Chapter 1—Emergence
Madeleine searched the shoreline from above the rim of her lemon-soaked martini. There were no people on the secluded beach today. Just a few seagulls hanging around. Making those funny noises that had brought a smile to her face since her bare feet first touched the secret Riviera sands.
“Want anything from the Casino?” Jean, her husband of three years asked in a slight French accent, poking his head out from behind the sliding glass door.
“Not today,” she said distantly, watching the waves drift.
“Not even that wine you like?”
She hesitated, then sighed. She hadn’t planned on getting shitfaced today, but it was three-thirty in the afternoon and she was on her second martini.
“OK, then,” she said, turning her head back to look at him. “The red one. With the horses on it.”
He nodded. “Sure. Kiss?"
She rolled her eyes, smiled, and then blew him a kiss.
“There.”
“See you soon,” he said with a wink.
“Uh-huh.”
The sliding door closed and she returned to watching the waves. They rolled slowly, as if caressing the shore. Calmly and sweetly. It’s so quiet out there.
She licked the edge of the glass, tasting lemon and gin. The taste reminded her of home, and her lavish comforts, nestled by the beachside with her still-famous husband.
A few minutes later, she heard the door on the other side of the house close, followed by the click of the Maserati’s doors opening.
Don’t get caught, she thought, smirking. The car had been impounded a week ago because Jean was busted speeding. He couldn’t play the celebrity card that time. It had been working less and less, it seemed. Maybe because he wasn’t getting the same roles anymore. Television wasn’t really a blockbuster affair. Well, not the shows Jean was in nowadays; Sci-Fi remakes and never-ending day-time dramas.
The Maserati’s engine rumbled. The sound pounded the walls of the driveway.
And then Jean was gone.
At the edge of the horizon, a large yacht came into view. It was one of those billionaire playboy types, with multiple decks and tinted windows all round. A superyacht is what they called them. She and Jean had been invited on one by rich friends of his, wine estate owners, who liked to throw lavish, boozy parties over the course of a few days. Hundreds of guests at a time, usually, forgetting about the rest of the world, letting themselves go around people they barely knew. God, those were fun, she thought fondly.
She was still eying the yacht, wondering who it belonged to, when she noticed a figure on the beach. It seemed to have emerged out of the tide. With large, uneven steps, it slowly moved forward. She creased her eyebrows with confusion. It’s a man. She noticed his large, athletic frame. He had some kind of wetsuit on.
Did he come from the sea? she wondered. There was no way to access the beach, except from the private residences lining the shore.
The man seemed to be gathering himself, hands on hips, as he turned his head in different directions. She thought he seemed to be figuring out where to go.
Maybe he’s a stray diver. Or an athlete or something.
She took another sip from her martini, then stood up, and walked over to the edge of the deck balcony. The man was moving again, starting to jog now.
She had an instinct to call the police. But the alcohol seemed to trickle through her thoughts, changing her mind. No, she decided. I'll talk to him myself. As soon as he'd come close enough, she’d tell him he was trespassing. Probably a mistake. He probably just doesn’t know.
Suddenly he dropped to ground. It was like he’d fainted.
Oh God!
But his body was still moving. She noticed he was crawling now, inching along the sand like a marine in training. At the same time, she became aware of the superyacht in the background. It was disappearing behind the rocks in the bay.
Who are you? she thought, refocusing on the crawling man.
Then he stood up. He seemed awkwardly out of place, the only person on the entire beach.
He appeared to notice it, too. He suddenly ran, making a line toward the edge of the beachfront properties.
Now she raised her hands, waving to get his attention.
Will he see me? Do I want him to see me? She felt an unusual sensation, more like excitement than fear, as if reuniting with something she’d lost long ago.
He didn’t stop running. But he was now approaching the fence at the front of their property. If she shouted, he would hear her.
“Hey! Hey!”
He stopped in front of the fence, and looked up at her, standing on the deck above the front yard.
“I need to talk to you!” she shouted. “You’re on a private beach.”
“I don’t see any signs,” he shouted back, as he caught his breath. She buried a smile.
“Just wait there. So I don’t need to call the police.”
“OK.” He nodded, then looked around again.
She took a large sip from the martini as she entered the living room. Then she set down the glass, and grabbed the keys to the front of the house from the kitchen counter.
A few minutes later, she was down the stairs and out the front door.
She looked across the backyard, surprised—he wasn’t there. She walked and then jogged to the fence, stopping to look out.
Where is he?
“Are you alone?” he asked.
She spun around. He was leaning against the concrete wall of their garage, covered by shadow.
“Yes...” she said uncertainly. “But my husband–”
“Is where?”
“Buying groceries.”
He was quite stocky, she noticed, and his messy, dark brown hair was still wet. There was a tired look in his face too.
“Do you work for Estéban?” he asked.
“Who?”
He studied her a moment.
“I’m guessing you don’t. What does your husband do?”
“He—he’s an actor,” she said. She wanted to step forward, but couldn’t. Then she noticed she was squeezing the keys against her palm.
“An actor,” the man said, suddenly smiling. He appeared to relax entirely.
“Uhh, yes.”
He stepped forward, placing his hands on his hips.
“Wait,” she said. She stopped squeezing the keys. Then she threw her shoulders back.
“This is a private property. And a private beach. You shouldn’t be trespassing.”
“I’m sorry, mademoiselle,” he said.
“I’m not French,” she said huffily.
“I’m glad,” he said. He smiled at her more fully now. She noticed his accent was unusual, perhaps Scandinavian. “I didn’t mean to be down here.” He raised an eyebrow. “Actually, I’m as surprised as you are.”
She raised an eyebrow too, studying his face. The sound of a nearby horn from a ferry broke their silence. It made him jump. He winced, then felt the back of his shoulders. As he raised his arms, she noticed his wetsuit was ripped down his side, near his ribcage.
“Oh my God,” she said. “You’re bleeding.” She pointed at his side, indicating the red on his skin becoming dark patches staining his suit.
He looked down at his side. “Oh,” he said. “You’re right.”
“Holy hell,” she said. She approached him carefully. “Just—stand still a moment.”
“OK,” he said.
She bent her head closer.
“It doesn’t seem bad,” he said.
“I’ll get you a bandage. And something to rinse it. You’re not light-headed are you?”
“I –” He looked at her, his deep blue eyes meeting her ivy green. “I don’t think so,” he said, smiling again.
“No,” she said, hesitating again. “No, you’re alright. Just – just wait here this time.”
“Right.”
She hurried back into the kitchen. Who is he? she wondered, as she pulled open a drawer, searching for the first aid kit.
Then she heard a thunderous rumble, as the Maserati raced up the driveway.
