Jeane Rose: The Face of Courage

By Ken Simmons

The true events that inspired this story are: Set in Tampa Bay area. In the 1970s, there were television news reports of a woman who was abducted during a home invasion, kidnapped, beaten, and sexually assaulted. She was then bound and thrown off a bridge in Tampa Bay miles from shore, where for the entire night and all the following day, she had to tread water clinging only to barnacle and mussel encrusted pilings of the bridge. During her time in the water she often had to fight off sharks in order to survive before finally being rescued by a fishing boat. The news report indicated her husband was suspected of instigating the attack. The fictional account, inspired by those events, is set in contemporary times. The heroine in the story is a world-famous fashion model, often called the most beautiful woman in the world. She was loved by all, appeared with Jimmy Fallon on the Tonight Show, was interviewed by Oprah Winfrey, and married a paparazzi photo journalist who thought the world was his oyster, having married a rich model. Shortly after she surrendered her life to Christ, she was attacked, and the world was in shock. Her newfound faith was what sustained her through her horrific ordeal. Her confrontation with her attacker on death row at Raiford State Prison in Florida is an epic and stunning conclusion to this dramatic story. It's "a whole box of Kleenex good,' said one woman reader.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644167892

Book preview

Chapter 1

Today just may be the last photo shoot for Jeané Rose. She had been contracted by Vogue for high-fashion photos at the Guggenheim Museum in Los Angeles. Having spent nearly a week there with two full days of shooting for magazine covers as well as two more days for videos to be used for a major cosmetic line, she couldn’t wait to get out of Los Angeles and back home. The constant grind of being on call was taking its toll on her.

Jeanine Rosemary Billings had started out modeling when she was eighteen, and for nearly fifteen years, she had been named one of the world’s premiere models, often appearing on the covers of Elle, Harper’s Bazaar, Vogue, and Glamour, to name a few. Earlier in her career, she had been named the number one model in the world for five years in a row. Her classic beauty and delicate features had placed her in the stratosphere of fashion modeling. Often compared with the late Audrey Hepburn, her style, grace, and elegance were second to none.

Unlike many models who had to endure the endless runway parade of models showing off various fashions, Jeané had simply shot up to the top, having been able to avoid completely what she considered the humiliation of having to parade herself on the fashion runway in a long line of other models.

She’d been on photo shoots in London, Paris, Rome, and in various exotic locations, such as the Taj Mahal, the Vatican, and even posing on the wing of the Concorde in the ’90s for which she received second-degree burns on her thigh from the hot sun on the wing—and the glamour was beginning to wear thin. Being poked and prodded by doting hairdressers, costumers, and makeup artists, sitting under hot lights, and then having to pose in provocative outfits that made her quite uncomfortable, she began to question herself and wonder if there could be something resembling a normal life after modeling.

Inwardly, Jeané was a shy and very private person, and having to present this glamorous outgoing persona never quite felt right. Unlike many of her peers in the industry who became enamored with their own fame and celebrity, she was a quiet person, kind and sincere, often eloquent in thought but seldom verbal in expression. Better stated, she was a poet in heart but never wrote a single line of prose. Her romantic view on life never seemed to reconcile with the harsh realities and competitive nature of her profession, and she was becoming increasingly disenchanted with modeling.

So conflicted was she regarding her career and the personal price she had to pay to maintain it, she struggled with the idea of telling her husband she considered leaving the business. She had a son who was nearly twelve, who rarely saw her, and her husband Michael’s photography jobs were few and far between. He had become accustomed to the lifestyle her modeling income provided them, but since she no longer commanded seven-figure salaries for two or three days’ work as the world’s premiere model, this limited his financial freedom to live the way in which he felt he’d inherited when he married a rich and famous model. What had begun as his discontentment had started to turn into bitterness over the past couple of years, and it was no wonder there were growing tensions in the home. All of this was taking its toll on what had begun as a storybook marriage. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

—oo0oo—

When Jeanine Billings was seventeen she had already managed to get the attention of modeling agencies that were eager to find a fresh new talent. Her stunning good looks made her a standout at Brooks Debartolo Collegiate High in Tampa where she was a senior. At 5'7" tall, the slender light-haired brunette with the pale blue eyes had not only been selected Homecoming Queen, she was also chosen as the school’s Valedictorian, with a perfect 4.0 grade point average. She studied French, Spanish, and Italian, and she was nearly fluent in each. It was during her sophomore year that her father had a new home built for the family near the community of Seffner, a suburb east of Tampa, requiring her to be bused to school until her senior year when she was given her first car, an eight-year-old Chevy Camaro. It would be nearly two more years before the world would know Jeanine Rose Billings as Jeané Rose.

Chapter 2

She was only twenty when she met Michael, and it was an awkward meeting at that. Jeané had hit the fashion scene by storm when her face was first introduced to the public by appearing on hundreds of billboards in major metropolitan areas around the country, and she was caught up in the whirlwind of it all. Overnight she turned into a sensation, and she was in demand by all the top magazines. She told her friends that she still felt like a little girl who was suddenly thrust into the role of a supermodel, and it was overwhelming.

The paparazzi were everywhere—and Michael was one of them. He was a freelance photographer who sold his pictures to sleazy gossip magazines, and he had a reputation for getting pictures that others couldn’t get, so when she left following an interview with Jay Leno at the NBC station in Burbank, she no sooner got through the exit door to the NBC back lot when Michael was right there with his camera, and with a blinding flash, he had his surprise shot of the new supermodel, found a buyer for it immediately, and it would soon be plastered on the covers of tabloid magazines, and millions were going to see her unflattering picture. However, he quickly realized that his money shot had left her running away in tears to an awaiting car, shaken by his brazen effort to get a shot regardless of the consequences.

Over the next few weeks Michael made several attempts to make it up to her, often sending flowers to her hotel along with a string of please accept my sincerest apology letters. Jeané had been hurt by this brash photographer, and when she never responded to his seemingly endless barrage of mea culpas, he decided to take it to the next level. Her name, Jeané (pronounced zha-nay´), was an invention of her publicist and manager Jeri Noonan, who felt that the name Jeanine Rose Billings wasn’t suitable for a model of her stature. She had retreated to the Sunset Marquis Hotel in West Hollywood in hopes of finding some refuge from the paparazzi, especially this Michael character. But Michael was undaunted. Two $20-bills to the driver of the white limousine tipped him off to her new location at the Marquis.

Another $20 was all it took to persuade a bell hop for her room number, so—ring, ring, ring—and when Jeané came to the door, she once again unexpectedly found herself face-to-face with whom she called His Royal Annoyance, holding yet another bouquet of flowers. She stood in the doorway, deliberately holding it close just enough for him to get the message that she wasn’t about to invite him in.

Do you have any idea how much that horrible picture you took hurt me? she cried out. Didn’t you get the message? When I didn’t respond to your flowers and letters, I was telling you that I wanted nothing to do with you! she said to him as he stood there sheepishly holding the flowers.

Jeané was trying to put up a brave front, but she had to admit he appeared almost as vulnerable as she was. She’d slipped a plain white robe over her pajamas, none of which seemed suitable attire for a glamorous supermodel. She thought he looked a bit like a pathetic little kid who just got a good spanking, and here she was about to give him more of the same—a good verbal spanking. She felt a little sorry for him, but just a little. Even though he had been the cause of considerable grief, she thought to herself that he was a good-looking kid who’d just gotten in trouble. Anyway, she thought he was pretty handsome. She’d held back a smile and a chuckle for about as long as she could.

Oh, all right. Then she smiled and said, You can come in and sit down just for a while.

My name’s Michael, Michael Karos. I felt so terrible about that picture, especially after you left running away in tears, and I just wanted to make it up to you, and you seem like such a nice person, nothing at all like the stuck-up, high mucky-muck supermodel I thought you’d be, and please, please accept my apology, please let me make it up to you. I’m so sorry, as he went on and on and on, pleading for forgiveness.

Okay, okay, Michael. You made your point. You’re sorry. Besides, you had me with the ‘stuck up, high mucky-muck supermodel’ comment, she said with a chuckle as she then turned to look for a vase for the flowers.

They both laughed, and the tension of their first meeting subsided into something resembling an uneasy peace. His case of nerves finally settled, and what had begun as her seething anger finally simmered down, and they chatted for nearly an hour. By that time, both of them began to realize that they might actually begin to like each other. She learned that Michael was twenty-eight years old, and she had just turned twenty.

She didn’t know it yet, but she would soon learn that Michael was smitten. She was not only beautiful, but she was pretty—really pretty. Most fashion models are beautiful, that’s a given. But she was also pretty, and that’s a rare combination. She was the most feminine woman he had ever encountered. There was something about her he found irresistible. He’d never married, but he certainly was no stranger to women, even beautiful women; but this one was different.

Jeané, on the other hand, thought to herself, He’s handsome—you’ve got to hand him that—but I’m not sure I can trust him.

She soon realized it was nearly ten at night, and she invented an excuse that she had to be somewhere early the next morning, so she said good night and led him to the door. Not quite sure what to do next, following an awkward pause, they shook hands, and he asked her if he could call on her again. She answered, We’ll see, and left it at that.

Following their first meeting and five or six more I don’t think so rejections, she found herself finally saying yes to his repeated dinner invitations. After a couple of months and a series of gifts of flowers and endless lavish dining at posh restaurants, followed by a night at the opera at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in Los Angeles featuring Puccini’s La Boheme (which Michael hated, but he thought would impress her), Jeané said, You know, it doesn’t always have to be dining at the most expensive restaurants. You’re spending a fortune on me, and you don’t have to. We can have a simple meal at a simple restaurant and go to a simple movie once in a while.

When he returned to his apartment close to the John Wayne Airport in Orange County, three of his closest friends were waiting in their car parked in front of the apartment. Thankfully they were pals from his second year at Santa Ana College, and they were not involved in the world of tabloid photography. They had discovered he was dating the famous Jeané Rose, but after Michael threatened them with being hanged by the neck until dead, not to mention telling the world they were all bed-wetters, they agreed to keep it a secret. Michael was convinced it was the bed wetters threat and not the hanging that scared them off. They didn’t have to keep their promises long because it wasn’t much later that the press spotted them dining at Spago’s in Beverly Hills.

The National Enquirer’s headline read: Jeané Rose Dating the Paparazzi? showing a picture of the two leaving the restaurant hand in hand.

Previously, whenever out in public, she always tried to conceal her identity by wearing dark glasses and sometimes floppy hats, but it was inevitable that she would be noticed by the press—the tabloid press (the paparazzi), and Michael was more than a little embarrassed, saying, That used to be me. It’s no wonder you were annoyed.

During the next six months of dating, in what she called just regular dates, they walked around lakes and visited such mundane and touristy places as the La Brea Tar Pits and the Griffith Park Observatory, eating at coffee shops and having strolls along the beach.

One such night was at El Matador Beach north of Malibu. It was a full moon, and they had brought along a basket of cheeses and some wine. El Matador is best known for its dramatic caves and tunnels carved out of the rock by the wind and surf, and they both felt more relaxed this night than any before. Jeané spread a large plaid blanket on the sand underneath a rocky overhang, and they sat, relaxed, talking about the simpler pleasures of life. Then, stretched out on the blanket, she leaned over onto one elbow, and in almost-whispered tones, she said, Michael, I’ve been to just about every exotic location in the world, but the Taj Mahal can’t begin to compare with where we are right now. I feel more at peace here than any of those places, and I wish it could last forever.

They were both lying on their backs looking up at the night sky. Even with the full moon, they could make out the North Star and the Evening Star. Then Michael, trying to impress Jeané, since he always knew she was the smarter of the two, said, You know the Evening Star isn’t really a star, but it’s the planet Venus, and they say that men are from Mars and women are from Venus.

Jeané couldn’t resist the temptation, so she mischievously responded with, Yes, but did you know that Venus, depending on the position of their orbits, averages about twenty-six million miles from earth, that it rotates in the opposite direction of most of the other planets, and while the earth rotates roughly every 24 hours, Venus takes 243 days just to make one rotation? And, Michael, it’s true that they say ‘men are from Mars, and women are from Venus,’ but on Venus, the temperatures reach over 860 degrees Fahrenheit, and it rains sulfuric acid, so I’m not sure why women would want to say they’re from Venus, as it’s probably a lot like hell.

He responded with a Touché, you got me on that one, but you’re showin’ off now, and they both had a good laugh.

Time seemed to stand still for them, and for several minutes they didn’t speak as they continued to stare at the night sky. Words seemed inadequate and unnecessary. After several minutes had gone by, Michael sat up and said, I’ve got an idea. He stood to his feet then impulsively reached over and picked Jeané up and carried her, running into the surf clothes and all. Both of them now were completely wet, and her soaked full-length dress clung tightly to her lovely figure as he held her in his arms and embraced her with a long passionate kiss. Then he said, I’ve fallen in love with you, Jeané Rose. You’re the girl of my dreams.

Michael, I’ve never been so happy. I think I’m falling for you, too. I guess we’re both a couple of hopeless romantics, she said as she looked into his eyes, still cradled in his arms as they stood waist-deep in the surf.

He then carried her back to the blanket and stood transfixed, looking at her more than a little amazed at the sight. Her hair was soaked and the moonlight bathed her face, the beads of water now glimmering off her alabaster skin, and he said, So this is what beauty looks like. You take my breath away. Since he was also a little breathless from carrying her from the water back to the blanket, he paused to catch his breath and said, I can’t believe I’m even here with you. Don’t pinch me because I don’t want to wake up from this dream.

They never even touched the wine and cheese as they continued to lay there on the blanket. Michael then moved next to her even closer and kissed her, tenderly at first, but each time they kissed it became more intense, more passionate. Jeané was so taken by this tall handsome man, who only a few months ago was a total stranger to her. She ran her fingers through his hair as they continued kissing, and at one point, just when she thought the passions to give in would overwhelm her, she pulled back, remembering her vow. Michael knew better than to press his luck. Under any other circumstances, and with any other woman, his libido, along with his considerable male ego, would have told him it was time to take it to the next level, but this was the famous supermodel Jeané Rose, and if he tried to push her too fast, one mistake could end it all. He got up, lifted Jeané to her feet, and said, Let’s go for a walk. It’ll get our minds off of the obvious. Besides, the ‘what if’ can be pretty sexy too.

For nearly two hours they walked hand in hand at the water’s edge, and occasionally another wave would hit them so they gave up on trying to dry off. It seemed as though for the first time they were talking and getting to know one another.

Have you ever been on a grunion run? Michael asked.

She answered back, I’ve heard of it, but no, I’ve never done that. What’s it like?

"Years and years ago, probably forty or fifty years ago, you could catch grunion with a bucket, or a bag, but now they only allow you catch them with your hands. I think it’s when they come to shore to spawn or something, but I went on a grunion run a couple of years ago at the beach in San Juan Capistrano. Great fun.