ACAPULCO September 25th, 1966 Las Brisas Hotel Acapulco, Mexico Dear Daddy, I tried to sing you a song, on the patio overlooking the sea. I tuned my ukulele just as you taught me, listening for the telltale signs of a string kept too loose or too tight; of a note slightly left of center. But in the end, the music wouldn't come together. Scales went up when they should have gone down, while flats with razor-sharp edges taunted with each staccato: "Not good enough." "Who said you could try?" Maybe it was me, or maybe it was the wind. Or maybe the melody was hiding in the mistakes. Love, Caroline ONE LEGS BENT, ARMS extended, I sucked in a breath and pushed from the diving board. Sounds of music and laughter flashed by, muting as my head hit the water. The world above became a shim­mering mirage of unfocused light, the icy temperature a shock to my skin. I felt the rush of being young and alive; invincible de­spite knowing the bottom was far below. Kick hard enough, and you wouldn't drown. The newspapers called Acapulco the playground of the rich, and oh, how we came to play. Our retreats stretched from the Côte d'Azur to Rio, exotic locales made even more beautiful by the rose-colored filter of luxury. And despite our constant search for the next fashionable backdrop, there was something special about this Mexican seaport that drew us back again and again. Perhaps it was the faint scent of hibiscus drifting through the salt air. Or the cheerful pink hue of umbrellas lining the water, shielding bronzed bodies from the afternoon heat. Or the way the sun made the mansions dotting the hillside shine like diamonds as it crawled across the sky-- our only indication time was not standing still. Resurfacing, I swam to the platform that hovered like a bull's-eye in the middle of the pool. Daphne lay reclined on its edge, breasts straining against the cups of her lemon-yellow bikini. She was the Marilyn to my Jackie, sensuality radiating from every pore. I reached up to tap her shoulder, finding it slick with tanning oil. "I'm ready for a drink. Wanna join me?" She glanced at the bar from behind her white-plastic- framed sunglasses. "No, darling, you go ahead. Chat up that actor every­one's going on about." "Actor? I thought he was in a band. Something about mon­keys . . ." I wrinkled my nose at the small man flirting with two fashion models. "Whatever he is, he's cute. And in high demand, apparently." She raised an eyebrow at his female companions. I took a second look, but before I could form an opinion, my gaze fell on another man a few feet away. He was tall, his eyes shielded by sunglasses, but by the angle of his head, there was no mistaking their focus: me. His hands held a small camera, and my skin prickled with awareness. How long had he been watching? "Hey, who's that guy standing behind him?" Daphne lifted her glasses and squinted to see farther. "In the blue shirt? I think he's a magazine photographer. Time ? Vogue ? Something like that. Why?" "He's staring. Like he knows me." "Maybe he just wants to know you." I made a face, playfully splashing a handful of water onto the platform. "That's not funny!" she shrieked, her body flinching against the cold drops. Fearing retaliation, I laughed and swam out of reach. Daphne and I had been best friends since our Swiss boarding school roomed us together almost a decade ago. I'd been a scared, shy adolescent who'd wanted nothing more than to call my father and demand he come rescue me from my Alpine prison. But when this twelve-year- old girl walked in with all the swagger of a young femme fatale, she took one look at me and said, "We'll make a rebel out of you yet." Instilling confidence where there was none before, she taught me valuable life lessons such as how to smoke Gitanes like Brigitte Bardot, the subtle art of stuffing a bra, and the quickest way to shimmy up a trellis three hours after curfew. Some of our old schoolmates were already married, while others had gone on to the hallowed halls of Smith and Wellesley. But there was a third path for girls like us, a tiny side door into a world of glamorous adventure. Jets were our magic carpet, deliv­ering us to places where deadlines and decisions didn't exist. We followed the sun, relishing the days before boys and rings would appear to bring us back down to earth. For both Daphne and me, that moment seemed blessedly far off. After completing a few more laps around the pool, I swam to a ladder and lifted myself onto the concrete deck, arms and legs aching with exhaustion. Twisting the water out of my hair, I still sensed a pair of eyes on me, though I didn't dare turn to look. Not yet. "Towel, madam?" A club employee greeted me with a stack. " Sí, gracias ." After running the terry cloth over the wild swirls of my Pucci swimsuit, I spread it over a lounge chair before mo­tioning to a passing waiter, who approached to take my drink order. " Margarita por favor, y una más para el hombre ." I pointed to the bar, toward the tall figure, who now had his back to me. Mimicking the action of taking a picture with my hands, I tried to convey that I wanted to send a drink to the photographer, and not the celebrity standing near him. The awkwardness of making the first move was a fair trade for satisfying my curiosity. Picking up my tattered notebook, I started to jot down some lyrics I'd come up with during the swim. I'd work out an arrange­ment on the ukulele in my hotel room later, away from eyes and ears and words like hobby and lark and isn't that sweet , and all the other whispered slights that made me sigh with defeat. Engrossed by a turn of phrase I'd just written, I didn't notice the looming shadow until a drop of water fell from the bottom of a glass and landed on my thigh. "I believe this one's yours, ma'am?" Raising my eyes, I sucked in a breath at the sight of the man standing in front of me. He wore a blue polo shirt that matched the cloudless sky above us, contrasting with the leather camera strap slung around his neck. His blond hair was styled clean-cut, and a square jaw framed a mouth of straight white teeth. I hadn't realized from afar just how handsome he was, but up close it was obvious. He was the type usually found on a fifty-foot movie screen, not standing beside a pool in Acapulco, real as the drink he held. The slight bend in the middle of his nose was the one thing preventing him from being too perfect, like the sculptor had looked away for a moment and let the chisel slip. But even this only intrigued me further. Clearing my suddenly dry throat, I explained, "There must be some mistake. I ordered two-- one for each of us. I hate to drink alone." "See, that's the thing, ma'am. I try to stay sharp while I'm on the job. But I wanted to thank you just the same." His voice held the Southern twang I missed with every beat of my heart, bring­ing both sorrow and comfort at the same time. "Didn't mean to interrupt if you're workin' on something. Is that a poem?" He stared curiously at my book. Quickly, I closed the cover and placed it off to the side. I didn't know which I feared more-- condescension or genuine praise. "I'm twenty-two; that's too young to be called ma'am. Caroline, please," I said, extending a hand. He shook it, his grip firm and confident. "What a relief-- a normal name. Everyone I've met here goes by a funny little nick­name. Mimsy or Bobo or Kiki. And that's just the men." I laughed, charmed. "Well, I'm just plain Caroline. Caroline Kimball. And you are?" "Jack Fairchild. Life magazine sent me down here to do a photo essay. You happened to be in my frame." "I'll bet. I saw you staring at me from the bar. I decided to be bold and introduce myself." He sat down, handing over my margarita. "It's part of the job, I guess, watching people. You caught my eye when you went into the water. All that long dark hair, flyin' out behind you. And then I couldn't help but wish I'd been sent here to take pictures of you instead of the cliff divers." His words warmed me like a shot of tequila snaking through my blood. Was it a sin to indulge in a little harmless flirtation? "So, Jack Fairchild of Life magazine. Where do you hail from?" "Oh, a little town near Midland, Texas. My folks are in the ranching business. I shot straight out of there the day I turned eighteen and never looked back. I've lived in New York for goin' on eight years now. Still can't shake the accent, unfortunately. People tell me it comes and goes." "Don't apologize; I like it. It reminds me of my father. He came from a family of Houston oilmen." Lord, I hadn't thought about Texas, or my stern-faced relatives, in forever. After Daddy's fu­neral, they'd cut off all contact with Mother and me. As though we were the hangman's noose instead of collateral damage. "Houston, huh? I bet you went to one of them fancy finishing schools. I never would've known you had some Texan in you." "Only trace amounts, I'm afraid. I'm more a citizen of the world now." "One of the beautiful people?" He smirked, like the concept was something laughable. The tabloids hadn't helped us in that regard. To the general public, members of the jet set appeared elitist and out of touch. Socialites with too much money and time, our crises belittled by pithy headlines and sensationalist report­ing. But what the papers always got wrong was that underneath the expensive clothes, behind the makeup and jewels, there was often just an ordinary person with ordinary problems. Problems that couldn't be solved in a thousand hotel rooms or villas, much as one might try. "You seem to be adapting well," I pointed out, letting his as­sumption slide. "Sitting by a pool in Acapulco, taking pictures of girls in bikinis. Nice gig, if you can get it." "Sure beats muckin' out horse stalls on the ranch." I took another sip of my drink and studied him. Despite his almost unbearably handsome face, his lack of pretension put me at ease. Even more remarkable, he hadn't reacted to hearing my name. For once, I wasn't David Kimball's tragic daughter, or Emanuela Leoni's look-alike progeny. I reveled in the anonymity. "So, after you finish in Acapulco, are you off on another mag­azine assignment?" "Back to New York first, then who knows?" He raised a shoulder in casual acceptance. "I'll just be glad to get another job, no matter where it is. How about you? What's next?" "Not sure yet," I confessed. "I hate to plan too far in advance. I guess I'll be off to some other city or town where the sun's still shining and the drinks are still cold. Though a warm café au lait in Paris is always tempting, even in the rain." "No work or responsibilities? Doesn't that get boring?" I bristled at his judgmental tone. "Tell me-- does developing pictures in a darkroom day after day ever get boring? Some people spend their whole lives in a job like that, right?" "Yeah, and if I hadn't gotten a magazine editor interested in my photos, I might still be one of them." "So put yourself back in the lab. If someone gave you a million dollars and said you could travel anywhere you wanted, for as long as you wanted, wouldn't you do it in a heartbeat?" He considered the question. "Maybe for a little while, but after that? I'd get restless. Probably start to worry I was wastin' pre­cious time. There are too many things I want to do before the clock ticks down." "Luckily Pan Am makes it possible to outrun those worries. And for the record, poolside margaritas are never a waste of time." It was a joke, meant to take the sting out of his words, but I still felt the cut. With one sentence, he'd slashed through the thick shield I wore around my insecurities. The secret fear that, despite all my daydreams and notebooks filled with words, I'd already missed my chance. The chance to know what it felt like to stand before an audience, split my chest open, and hand them my heart. He shrugged, shaking his head. I didn't know which of us I wanted to convince, but I couldn't let him walk away thinking my life was trivial or dull. Once that seed was planted, it had the po­tential to grow and fester and turn into something more danger­ous. Something that would make me run faster, play harder. "I wonder-- are you free for dinner tonight? You can join our party for an evening, then tell me if you still think I'm wastin' precious time ." He hesitated before flashing a crooked grin. Challenge accepted. "Okay, just plain Caroline. You're on. Where and when?" "The bar at Las Brisas, eight o'clock. Prepare for a lengthy cocktail hour." Jack tilted his head. "And just how many drinks you plannin' to squeeze in?" "Enough to make me forget you called me ma'am. Twice." I smiled and winked, just as he raised his camera to snap a quick photo. Though it would be weeks before that film was developed, I already felt exposed. Excerpted from Follow the Sun by Liz Locke All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.