PRIVATE LIES is a mesmerizing read, starting with the powerful voice of Ken Kramer in the opening pages. I’m not going to provide a detailed plot summary, other than to say that this novel is a commanding glimpse into the minds of four very distinct characters. Mr. Adler rotates between these points of view, from a dispirited writer who has lost his dream and now settles for a job writing ads (Ken), to his long ago ballerina lover with whom he parted ways twenty years earlier and who he now runs into by a pure twist of fate (Carol), to his loving and enthusiastic wife, a virtual “earth mother,” who has organized his life and bore him two children (Maggie), to the final corner of this very odd rhombus, a self-engrossed, gourmand who’s always touting his latest “cause” and who can talk the best dinner partners under the table (Eliot).

One is immediately plunged into mystery and suspense when the story opens with a chance meeting between Ken, his wife Maggie, her new client Eliot, and his spouse, Carol. Ken knows she’s Carol—his past lover—yet she doesn’t acknowledge him. Not a glance, no eye contact, no conversation. Ken spends the whole evening wonder if this ethereal, swan-necked, divine creature is really the woman with whom he spent months of hot passion two decades ago. He’s positive it’s her; but why does she pretend not to know him?

Little by little, delicious secrets are unveiled. We discover Carol’s past, which I won’t divulge here, and finally get a peak into her mind.

I expected the story would stay in New York, set in apartments and coffee shops and restaurants, when suddenly the plot twists and we are airlifted to Africa!

The contrast between the scenes in the dark, dirty city to Africa are vibrantly divergent. Africa—land of the parching sun, torrential downpours, rare danger, and raw resplendent beauty—invades the minds of the quartet by unleashing inner urges, some not so pretty. The land influences and entices, invades sensible thoughts and tempts all four to go where they hadn’t dared before.

If it seems like I’m being cryptic here, I am. I don’t want to spoil the plot.

There are several twists in this story that made me stand up and applaud. Well done, Mr. Adler! It was these twists that grabbed my attention and made me love the book even more. As they should, secrets are unveiled and the plot runs wild with surprises coming in more frequent waves toward the end. Most satisfying.

I would recommend this book for adults only, particularly those who aren’t shy about reading delicately described sexual encounters. These tastefully drawn passages of great passion were evocative and sensual, adding to the texture of this finely woven literary tapestry. As in THE DAVID EMBRACE, Mr. Adler writes voluptuous and fiery passages when it comes to passion in the bedroom, or in the mind.

I’ve heard that PRIVATE LIES was up for a movie, and that was one of my first thoughts when I finished it. “What a great movie PRIVATE LIES would make!” I do hope that Hollywood grabs hold of this one and runs with it.

I highly recommend PRIVATE LIES for the thinking man or woman, and for those who enjoy diabolical, twisty plots and lush scenery.

Aaron Paul Lazar writes to soothe his soul. The author of LeGarde Mysteries, Moore Mysteries, and Tall Pines Mysteries enjoys the Genesee Valley countryside in upstate New York, where his characters embrace life, play with their grandkids and dogs, grow sumptuous gardens, and chase bad guys. Visit his website at www.lazarbooks.com and watch for his upcoming Twilight Times Books releases, FOR THE BIRDS (2011), ESSENTIALLY YOURS (2012), TERROR COMES KNOCKING (2011), FOR KEEPS (2012), DON’T LET THE WIND CATCH YOU (2012), and the author’s preferred editions of DOUBLE FORTÉ and UPSTAGED (2012).

We are six of us staying now in the house in Beaulieu. It is not an easy task to get six people corralled into doing a single thing, except dining. My son Jonathan and his wife are heavy duty athletes and demand strenuous activity. My son David has a back problem and Sunny and I are walkers of average enthusiasm and, of course, older. Tonight we are off to Monaco to dine, gamble, meet friends and listen to music, since today is a musical festival all over France.

Yesterday, a remarkable thing happened. We went to Cannes on a one day journey. It was crowded with people attending an advertising convention. Suddenly, out of this vast crowd in one of those coincidences that seem miraculous, we bumped into Nick Adler, my nephew, who was attending the convention  Nick, who lives in LA, had no idea we were in France. He joined us for lunch.

Twenty five years ago when I first visited Saint Tropez, almost all the women on the beaches were topless. It didn’t matter how old they were, it was standard. By and large, if memory serves and these images, I can assure you, are engraved in my mind, there were many many gorgeous females. Some wore sarongs and strings of pearls between their breasts. The female form in all its glory was a priceless feature of the Côte d’Azur and it was considered bad form to wear a top. Even my beautiful wife, gaining courage, unveiled her full upper form, despite the fact that people she knew from New York suddenly appeared. Remarkably, everyone seemed comfortable with the idea, especially the women.

Alas, those days are over. Topless is, sadly, out. I’m not sure what this signifies, perhaps some changing mores. Perhaps the French have become too uptight. Who knows? In a sad way, the topless exit, does diminish the joy of  the beaches of the Côte d’Azur. There are some women who have bucked the trend, but the days when it was an essential part of the scene seems over. Perhaps this sounds sexist to those to whom being politically correct is essential to the conversation. Frankly, I don’t care.  I am unalterably opposed to anything that suggests political correctness. And I am not in the least opposed to the topless females that made the beaches of the Côte d’Azur so wonderful.

A major tragedy, perhaps worse than death itself. David’s friend Anthony jumped into the pool accompanied by his constant attachment, his iPhone. The instrument could not be resuscitated and is lying under a bed of rice hoping that this treatment will revive it.  I don’t know what idiot suggested this radical process, but it has not raised the poor iPhone from the dead.

Anthony is now going through a major crisis of withdrawal. This indicates that there is probably a business plan in the works to create a rehab program for iPhone addicts. For those of us who still prefer occasional personal live face to live face communications, we are baffled by those who cannot live a minute without some attachment to an electronic device.

As someone who thrives on face to face dialogue and live inter-communications, it is a lonely life indeed to be surrounded by people who prefer to live in cyberspace clicking away to some far away place, preferring the company of  people outside the human real life range.

The weather here in Beaulieu reminds me of fine wine, delicious on the tongue, warmth for the heart and soul. After enduring a week of rain during our first week here, the weather has turned this into a wonderland. Last night we had dinner on Paloma beach. The tables were placed on the pebbled beach, where the sunset brought out the brilliance of the pink rock walls that surround Cap Ferrat. When the sun disappeared the tables were lighted by candles. Does it get any better than this? Perhaps the joys of a first love, but nothing else.

Our principal activity , aside from dining and drinking wine, are walks around the Cap. There are narrow trails, high up on the cliffs. Unfortunately my agoraphobia keeps me from truly enjoying the view, although in a sturdy outcrop I do take a quick peek.

I finished the McCullough book on Americans in Paris. Great. Now I’m reading David Mamet’s new book about his reasons for abandoning liberalism. He’s not as good an essayist as a playwright, but his book is well worth the time.

I’ve been posting stuff on various writing networks. It amazes me how many people out there are writing fiction. The challenge, of course, is how they will find readers. There will be millions of books out there in cyberspace. I will live with the illusion that quality work will find its audience.

If the world is going to pot, you would never know it on the Côte d’Azur . The Russians are here en masse and the yachts seem to fill the little bays. It’s easy to see why this place was a painter’s paradise.

Old friends whom I met 11 years ago when Sunny and I made a valiant attempt to learn French have surfaced from my postings that we are in the neighborhood. Mitch and Michelle have found us and we had dinner with them the other night. Over the weekend we had dinner  with my landlord JP and his Suzy and our friends from Denmark. We met E at the school and later his lovely wife. E and I have something in common. We never did learn French and both of us tried like hell.

As you can see from my posts France, especially the Riviera, is all about food, sunshine, gossip and glorious lifestyle. Give the French credit. They know how to live. We’ve been here two weeks and they’ve had two Monday holidays, meaning three day weekends.

My son David will be rolling in today. I hope he can find the place which is tucked away out of site on a hillside. I’ll have to meet him in town and guide him up here.

Two nights ago we had dinner at the Voile D’or a lovely hotel in St. Jean Cap Ferrat where we watched the glorious sunset from the terrace. Apparently the actor David Niven lived close by and would come each evening to do the same.  Somerset Maugham lived close by as well. Wonder how many young people remember Niven or read the books of Maugham, which were and still are quite wonderful.

As usual we go lost in the maze of Cap Ferrat. Our objective was to find the trail around the Cap that we had walked numerous times during our “schooldays” at the Ecole Francais where we spent a month attempting to master that language.

We stopped the car next to a likely fellow and asked the usual question parlez-vous anglais?

Fluently came the answer. It turned out he was a Brit enjoying a holiday with his wife at the Grand Hotel. We bonded quickly and he invited us to poolside where we met his lovely wife, pregnant and pretty from South Africa. It turns out he has a sister who is a novelist in New York and we dined together. Once again we learn the miracle of serendipity.

Ava and Chris our houseguests for a week left to visit Ava’s half sister in Krakow. Ava is a whirlwind of energy and her departure will give us a chance to catch our breath while we await the arrival of two of our sons next week.

I’m still reading David McCullough’s The Greater Journey: Americans in Paris. It is one of the best books I’ve read in years, beautifully written and exactly the right book for this trip. I’ve fired up Sunny’s Kindle for her to read the same book at the same time. She will love it as well.

The two television sets in the house were not working and had to be replaced. Not that I care since I get all my news via the Internet and it’s all bad anyway. In this part of the world one can live very happily in a non-media dream world.

I’m still having trouble with the hi tech house we rented. But slowly learning to survive. Can’t work the GPS in our new car either, but since we’re staying close to home no problem has arisen. To reach this house requires some gymnastic driving since there are numerous hard round turns. French drivers speed around these corners like mad. But this is the price one pays for being high up with a magnificent view of the little  harbor.

We’re beginning to make sense out of the supermarket. One must weight ones fruits and vegetables and get a price sticker ourselves. There is a lot of do-it-yourself stuff living in France, but the produce is remarkably fresh compared to supermarkets in the states.