Lise: Tomboy to City Lady (#4)

A tiny bonus chapter based on and inspired by “The Color of Courage.” A first chance to get to know the characters and the new dual timeline series, “Timeless Agents.”

Lise: Tomboy to City Lady

Curepipe, Mauritius, July 1918

The afternoon sun blazed over the endless rows of sugarcane, casting golden hues across the green fields. In the distance, the rocky peak of Pieter Both Mountain loomed lazily, a silent guardian over the island. A warm breeze, carrying the faint scent of salt from the Indian Ocean, rustled the sugarcane like whispered secrets, stirring the dry leaves.

Lise Boucherville de Baissac, her heart pounding in sync with her bare feet on the soft, brown earth, raced across the fields with her makeshift parachute fluttering behind her. Sixteen years old, with her brothers’ laughter echoing behind her, she ran faster, relishing the freedom, knowing they could never catch up.

Her lungs filled with the sweet air as she sped toward Maison des Palmes, the family estate. Its red roof stretched long and low, while the whitewashed walls rose above the immaculate gardens like a sentinel watching over the land. The wraparound verandas gleamed in the sun, the palm trees lining the driveway swayed gently, their tranquility in contrast to Lise’s wild exuberance. She ducked low, trying to avoid being seen from the front of the house, where her mother was undoubtedly holding court with the servants.

Lise slipped through the back door, which creaked slightly as she entered. Her dark-blonde hair, once neatly tied in a ponytail, now hung loose and tousled from her makeshift parachute jump. She cringed as she looked down at her dungarees, torn at the knee, dirt smeared across the fabric. Quickly, she tugged at the tear, hoping to minimize the damage. If Maman found out...

Tiptoeing into the hallway, her only goal was to sneak upstairs, change into something clean, and fix her hair and hands before the inevitable teatime lecture. But just as her mud-streaked hand reached the banister, the dreaded voice rang out from the parlor, sharp and unmistakable.

“Lise! Come here at once!”

She froze.

I need to work on my stealth techniques, she thought wryly.

Her mother appeared in the doorway, her expression shifting from restrained frustration to sheer horror as her eyes fell on Lise’s disheveled state. The contrast between them could not have been starker. Both shared the same petite frame, clear blue eyes, creamy skin, and thick dark-blonde hair, but that was where the similarities ended. Marie Louise stood poised as ever, her mauve afternoon dress immaculate, her hair coiled in perfect waves. She was the very picture of French elegance and propriety, every inch the refined lady she expected Lise to become.

“Mon Dieu.” Her mother reached for her lace handkerchief, delicately dabbed in lavender water.

Please don’t faint, Lise silently prayed. There’s nothing here that can’t be fixed.

She forced a smile, hoping for leniency, but it wasn’t to be. Her mother’s eyes had that heavy, droopy look, and her knuckles whitened as they gripped the sliver of lace.

“Maman—” Lise began to plead.

“Tais-toi! Don’t speak!” A single long, white finger shot into the air. “What in Heaven’s name have you been doing? Your clothes are torn, you look like you’ve rolled in the mud, and—what is that thing on your back?”

Before Lise could answer, her brothers dashed in, looking just as bedraggled. They received only a curt, “Be good boys and go wash for tea, mes garçons,” from Marie Louise, her stern gaze snapping back to her daughter.

Lise bit her lip. It was so unfair to be a girl.

“You simply cannot continue like this.” Her mother’s voice carried that familiar note of lamentation, one that Lise always resisted. She resisted any sign of weakness, especially in emotion. But her mother was just getting started. “Running wild, tearing your clothes like a common girl! How am I to make you into a lady if you refuse to act like one?”

“I was just with Jean and Claude,” Lise muttered, eyes downcast. “We were... parachute jumping.”

“Parachute jumping?” Her mother’s hand flew to her nose, dabbing at it with the lace handkerchief. “What on earth do you mean, para—”

“Like this.” Lise climbed a few steps of the grand staircase and, with a grin, billowed out the silk contraption on her back. She leapt from halfway up, landing squarely at her mother’s feet.

“That’s it!” her mother squeaked, regaining composure. “As soon as that wretched war in Europe ends, we’re going to Paris. Tout de suite!”

Lise’s head snapped up. “Paris?”

“Yes, Paris.” Marie Louise’s voice regained its strength as she spoke, each word as final as a locked door. “Mauritius has made you far too... untamed. You need refinement, culture. You need to become a lady, not a wild child playing in the dirt. I will not allow you to throw away your future. It may be too late already, but Mon Dieu, I will try.”

Lise’s heart sank deeper than the tear in her dungarees. She loved Maison des Palmes—the fields, the sea, the freedom—with all the fierceness of her loving heart. Paris was her mother’s dream, not hers. But in her mother’s determined gaze, there was no room for argument. She could only hope the Great War dragged on forever—though, in her kind heart, she knew she didn’t wish that on anyone.

“Yes, Maman,” Lise murmured, but inside, the wild spirit that had raced through the fields would not be tamed. Maybe her mother could teach her to be a lady, but no one could teach her how to stop being herself.

Preorder your copy today and be a part of Sil’s story as she paints her future from Lise’s past, one courageous stroke at a time.

Or find me on Amazon!

Sil’s Canvas for the Future (#3)

A tiny bonus chapter based on and inspired by “The Color of Courage.” A first chance to get to know the characters and the new dual timeline series, “Timeless Agents.”

The Color of Courage: Sil’s Canvas for the Future

Bristol, June 2003

Nineteen-year-old Sil Anderson sat cross-legged on the sun-dappled grass of the schoolyard, her rainbow-colored curls tucked under a Nike cap. Her jeans were splattered with paint, the result of countless hours spent in the school’s art studio, which had become her second home. Flecks of vibrant color had found a permanent place under her fingernails, as if the roots of her creativity that embedded themselves into her very being. 

Across from her sat Ms Evelyn Carter, her art teacher and mentor, her legs tucked neatly to one side. She wore a white blouse and navy linen trousers, a perfect blend of stylish and bohemian. The thirty-year-old professor had a kind, open face that radiated warmth and  a sincere passion for unlocking potential in her students.

They shared a small picnic, the remnants of sandwiches and a thermos of tea between them, as the warm June breeze carried the scent of freshly cut grass and the chatter of other students enjoying their break on the lawn.

“You’ve made incredible progress,” Evelyn said, pouring another cup of tea and handing it to Sil. “I’m so proud of how far you’ve come since you came back to school. You have real talent, you know. A talent I seldom see.”

Sil took a sip of the tea, savoring its comforting warmth. Inside she shuddered. It had been a long journey since going astray at age thirteen, but it was true. She’d worked hard and not relapsed back into drugs or skipping classes. Much of that was thanks to Ms Carter. Sil knew her teacher’s unwavering guidance and support had saved her.

“Thank you,” Sil said, a lopsided grin lighting up her face. “That’s a great compliment from someone who’s had exhibitions all over Britain.”

“You can have that too, Sil. I think you’re ready for the next step.”

“The next step? What do you have in mind?” Sil asked, her heart thudding at the prospect of venturing beyond the routine she’d finally grown accustomed to. 

Evelyn leaned back on her hands, looking thoughtful. “I am thinking of the École Supérieure des Beaux-Arts de Marseille. That prestigious college has a scholarship program. I spent a year there on a scholarship myself, and I can tell you it was a life-changing experience for me. I think you should apply.”

Sil’s eyes grew wide at the mention of the possibility of attending such a renowned art school abroad. 

“Marseille? That sounds amazing, but... I don’t know, Evelyn. I mean, why would they take me? My speciality is graffiti, which is only a small part of modern art. And how would I pay for it? And is the course in French?”

Evelyn laughed, a musical sound that seemed to lighten the air around them. “That’s the Sil Anderson I love. Full of questions, full of savoir vivre.”

“Well, answer at least one of my questions, please. Why would they take a graffiti artist if they can take anyone from the wide range of modern techniques?”

 “Because these teachers at the École aren’t fools. They recognize talent when they see it and they’re all for diversifying. I think you’d stand out and that’s what they want. The school looks for originality and passion, and you have both in spades.”

“I could try, if you help me,” Sil pondered, her mind a whirl of possibilities.

“Just look up the school online first, see their requirements, mull it over in your head and then we can talk again,” Evelyn suggested as she collected their picnic things.

Sil bit her lip, excitement mingling with apprehension. The pull from the graffiti scene in Bristol and her complicated relationship with Felix Quirk still tugged at her, but the opportunity to break free from it all and study at a real art school was too tempting to ignore.

Sil rose to her 5’4’’ frame, readjusting the cap on her curls, suddenly unsure. Evelyn seemed to sense the turmoil that tugged at her young student. 

“Think about what your grandfather would say to you now. He always believed in your ability to walk your own path, didn’t he?”

Sil nodded, memories of her grandfather’s encouraging words flooding back. He’d taught her to face the world head-on, and now she had a chance to honor that lesson.

“Alright,” Sil said, determination rising in her voice like a tide. “I’ll just go for it. I trust your opinion. I’m going to apply for the scholarship.”

Evelyn beamed, clapping her hands together. “That’s the spirit! We’ll work on your portfolio together, and I’ll help you with the application. You’ve got this, Sil.”

Join Sil Anderson on her journey in "The Color of Courage", where the past and present intertwine in a tale of resilience, love, and the enduring spirit of those who dare to dream.

Preorder your copy today and be a part of Sil’s story as she paints her future from Lise’s past, one courageous stroke at a time.

Or find me on Amazon!

Living in the house of a WW2 legend (#2)

A tiny bonus chapter based on and inspired by “The Color of Courage.” A first chance to get to know the characters and the new dual timeline series, “Timeless Agents.”

The Color of Courage: Sil’s Diary Entry - Introducing Secret Agent Lise

Vieux Port, Marseille, August 2004

Dear Grandpa Jack,

I hope you’re up there enjoying a nice pint of ‘Skull Attack’ with your mates while watching over me. I don’t know where to start since I arrived in Marseille two weeks ago to attend the École Supérieure des Beaux-Arts de Marseille. Can you imagine your little whippersnapper making the plunge and going abroad?

I love Marseille already, and I know you would too, with your fishery background. The Vieux Port, where I’m living, is bustling with life—fishing boats bobbing on the sparkling water, the scent of fresh seafood always in the salty sea air, and people from all walks of life filling the streets with chatter and laughter. It’s a beautiful chaos, and I can almost hear you chuckling, telling me to “embrace the mess, Silver, that’s where life happens.”

But Grandpa, it’s not just the city that has got me in its grips. I’ve hardly had time to explore it as I stumbled upon something extraordinary on the first day of my arrival. I found a suitcase filled with letters from a remarkable woman named Lise de Baissac. Can you imagine, I’m living in the house of a WW2 legend?

She was a courageous British secret agent during the war at the same time you landed on Gold Beach with the Welsh Fusiliers just a few miles away. If that isn’t coincidence!  While you scrambled up those steep Normandy cliffs fighting to liberate Europe, she was out there, close by, helping the Maquis obstruct the Nazis reaching you. Did you ever know about these secret agents who helped the Allies behind the lines? I can never ask you now.

Anyway, I’ve been so involved in reading Lise’s letters that I wanted to send you a letter as well. I wish you could have met Lise, Grandpa. Her bravery and cleverness remind me so much of you. It must be a generational thing. Today we’re much more occupied with our own survival to even think of going out there to defend our nation. At least, that’s how I feel it.

She wrote these post-war letters to her beau, Henri Villameur, an artist (yes, yes!) to tell him about the secret missions she undertook during the war. She wanted him to know the truth about her “illegal” actions, so he’d know what he was getting into before marrying her. You’d have loved that candid approach!

But I’m sure you’d also have loved her spirit and tenacity. She would’ve been a perfect addition to your Band of Welsh Brothers, as you called them. She was the embodiment of your life motto, “Just one foot in front of the other, Silver, and you’d eventually get there.” Or in Lise’s words, “I needed cold-blooded efficiency for long weary months more than heroism”.

When I looked her up on the Internet, I found an interview with her from a couple of years back. She passed away in this house this spring, you see. Even in her nineties she still radiated that cool courage you so admired in people. Seeing her, I felt an overwhelming sense of connection, not just to Lise, but to you, too. The indomitable spirit that refuses to back down in the face of tyranny. Or as you taught me, “Courage doesn’t mean you aren’t afraid, Silver. It means you keep going despite the fear.”

Finding Lise’s letters feels like a gift, as if you’re still guiding me from somewhere. I truly hope some form of bravery also runs in my blood, that you passed down a bit of your courage to me. I don’t know what it will be yet, but I’m going to honor Lise in some way, and thus honor you as well through my work as an artist.

I miss you every day, Grandpa, but these letters make me feel closer to you, and I’m on my own path now. Finally! Thank you for teaching me to see the true spirit of this world, to find the stories that connect us through time and space. I’ll color them with courage.

With all my love,

Sil(ver)

Preorder your copy today and be a part of Sil’s story as she paints her future from Lise’s past, one courageous stroke at a time.

The Soldier’s Granddaughter (#1)

A tiny bonus chapter based on and inspired by “The Color of Courage.” A first chance to get to know the characters and the new dual timeline series, “Timeless Agents.”

The Color of Courage: Sil and Grandpa Jack

Marseille, August 2004

Sil Anderson’s fingers traced the yellowing pages of Lise’s letter, her mind drifting to another time, another story. The scent of old paper transported her back to a cherished afternoon in her grandfather’s whitewashed cottage on the Welsh coast. The air was filled with the salty tang of the sea and the distant cry of gulls.

“Been a pest again, Silver?” Grandpa Jack’s voice rumbled like an old engine, warm and teasing.

“No, I haven’t, Grandpa Jack.”

He fixed his piercing blue eyes on her, her eight-year-old face still red and blotched from angry crying. Grandpa Jack, with his face full of white hairs sprouting from his ears, nose, and scalp, looked like a polar bear. He raised one of his sturdy eyebrows to coax a laugh from her, but Sil was in no mood to be cheered up.

“Your Mum and Dad only drop you off here when you’ve been ‘too much.’”

Sil almost laughed. Grandpa could imitate Ghislaine, her stepmother, so well with that high-pitched, hysterical voice of hers.

“I swear, Grandpa, I didn’t steal that can of paint for my graffiti. It was given to me, but Benny had stolen it, and of course, the shopkeeper accused me. Just because he hates me. Everyone hates me.”

“Everyone?” The other eyebrow went up.

“Perhaps not you. But you are old, and you can’t defend me.”

“I.Am.Old?” Her grandfather rose to his massive 6’2”, now bent and rheumatic but still towering. “You know the remedy for little whippersnappers like Silver Anderson who feel sorry for themselves, don’t you?”

“Oh, Grandpa, I don’t want to go for a stiff walk. I’d rather sit here and mope.”

But Grandpa had already taken his walking stick from the rack and plopped his faded sailor hat on his white head.

“Out with you. Five miles and an ice cream at Betty’s.”

“But do you believe me, Grandpa? That I’m not a thief?”

“You’re a thief alright, you half-pint. You’ve stolen my heart since the day you were born.”

He ruffled his hands through her dark curls, and out they went, hand in hand.

Sil closed her eyes, transported back to Pembrokeshire on that sunny August day. She’d been so confused by the world. Even then. But Grandpa Jack, with his war stories and unorthodox pedagogical methods, had been her rock in the quicksand of her life.

It had all gone downhill after he died.

She sighed, the letter slipping from her fingers. How she missed him. His past, especially as one of the Welsh Fusiliers landing on D-Day and trekking through half of Western-Europe to ‘send the Huns packing’, was filled with lessons she wished she’d paid more attention to. 

There had been a message there. A story about a narrow escape during a night raid, behind enemy lines, separated from his unit. Alone, with nothing but his wits and a map, he’d navigated through enemy territory, avoiding patrols and making it back to safety. 

At the time, she’d been more interested in the promised ice cream. Chocolate and vanilla. Her favorite scoops.

Now, she realized he’d tried to tell her a story of resilience and resourcefulness—qualities he’d instilled in her.

And here were Lise de Baissac’s letters. Another brave hero from World War II.

“Oh, Grandpa Jack. I will listen now!”

Lise’s letters were a gateway into Grandpa’s world too, a time when courage and determination were all that stood between victory and defeat.

In this new chapter of her life, Sil embraced the lessons of the past, ready to face the challenges ahead with the same courage that had defined Lise and her grandfather.

As she prepared to step into the vibrant streets of Marseille once more, Sil knew her own journey as a street artist was just beginning…

Join Sil Anderson on her journey in "The Color of Courage", where the past and present intertwine in a tale of resilience, love, and the enduring spirit of those who dare to dream.

Preorder your copy today and be a part of Sil’s story as she paints her future from Lise’s past, one courageous stroke at a time.