the meantime, she would gain some experience and eventually find an entry-level job in the book business.

But first she had to find a place to live. Her new job started in six weeks, after the current receptionist was due to retire.

She combed Backstage newspaper every week. She wasn’t interested in show business, but the classified section was a good place to look for roommates. She found a three-month sublet by a dancer who was going on tour. It was temporary, but it bought her a little time, and she could live there while she looked for something permanent. She had enough money to cover the rent, pizza, and Chinese takeout until she started her job. If she got hungry, she could hop on a train and visit her parents before they turned her bedroom into a home gym.

Gwen was new to the city, single, and scraping by with her receptionist position. But there she was. Living in New York. With a grown-up job.

She was very efficient and was constantly asking if there was something she could do for the loan managers. She wasn’t deliberately sucking up. She was bored and she knew she had to make the most of her situation. She could learn a new skill.

One afternoon, another young woman followed her into the women’s bathroom. She blocked the door, cornered Gwen, and sneered at her. “You’re making us look bad!”

“I disagree,” Gwen said as she turned to look at herself in the mirror, with the woman’s reflection staring back at her. “I’m making myself look good.”

Unruffled, Gwen pulled out two paper towels, dried her hands, and then turned around. She spoke calmly. “It’s a man’s world out there, regardless of how many bras we burned. Women must work harder to make the same amount of money, so might as well start now.” She shrugged, turned, walked past the woman, and out the door.

The young woman followed Gwen, and gently touched her arm. “Want to have lunch?” The woman’s name was Sandra, and the two became good friends. Gwen had a maturity about her approach to life, where Sandra easily let her emotions hang on her sleeve. They made a good pair.

One of Sandra’s roommates was getting married in September, and they needed a replacement if they hoped to keep splitting the 1600-dollars-a-month rent four ways. Again, timing was on Gwen’s side, and she moved from the sublet to her new, barely larger space.

It was an old prewar building with high ceilings. The four roommates occupied one of the few three-bedroom, two-bathroom apartments around. Sandra had one bedroom; Gwen had another. Fran and Paul inhabited the third bedroom with the adjoining bathroom.

The apartment had been in Paul’s family for two generations; therefore, he was the happy recipient of a rent-controlled dwelling. As long as a family member occupied the apartment, the landlord was limited as to the amount of rent he could charge and how much he could increase it. If Paul moved out, the rent could go up to three thousand a month.

Gwen considered herself lucky. She shared a bathroom, and all four had access to the kitchen. The apartment was conveniently located in Chelsea, a few blocks from the subway.

Within a couple of years, Gwen was promoted to a position assisting one of the managers. A woman. It was very unusual at the time for there to be a female manager, but again Gwen was lucky, because the manager took a liking to Gwen and became her mentor.

1974

One afternoon, her boss approached her. There was an event later that night for one of the symphony orchestras where one of the bank’s directors sat on the board. Her boss explained that her husband could not attend the gala and asked if Gwen would like to be her “plus-one.” It was an opportunity Gwen could not resist.

Gwen raced home at five p.m. to get ready for the evening. On her way, she stopped at a vintage clothing shop in Greenwich Village. It was known for carrying previously owned designer clothes. The rich did not typically wear the same thing twice, especially to a gala, and often donated the clothes after just one wear. Gwen found a little black dress by Halston, a pair of elbow-length gloves, and several strings of imitation pearls.

With her outfit secured, she hopped onto the subway and made her way to her apartment building. She didn’t have time to wait for the old, clunky elevator, so she took the stairs to the fifth floor. She also didn’t have time to shower and wash her hair, so she gave herself a good wipe down, freshened her makeup, pulled her shoulder-length dark blond hair into a chignon, tossed several long strings of fake pearls around her neck, and donned a pair of clip-on earrings. She easily looked the part of a young socialite blending in at the spectacular Cipriani Wall Street event. For that, she was going to splurge on a taxi.

Little did Gwen know that evening would change her life. It was at the gala that she met Jackson Taylor, and her life took a turn for the posh and privileged. Jackson was an up-and-coming hedge fund manager, a scrappy young man, determined to be rich. Wealthy. Powerful. He had jumped into the growing and mystifying segment of the “gunslinging” part of the market, where it was totally possible for someone who came from nothing to become something, especially on Wall Street. Your lineage wasn’t relevant, even though Jackson had a well-crafted revisionist history of himself; it was far more important to have a talent and a thirst for making money—and Jackson had both in abundance.

While Gwen stood alone with a glass of champagne in her hand, a rambunctious young man bumped into her, causing her to spill her bubbly. He apologized profusely and begged her to give him the opportunity to make it up to her with dinner. Gwen thought he was cocky by assuming she was available and could be interested. “That’s rather presumptuous of you, isn’t it?”

Her confidence was startling, which piqued Jackson’s interest. He smiled and made a slight bow. “Pardon my insolence.”

“Apology accepted.” She handed her glass to him as she dabbed the wet champagne from her breast. “And only if you get me a refill. It’s the least you can do.” Gwen may have been somewhat of a country girl, but she was learning the ropes. Quickly. It was the only way to survive in the city.

Jackson snapped his fingers at a waiter and held up the empty glass. In less than a minute, Gwen’s champagne was reinstated. She could get used to that kind of service.

Jackson introduced himself and turned up the charm, setting his sights on winning over this gorgeous woman. He had his life planned. His sights were set on climbing his way up. He was on a lightning-speed track, and this new acquaintance could fit in. She had “the look”: tall, thin, willowy, and all-American. The girl young men want to marry. He was sold on the idea that she would be good for his image.

Jackson pursued and wooed Gwen, something Gwen became accustomed to. Her backup plan for marriage, children, and whatever, was beginning to unfold.

In just over a year, they were married, and Gwen moved into his Upper East Side apartment. It was a luxe lifestyle. Jackson was making a lot of money—too much for a twenty-six-year-old. But he was determined and seemed invincible. Even the downturn of the market in the mid-1970s didn’t stop Jackson from boosting his finances and his social status. Where there’s a will, there’s a way. There was no stopping him. He was intent on being successful, even if it meant coloring outside the lines.

The stock market continued to be on rocky ground when Jackson decided it was time to start his own financial advisory firm. He partnered with two other individuals who shared Jackson’s appetite for wealth.

Gwen quit her job a year after they were married, and she immersed herself in the spoils of her husband’s success and demands. That was when Jackson informed her it was time to have a baby. He was twenty-eight. She was twenty-six. He reminded her about the ticking of her biological clock and told her he wanted two children, so they should start now. He believed a family would give him his full credentials as an upwardly mobile, solid citizen.

It wasn’t until Jackson introduced the idea of becoming pregnant that Gwen questioned if she wanted to be a mother. It required a level of responsibility that she wasn’t sure she was prepared for. When she approached Jackson with her concerns, he admonished her. He ticked off all the reasons why she shouldn’t complain. He provided her with everything she wanted, underscoring that it was due to his hard work and success. The least she could do was bear his children. Case closed.

1976

Madison Taylor was born in an exclusive pediatric suite at New York Hospital, a place where the rich and famous completed the last few hours of pregnancy. Heaven forbid someone would see you or hear you go through labor, let alone without your hair and makeup done professionally. The suite consisted of a large bedroom, a sitting room, and an adjoining sleeping area should a family member choose to stay overnight. A private nurse was always within reach, as well as a private catering menu. Gwen demanded only the best if she was required to bear her children.

Just after Madison turned one, Jackson informed Gwen that it was time to have their second child. Gwen had barely bounced back from pregnancy and the demands of having a newborn, but when Jackson wanted something, he got it. Soon she was pregnant with baby number two, and their two-bedroom apartment wasn’t large enough or grand enough for Jackson and his growing family. As soon as Lincoln entered the world, Jackson investigated available co-ops in Sutton Place.

It was one of the oldest, richest residential areas of Manhattan, and you had to be vetted to be “allowed” to live there. The stodgy old-money residents were not only leery of the nouveau riche, but they were also interested in one’s pedigree. Unlike condominiums, where an association’s main purpose is to maintain the exterior of the property, co-ops had a board that made all the decisions, including how one could renovate their interior, and exactly who could or could not move in. It was a type of discrimination that defied the law.

Jackson knew these people were elitists, and he was intent on having them believe he was one of them. When he met with the co-op board, he wore a simple Cartier tank watch, French cuffs with unobtrusive cufflinks, and his Brooks Brothers suit and vest. He dared not show up in something by Gucci or Versace. Gwen donned a Halston dress, her hair in a chignon, with simple clip-on earrings. If nothing else, they looked the part.

During the interview/interrogation, Jackson implied that he was an ancestor to the one-year, 197-day serving president, Zachary Taylor. He cited a little-known fact that President Taylor had terrible handwriting that made it difficult to read. He also noted that his daughter’s name was Madison, and his son was Lincoln, both named after presidents. That much was true.

The co-op board believed they had a proper couple with ancestry at hand and agreed to allow Jackson and Gwendolyn Taylor to purchase a two-story co-op on Sutton Place. They also couldn’t afford to have empty real estate with the climbing costs of maintenance. The housing market in New York was still reeling from the economic fluctuations, and it was imperative to keep all the apartments occupied.

Within a few months, Jackson, Gwen, Madison, and Lincoln moved into a building of the privileged and notable. Jackson could boast that Henry Kissinger was his neighbor.

With a toddler and an infant, they hired an au pair from Belgium, who lived in the maid’s quarters on the premises. She eventually became one of Jackson’s “hobbies” while Gwen dealt with her baby weight and hormonal mood swings. Postpartum depression was something people did not discuss, and at the urging of her physician, Gwen insisted they hire a second nanny, so the children would have one each. The young au pair didn’t seem to have the wherewithal to handle two children, and neither did Gwen at the time. Neither could barely handle one. This time, Gwen conducted the interviews and hired a middle-aged German woman. Under no uncertain terms was she going to provide more entertainment for her husband.

1976–1996

As the economy slowed even further, Jackson and his partners became desperate to continue their cash flow. They started trading in junk bonds and cleaning out many retirement accounts of unsuspecting investors. They were laundering money and dabbling in Ponzi schemes and offshore accounts. They rode the ’80s like Al Unser at the Indy 500.

It went on for two decades until 1996, when the intercom house phone rang. It was Phoebe, their long-time housekeeper, calling from the main living area. Her voice was shaking. She began to explain that men from the U.S. Marshal’s office were at the door, and they had a warrant. Gwen didn’t know why, but she knew it couldn’t be good.

Ten years earlier, the Ivan Boesky scandal had rocked Wall Street. It was widely known that the government was cracking down on insider trading and other shenanigans in the financial arena, but Gwen made a conscious effort to ignore it. And then came the great reckoning.

“Keep them occupied downstairs. Show them all the cupboards. Whatever. Just keep them busy,” she whispered into the phone. Gwen frantically opened the safe where she kept her jewelry and stashed as much of it as she could into her undergarments. She pulled out a wad of cash and stuck it into her bra. She smirked, remembering the time when bras were incendiary items. She shoved diamond earrings into her socks and pulled on a pair of riding boots. Then she began to stuff a few items of clothing in an overnight bag. The Louis Vuitton. She stopped abruptly as an officer climbed the stairs to the master suite. He gently knocked on the doorjamb. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Taylor, but you cannot take anything with you.”

Gwen was almost paralyzed. “But I am going to need clothes.”

The officer motioned for her to open the bag, where he thoroughly searched.

“What are you looking for?” she asked.

No answer.

“Can you please tell me what it is going on?” Her hands were shaking, and she was close to weeping.

The officer showed her a copy of the warrant that allowed them to seize anything that could be perceived as of value.

Over the years, she’d grown to appreciate the lap of luxury. Her marriage left a lot to be desired, but shopping, high tea, spa treatments, and lavish vacations more than made up for Jackson and his “hobbies,” which were mostly young women, cocaine, and alcohol. She was also aware that he would often take a new street drug called Ecstasy. He never did it at home, but one evening, she overheard him on the phone asking the person on the line if he could hook him up with some “X.” After a few subtle inquiries among friends, she learned it was supposed to make you high and increase sexual pleasure. She didn’t know which came first, the floozies or the drugs. In either case, they were turning Jackson into an arrogant, nasty individual.

Throughout their financial climb, she never asked where the money came from. Her instincts told her to look the other way; now it was blowing up in her face.

“Jewelry?” the marshal asked patiently.

Jogged from her thoughts, Gwen opened the safe again. She removed all of Jackson’s watches, which ran the gambit of luxury brands, including Breitling, Montblanc, Patek Philippe, and Rolex. They had to be worth a few hundred thousand dollars in total, and Gwen had no trouble handing them over to the marshal. If her life was going to be disrupted, she wasn’t going to leave anything behind. At least nothing of value to her.

“Give me a moment.” Gwen rifled through the rest of the contents of the safe and handed over three diamond pinky rings and a dozen sets of gold cufflinks. She also gave the officer a wad of cash that she couldn’t fit into her waistband. Then she went into Jackson’s dressing room and grabbed one of Jackson’s Tumi travel bags. “You can put everything in here.” She passed it to the marshal.

The officer seemed surprised at how accommodating the woman was, until he saw the fire in her eyes.

“May I call my children?” she asked politely.

“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Taylor, you should know that your husband has been placed under arrest.”

“Well, zip-a-dee-do-da,” she huffed, zipped her bag, and headed downstairs. “Tell him I don’t have bail money,” she called over her shoulder. She apologized to her housekeeper and walked out the door. Her mind was racing as she rode the elevator to the lobby. Were they going to come after her next? Where could she go? Could she leave the country? She quickly added up the value of the jewelry she had stashed under her clothes and in her boots. It had to be close to a quarter million dollars. Plus, the wad of bills. She hadn’t counted it, but she knew Jackson kept twenty or thirty thousand dollars within reach. She figured she’d swiped at least ten of it.

When the elevator doors opened, she took a deep breath and held her head high. People had already gathered in front of the door attendant, whispering and speculating about the fuss. It wouldn’t take long for them to learn that one of the posh residences was soon to become the property of the State of New York.

The door attendant wiggled past the onlookers and gave Gwen a perplexed look as he hailed a cab for her. He was aware of the U.S. Marshal’s presence in the building, and that they were in the Taylor’s residence, but he dared not to ask why. She nodded at the chattering gawkers and left her lavish co-op on Sutton Place for the last time.

When the yellow cab pulled up, she didn’t wait for the doorman to open the taxi door for her, as he was normally obliged to do. Instead, she yanked it open and tossed her small travel bag into the back seat. She turned to the man, whose mouth was agape. “ ’Bye, Reggie. It’s been real.” He continued to stare as the car drove away.

Gwen kept looking in the side mirror, expecting a police car would be. . .