April Lindner - Jane

First and foremost, thanks to my agent, Amy Williams, who performed magic on my behalf, and to my editor, Julie Scheina, and the rest of the Poppy team, whose enthusiasm and expertise have been nothing short of amazing. Thanks for believing in Jane and in me.

Im more grateful than I can say for the help of friends who read this story in earlier versions and provided crucial feedback. Big thanks to Tenaya Darlington, whose careful reading of an early draft helped shape the story, and whose generosity helped Jane find a home. Rich Fuscos thorough and expert reading was invaluable, and his support over the years has been a real blessing. Thanks to Jo Alyson Parker, for her insight at a critical juncture. Also thanks to Melissa Goldthwaite, who provided much-needed encouragement at an early stage of the writing process, and who has always been a thoughtful and trusted reader.

Jane was eased into being by the calm support and selflessness of my husband, Andre St. Amant, who helped me come up with the idea in the first place, who sent me off to countless coffee shops and rock concerts, and who never made me feel like the crazy overgrown teenybopper that I am. Much love and gratitude to my sons, Eli St. Amant (leader of the hot new RaveRap band SplitGenetics) and Noah St. Amant, who knows how to hold his own in a mosh pit. Thanks to Chris Bamberger and Dorothee Heisenberg, for steadfast friendship, and to Eric Drogin, whose expertise in several fields has enriched these pages.

A shout-out to my friends at Greasy Lake, especially those with whom Ive shared the power, the glory, and the ministry of rock and roll. There are more of you than I can name here, but special thanks to Sharon Concannon, Mike Fink, Eric Coulson, George Skladany, Sherry Clements, Mark Boufford, Magnus Lauglo, Marty Rynearson, Dawn Ehlinger, Jim Patricelli, and Killer Joe and Brenda ODonald, and to Christian Weissner, in memorium. Thanks also to Linda Morkan, who took Jane on vacation and sent back much-needed encouragement. Extraspecial thanks to my road buddy and first-ever pit partner, Dan Medina, and to Diane Wilkes, Louise to my Louise (since neither of us is Thelma), and my mentor in all things tarot and rock and roll.

Finally, while Nico Rathburn is a figment of my imagination, I couldnt let this moment go by without thanking the real-life rocker who has given me so much inspiration, solace, and joy, and who has served as a model of how an artist giving his all can truly work magic in the night. Without the soul-transporting music and electrifying stage presence of Bruce Springsteen and the legendary E Street Band, this book would not have been written. Its that simple.

When one of the recent updated versions of Pride and Prejudice was published, I found myself musing with my husband about why Jane Eyre, such a great story of love and self-discovery, didnt seem to be getting the Pride and Prejudice treatment. I love Pride and Prejudice and its spin-offs as much as the next person, but if I had to choose between Jane Austen and Charlotte Bront, Id be on Team Charlotte. I first read Jane Eyre in high school, with the sense that I was encountering a kindred spirit. I loved that Jane is such a freethinker and she never takes the easy way out. As deeply as she loves Mr. Rochester, she refuses to cave in to him when hes being unrealistic or selfish. And it doesnt hurt that Mr. Rochester is, for my money, the sexiest guy in literature. Now that Im an English professor, I teach Jane Eyre whenever I can and am always thrilled when I encounter students who take to Jane the way I did.

Given how appealing Jane Eyre is, my theory about the lack of sequels and updates was that some elements of Janes story seemed hard to bring into twenty-first-century America. These days, a young woman as bright and enterprising as Jane would have many careers to choose from. The sad fate of Mr. Rochesters first wife is tricky to envision in our age of medical miracles. But with some thought I knew I could probably figure out a way around those roadblocks. Hardest of all would be re-creating the insurmountable class difference that has to exist between Jane and Mr. Rochester for the story to make sense.

Then it dawned on me: Mr. Rochester could be a rock star.

Right away, I knew I had to write that book. My other lifes passion (after writing and reading) is rock-and-roll music. Ive always loved seeing live shows, and my recent obsession has been going to way too many Bruce Springsteen concerts, sometimes even traveling states away when theres a show I just have to see. Making the Mr. Rochester character a rock legend meant dreaming up the details of how such a person might live his daily life. And the idea of putting a shy, self-contained, and serious young woman together with a notorious bad-boy rocker was just irresistible.

After that, it was a matter of puzzling out how to update the rest of the details, finding answers to questions like: What causes a nice girl like Jane to take a job as a rock stars nanny? And, what sorts of dark secrets might a celebrity like Nico Rathburn be hiding from his public?

All in all, when I set to work on Jane, I felt Id stumbled into the project Id been born for. Once I worked out answers to the plots many logistical challenges, the book practically wrote itself. Whenever I got stuck, I would open up Jane Eyre for inspiration and ideas. I had more fun working on it than on anything else Ive ever written. I hope some of that fun has made its way onto these pages. And if Jane sends a few readers back to Jane Eyre to see what all the fuss is about, so much the better.

The chairs in the lobby of Discriminating Nannies, Inc., were less comfortable than they looked. I sat stiffly in the one nearest the exit, where, feeling like an impostor in my gray herringbone suit from Goodwill, I could watch the competition come and go. Id had some trouble walking up the steps from the subway in my low pumps and narrow skirt. The new shoes chafed my heels, and I had to keep reminding myself to take small steps so as not to rip the skirts satin lining. I dressed carefully that morning, pulling my hair away from my face with a large silver barrette, determined to look the part of a nanny or how I imagined a nanny should look tidy, responsible, wise.

But I had gotten it wrong. The other applicants seemed to be college girls like me. One had situated herself in the middle of the taupe sofa and was calmly reading InStyle magazine; she wore faded jeans and a cardigan, her red hair tousled. Another, in a full skirt and flat shoes I coveted, listened to her iPod, swaying almost imperceptibly in time to the music. But maybe they werent feeling as desperate as I was, acid churning in my stomach, pulse fluttering in my throat.

In my lap rested a leather portfolio containing my woefully brief rsum, my nanny-training certificate, a copy of my transcript, and nothing else. The portfolio had been a Christmas gift from my parents just a few short months ago. It was one of the last gifts they had given me before the accident. But as I waited, I couldnt let myself dwell on how my mother had handed me the box wrapped in gold paper and, her eyes not meeting mine, how she had apologized for not knowing what sort of present I would like. I felt a pang of remorse; her tone implied the failing was mine. Id heard it before: I was too reserved, too opaque; my interests werent normal for a girl my age. Still, my mother had let me give her a thank-you kiss on the cheek. She appeared relieved when I told her the portfolio was just what I would need when I finished school and went out into the world looking for a job. Of course, neither of us realized then how soon that need would arise.