[This is a work of fiction and not meant to represent anyone living or dead. All characters are the property of D H Brooks as published by Cedar Grove Books; all rights reserved. Reprinting for private use only; no republishing without the permission of the author, please.]
CHAPTER ONE
Foam Upon The Water
"She really is the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. Such perfect bone structure, and my, those haunting gray eyes are something else. If I'd had those legs when I was a girl, I'd have been dangerous."
The remark, made by a middle-aged woman disarranged by an easterly ocean breeze and heavily laden with shopping bags, took her daughter by surprise. Still, her comment was not as shocking a surprise as the younger woman having to slam on her heels to avoid running into her mother's back. Nearly upended by the elder woman's sudden stop along the sidewalk, the daughter followed her mother's line of sight, her eyes finally falling upon a billboard perched atop the roof of a trendy, two-story designer shoe store on the south side of Santa Monica Boulevard.
"Mom, you nearly scared me to death!" the young woman wailed, bending down to pick up a dropped package of now broken Garibaldi biscuits she had just purchased from the British import store on the opposing corner. "What's the big deal about that model, Princess Lily, anyway?"
The girl's mother, still starry-eyed as she stared up at the bigger-than-life image, replied without a move of her head. "They say she's the most elegant and fashionable woman on Earth and that she stops traffic wherever she goes. She makes a fortune as a model and on her endorsements, yet she gives it all away to charities, mostly marine charities, I've heard. You know, 'Save The Whales,' 'Heal The Ocean' and that sort of thing. I've heard that she is mysterious, too. Comes from some island nation, I think; can't recall the name. And it's pronounced 'Lee-Lay,' they say on the news, but it's spelled weird, like 'L-I-L-E.' She has a pretty accent but I don't recognize it."
"Whatever, Mom," her daughter, now a bit cross, said with a wave of her free hand, the other being occupied by a search through the front pocket of her cloth handbag. "I guess if I had her money, her face and her figure, I'd come up with a kooky name and a phony title to go with it, too. Come on, let's get to the car. I've found my car keys and the ticket is in my pocket somewhere."
Just behind the pair, in the doorway of Anda's Tandoori Temple, a gaggle of photographers pushed their way backwards out of the frosted double glass doors and onto the walkway, all the while snapping away at a group of exiting patrons. Small groups of nearby shoppers and the sidewalk cafe diners at the pub across the street stopped to gawk at the figures of three highly recognizable Irish pop music stars, one world-famous oceanographer and a noted European fashion designer. Each of the men was suitably attired in impossibly dark and exceedingly expensive sunglasses and sported top-of-the-line Italian suits and boots as they framed the lovely gamine whose heart-shaped face graced the billboard across the street. As the bulbs flashed and the automatic cameras clicked, the celebrated men parted to allow the world-renowned model, Princess Bual-lile de Cote d'Or, to leave the restaurant foyer before them.
The glamorous Princess said her goodbyes to her companions with a delicate wave and a regal nod of her head. With the strong late afternoon sun glaring into her startling gray eyes, she walked to the west in the direction of Ocean Avenue. Many of the patrons of the various businesses along the short city block came onto the sidewalk to find the cause of all of the commotion they had been hearing. The Princess smiled, benevolently yet highly self-satisfied, as she walked toward the shore, giving a regal nod now and then rather than answering the shouted questions from the paparazzi and the gathering crowd. Her petite figure, sepia-tone coloring and jet black bobbed hair took on an ethereal orange glow as she sauntered toward the fiery sunset, her gait like that of a prized prancing filly knowingly showing off her best assets.
Moments later, Princess Bual-Lile, still flanked by photographers as she reached the red traffic signal at the corner, dutifully looked left, then right, then left again. Red happened to be a color with which the Princess had been largely unfamiliar prior to becoming a fashion icon, being that red light tended to filter out in certain regions of her homeland. Waiting patiently for anyone or anything being something else with which Princess Lile remained unfamiliar, she then promptly stepped out into traffic without a care in the world, seemingly not the least bit mindful of the late model convertible sports car bearing down upon her in the far right lane. When she reached the point halfway across the intersection, the light for cross traffic switched to yellow on its way to a solid red, yet the speeding car approaching her did not seem to be slowing. A clamor arose from the sidewalks adjacent to the scene, as worried onlookers screamed for the young woman to run to avoid a collision. As the car rapidly reached the crosswalk, the Princess' eyes narrowed menacingly. Turning toward the oncoming vehicle, she paused to petulantly fold her arms, enraged at the driver. With a loud screech of tires, the car suddenly came to a halt, its radiator billowing steam, its tires melting like molten black lava onto the paved road.
The stunned but furious driver sat in disbelief behind his now malleable steering wheel, then gained his wits quickly enough to spout some rather unpleasant words toward the girl standing before him. Princess Bual-lile tossed back her hair and casually blinked at him before placing a dainty foot onto the cold, gray curb before her. Turning back in his direction, she drawled in a deliberately dulcet tone, "A man who is foolish enough to speak that way to a woman after what you have just survived is indeed unwisely tempting Providence."
A collective breath caught in the throats of onlookers as traffic slowed. Once the light had changed to green once more, onlookers rushed to view up-close the damage to the car, their flashing cameras illuminating the scene as the daylight waned. In all the fuss over the melted automobile and the curiosity over how it had come to be that way, the Princess and her part in it had been momentarily forgotten. The distraction provided a relief which allowed the teenager to briskly walk down the sun-bleached cement steps to a bridge which, in turn, led to a grassy oasis designated by a sign declaring it 'U.S.A.F. Airman Cory J. Wells Park,' a smaller second sign imploring visitors to please recycle items and to place their garbage in nearby bins. The spacious recreation area terminated at a sand-dusted slope separating the grass from the bicycle path and, in turn, from the shores of Santa Monica Beach. Having passed the myriad of picnic baskets and yellow beach umbrellas nestled on the cool grass, Princess Bual-lile crossed onto the shoreline, enjoying the feel of the still sun-warmed sand on her sandaled feet, oblivious to all that was happening around her.
Several feet away from the Princess' path, a loud and rough little boy continually whacked his smaller sister with a tiny plastic shovel, causing the girl to cry as he laughed about his misdeeds. Passing the scene, the shadow of the Princess momentarily blocked the setting sun, causing the boy to notice her. She casually shook off her sandals, placing them in a little mound just a few feet before the surf met the shore. The mischievous boy continued to watch her fully dressed, distracting figure as the Princess walked across the sea-foamed sand and into the crashing waves, disappearing beneath them.
Startled and frantic, the boy cried out to his parents, advising them of what he had just seen. Knowing that their son had a penchant for tall tales, neither parent was at a want to react, assuming this to be yet another attempt at falsely drawing their attention. Frustrated, the boy ran off to the nearby familiar pale green Los Angeles Country Lifeguard tower where he told his tale again. When binoculars failed to reveal any evidence of a drowning girl, the brawny lifeguard followed the line of the boy's pointing finger and dove into the waves, his orange life buoy bobbing along behind him. Urgent search attempts proving futile, the lifeguard soon returned to the shoreline, just in time to see the boy's angry father swat him soundly on his plump, sand-encrusted backside. The horrified shriek this elicited could be heard up and down the beach for easily a mile with the smack quickly erasing from the boy's mind any concern for the welfare of the curious girl he had seen. Nearby, his little sister giggled, her only concern being that justice had finally been served.
-DHB