Follow the Sun

PUBLISHED BY RANDOM HOUSE CANADACopyright © 2023 Liz LockeAll rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Published in 2023 by Random House Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto. Distributed in Canada and the United States of America by Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.www.penguinrandomhouse.caRandom House Canada and colophon are registered trademarks.Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in PublicationTitle: Follow the sun / Liz Locke.Names: Locke, Liz, author.Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20220483116 | Canadiana (ebook) 20220483175 | ISBN 9781039007178 (softcover) | ISBN 9781039007185 (EPUB)Classification: LCC PS3612.O27 F65 2023 | DDC 813/.6— dc23Text design: Talia Abramson, adapted for ebookCover design: Talia AbramsonImage credits: Noel Hendrickson / Getty Images; Peyman Farmani / Unsplasha_prh_6.0_143736956_c1_r0 CONTENTSCoverTitle PageCopyrightDedicationAcapulcoOneTwoThreeFourGstaadFiveSixSevenEightNineTenElevenFormenteraTwelveThirteenFourteenFifteenSixteenSeventeenEighteenNineteenPalm BeachTwentyTwenty-OneTwenty-TwoTwenty-ThreeTwenty-FourLos AngelesTwenty-FiveTwenty-SixTwenty-SevenTwenty-EightHonoluluTwenty-NineAuthor’s NoteAcknowledgementsAbout the Author For Dad, who had faith. ACAPULCO September 25th, 1966Las Brisas HotelAcapulco, MexicoDear 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 ONELEGS 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