The Serendipitous Origins of The Secrets of Good People

The circumstances of how The Secrets of Good People came to be still blow my hair back every time I think of them. In August 2020, I hosted a release party for my novel An Unfinished Story at our friends’ restaurant called Grace in Pass-a-Grille, Florida, where my family and I lived at the time and where much of the story is set. If you haven’t read it, An Unfinished Story is about a widow who tries to convince a well-known and washed-up author to finish her late husband’s book. It’s how she faces her grief.

A day later, I received an email from a woman named Leigh Shainberg Howe, mentioning that she’d attended the dinner and happened to be in possession of her mother’s unfinished manuscript, an Agatha Christie–style murder mystery set in 1970 Florida. Leigh asked if I’d be willing to take a walk with her on the beach so that she could bounce a few questions off me, as she was intent on finishing the book. We connected a few days later and had a lovely chat about what it would take to bring her mother’s story to fruition.

Her mother, Peggy Shainberg, was no stranger to the written word, as she’d written for newspapers all her life. She also lived next to Walter Farley, the author of Black Stallion. Equally cool to me, her sister typed out most of the novels of John D. McDonald, who was the creator of Travis McGee and one of my biggest inspirations. In fact, I’ve even visited the marina in Fort Lauderdale where McGee kept his boat, The Busted Flush. (Yeah, yeah, I know it’s fiction.) As you can imagine, my walk on the beach with Leigh stuck with me afterward.

Fast-forward to June 2023. I’d relocated from Spain to Maine and was in the process of coming up with a few new story ideas. Leigh came back into my life. She’d reached out to my agent and convinced her to read what her mother had written. My agent called me and said, “I know co-writing’s not exactly what you do, but you should give it a read.” Though I’d written a few mystery/thriller books back in the old days—stories now under the pen name Benjamin Blackmore—a 1970s locked-room mystery was far from what I was writing now. Not to mention, I wasn’t interested in finishing other people’s manuscripts. That just wasn’t my bag. Or was it?

I’ll never forget the day I sat down to read what Peggy had written. It was super early, long before the sun had come up, and I was drinking coffee in my little writer’s cottage on an island off the coast of Maine and thought I’d go ahead and read a few pages and find a polite way to say no. The next thing I knew, I’d finished every word she’d written—all forty-five thousand of them. I tore through it, I tell you! The writing was exceptional. The characters jumped off the page. And I was hooked from the first sentence. Not only all that, but I felt absolutely compelled to finish what Peggy had started.

Leigh and I began chatting, and as the project became more real, it got scarier, especially for Leigh, who had put a ton of work into this book, typing her mother’s written words, coming up with ideas for the plot, convincing me to take a look, and most importantly, deciding to put her trust in one particular writer: me. We kept talking, and as we continued to hash out the details, she asked me to speak with her sister, Lynn.

It was clear their mother meant a great deal to them and doing this project the right way was paramount. All I could do was promise that I’d give them my all. The fear on my part started stacking up, as I didn’t want to disappoint them or anyone else in their family. For the record, Peggy didn’t leave behind an outline or any notes mentioning who did it in this whodunnit. I had to figure it out myself.

Then a cherry on top came to light, an incredible connection that solidified that we’d come to this point for a reason. As I was getting off the phone with Lynn, she said, “I should tell you about my parents. My dad, Norman, was a Jewish podiatrist and became a fighter pilot in World War II. In August of 1944, he was shot down over France and endured a bad leg injury. Thankfully, he was rescued by French resistance fighters, but his leg was in such bad shape that they told him he needed to turn himself in to the Nazis so that they could amputate. Otherwise, he would not survive. The Nazis amputated his leg and put him in a prison camp, where he miraculously survived the rest of the war. Returning to Memphis, he met Peggy, the love of his life. In 1948, they won a contest on Bride and Groom, a radio show based out of Los Angeles that was the start of ‘reality shows.’ The show paid for Peggy and Norman to fly out to California and enjoy a world-class wedding, including a wedding dress fit for a queen.”

I stopped Lynn there. “Wait, that sounds familiar. Can I call you right back?” I hung up and called my dad in Flat Rock, North Carolina. “Hey, Dad, didn’t Grandma Betty and Papa Hacky win a radio contest and get married in California?”

“That’s right. Bride and Groom.”

“No way. Do you remember what year?”

“1948.”

Peggy and her husband were married the same year and on the same radio show as my paternal grandparents! Any creative talent that I have comes from my grandma Betty. She will always be my biggest hero. My grandfather, Hacky, was also an amazing human and, like Norman, fought Nazis from an airplane in World War II—but as a tail gunner. I tear up every time I think about the link between my grandparents and Peggy and Norman. (See the photos below of the happy couples headed to their Bride-and-Groom weddings in California.)

Once I’d confirmed the story, I called Lynn back and then connected with Leigh, and we all teared up together. If that connection wasn’t a green light, I don’t know what would ever be.

Even how the title came about was a sign. I’ve had this title for years, and knowing it was a winner, I’ve tried to squeeze a few stories into it. I even pitched a previous novel idea to Lake Union using this title. But the other stories never seemed to fit. As I was reading Peggy’s story, though, I had this lovely feeling that the title had been patiently waiting for Peggy’s story to find me. I hope she likes it.

Peggy Shainberg was a wonderful writer, and it was an honor to jump into this world that she created. I hope I did it justice. I can tell you this: On the wall next to my desk, I have a lovely picture of Peggy at her typewriter. She’s staring right at me, and often, as I was writing, I could feel her urging me on, whispering to me, encouraging me, and making suggestions.

This has been one of the most challenging yet fulfilling and enjoyable projects of my life. To you, my readers, thanks for allowing me to take a chance and write something far outside my comfort zone. I hope you found yourself fully entertained, as I was, right from the get-go.

Most of all, here’s to Peggy, who had a lovely mind, an incredible imagination, a daring voice—especially for her time—and a sensational sense of humor.

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