Page 47 of All That Glitters

Chapter thirty-five

Childhood’s End

The morning fog hung low over La Jolla Shores, turning the world into muted watercolors. The beach stretched empty in both directions, save for a few early joggers moving like ghosts through the gray mist. From somewhere above came the lonely cry of seagulls.

Debbie sat on the damp sand in last night’s premiere dress, now wrinkled and salt-stained, her bare feet buried in the cold grains.

She’d been here since dawn, watching the sky slowly lighten from black to charcoal to this pale, hazy gray.

Her car keys sat beside her, along with a crumpled tissue and the single earring she’d managed to hold onto through last night’s disaster.

The other one was probably somewhere at the bottom of the Beverly Hilton’s pool along with her phone.

The waves rolled in with their soothing rhythm, each one erasing the footprints of the joggers who’d passed, leaving the sand clean and unmarked.

Fresh starts, over and over again. She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, trying to ward off the morning chill that seemed to settle deep in her bones.

This had always been their beach. Hers and Tony’s.

The place their parents had taken them on vacation as kids, when the world felt magical and full of promise.

Where they’d built sandcastles that the tide always washed away, where they’d dared each other to run into the freezing water, where they’d sat and planned futures that seemed as infinite as the horizon.

She could almost see them now, two scrawny kids racing along the waterline, Tony always a few steps ahead, always turning back to make sure she was keeping up.

Come on, Deb! You’re gonna miss it! Miss what, she’d always wondered.

But she’d followed anyway, because wherever Tony was going had to be better than where they’d been.

A seagull landed a few feet away, eyeing her hopefully for signs of food. When none appeared, it let out a disappointed cry and took off, disappearing into the mist like it had never been there at all.

“I’m leaving today,” she said aloud to the empty beach, testing how the words sounded.

They sat heavy on her tongue, foreign and final.

“I’m going to Paris, and I’m going to study art history, and I’m going to eat croissants and drink wine and maybe fall in love with some French guy named Pierre who wears scarves and has never heard of Hollywood. ”

The waves offered no response, just their endless sigh as they washed onto the shore.

She picked up a handful of sand and let it run through her fingers, watching the grains scatter in the wind. Some clung to her palm, but most just fell away. Disappeared. Like they’d never been held at all.

Twenty-two years old, and she felt ancient. Ancient and foolish and so tired of being the girl who broke things, who spilled drinks on important people, who climbed fences and knocked over garden gnomes because she was too cowardly to just knock on a door and ask for what she wanted.

Too cowardly to tell her best friend she loved him until it was too late, in a wine cellar where the words got swallowed up by duty and obligation and the demands of his new life.

His life with Carrie Thompson. Beautiful, perfect, glittery Carrie Thompson, who probably never spilled anything on anyone, who probably never got her head stuck in fence posts, who definitely never had to be escorted out of parties by security guards.

Debbie pressed her face against her knees, breathing in the salt air and trying not to think about the way Tony had looked at her in the wine cellar.

It had made her feel warm and desirable, like maybe she could actually compete for his attention against someone like Carrie.

But who was she kidding; it had been the wine, and the nostalgia, and the talk of their shared memories.

In the harsh light of morning, on a beach where they’d shared so many dreams, she could finally admit the truth: she’d been holding onto something that had never really belonged to her.

Tony’s heart was set on bigger, shinier things that glittered, and not a walking safety hazard who could play dress up for one night, but would never fit in with that world.

She was meant for Paris. For a fresh start where nobody knew her as the klutzy girl who’d been in love with her best friend since she was seven years old.

She thought about walking its cobblestone streets and the scent of freshly baked bread filling the air.

About sitting in a café, reading a book, and being completely, peacefully anonymous.

Maybe she’d meet someone there. A French boy with kind eyes and a passion for art history, someone who would see her not as the clumsy friend or the girl-next-door, but simply as the woman she was right now, the woman she was becoming.

Maybe she would fall in love again. Maybe, she thought with a small, watery smile, she would even want to stay.

A jogger appeared out of the fog, breathing hard, earbuds in, completely focused on his morning routine. He passed without seeing her, just another piece of beach debris to navigate around. She watched him disappear back into the mist; and like the seagull, it was like he’d never been there.

Her flight would leave at 4 PM. She didn’t have much to pack, just two suitcases and a carry-on.

She would catch an Uber to the airport, and Veronica had already promised to watch her car while she was gone.

She was leaving the car title behind; and on the off chance that she ended up staying in France, Veronica could sell it and the two of them split the cash.

It would probably fetch enough to buy a pizza.

She stood up slowly, brushing sand from her wrinkled dress, and walked to the water’s edge. The foam swirled around her ankles, shockingly cold, making her gasp. But she didn’t step back. She let the Pacific Ocean — their ocean — wash over her feet one last time.

“Goodbye,” she whispered, and wasn’t sure if she was talking to the ocean, or to San Diego, or to the little girl who’d believed that if she just held on tight enough to someone, they’d never let go.

The tide pulled back, taking the sand from beneath her feet, making her sway. But she found her balance; she always did. Even when the ground shifted, even when the things she’d counted on turned out to be temporary, she found a way to stay standing.

Paris was waiting. Pierre, with his hypothetical scarves, was waiting. A life where she could love someone who might actually love her back was waiting.

The sun was clearing the horizon now, and the world was beginning to wake up. It was time. Time for the next chapter.

She stood there for one final, long moment, memorizing the sound of the waves, the feel of the cool air, the sight of the awakening sky over their ocean. She was saying goodbye to her childhood.

And as she turned her back on the water and walked toward the life that was waiting for her, she didn’t look back.

The Ivy was everything its reputation promised — hip, trendy, and way too expensive.

Celebrities and power players lounged at carefully arranged tables under flowering vines and striped umbrellas, all pretending not to notice each other while secretly keeping score of who was seated where.

Like Hollywood’s version of a high school cafeteria, the cool kids got the prime tables, while the lesser-knowns sat on the sidelines.

Tony felt like he’d been dropped into a foreign country without a map. He’d changed into his least wrinkled button-down, but he still felt woefully underdressed next to men wearing linen suits that probably cost more than his truck. Actually, the table-cloths probably cost more than his truck.

He, Carrie, and Eli were seated at a prime table on the patio.

Carrie, despite her own nerves, looked every inch the movie star in a simple but elegant sundress.

She’d put on makeup for this, a subtle mask of confidence, but Tony could see the nervous energy thrumming just beneath the surface as she twisted the napkin in her lap.

Eli, for his part, looked like a shark in his natural habitat, coolly sipping an iced tea as he scanned the patio for rivals and opportunities.

Morgan Fisher arrived, looking tan, silver-haired, and exuding an aura of calm, unshakable power. He wasn’t the same man Tony last saw firing a Taser at him outside his Beverly Hills mansion. This was the legendary producer, the man who could make or break careers with a single phone call.

“Eli, good to see you,” Morgan said, shaking Eli’s hand before turning his attention to the others. “Carrie, you were magnificent the other night. A true star.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fisher,” Carrie said, her voice steady despite the butterflies doing acrobatics in her stomach.

“And Tony,” Morgan said, a wry twinkle in his eye as he sat down. “Glad to see you not scaring the daylights out of me outside my home this time.”

Tony managed a weak, sheepish grin. “I’m glad to not be staring up at the sky in convulsions this time.”

Morgan laughed, a friendly, good-natured laugh.

The rest of the small talk was brief. A waiter appeared, orders were placed, and then Morgan leaned forward, getting straight to the point. “So, Eli tells me you two have been cooking something up. I’m intrigued. Tell me what you’ve got.”

This was it. Tony’s heart hammered against his ribs. He looked at Carrie, giving her a small, encouraging nod. She took a deep, steadying breath and began.

“It’s called ‘The Monaco Job,’” she said, her voice clear and confident. “It’s a spy thriller, but at its heart, it’s a character study.”