She wasn’t sure what alerted her that they weren’t alone, but all of a sudden, a shiver skated along her arms. She looked up and there were two guys not forty feet away, each with a camera plastered to his face.
The paps had found her.
“Coco,” she said softly. “Let’s get all our stuff and go back to the cottage.”
Coco glanced up from the sand she was patting. “But we’re making a sandcastle.”
“I know, but we have to go now. I will explain everything as soon as we get back to the house.”
Coco frowned. But then she shrugged. “Okay. I’m kinda thirsty anyway.” They put the tools in the buckets, snatched up their shoes and headed for the stairs.
“Madison!” called one of the cameramen.
“Who’s that?” demanded Coco.
“I don’t know his name, sweetheart. But I want to talk to him for a minute. Meet you on the deck?”
“But I want to come with—”
“Please.”
Something in her expression must have gotten through. Coco took off.
Photojournalists were not allowed to trespass on private property—not that they necessarily always obeyed the laws. However, nobody owned the ocean and the two men were staying very close to the waves.
Madison marched right up to them. They just kept snapping as she approached. “No photos of that child,” she said. They weren’t supposed to take pictures of children, anyway—except for child actors.
And actually, the rules she kept reassuring herself they had to follow were California rules. She hoped they applied in Oregon, too.
“Not interested in the kid,” said one, camera still over his face.
“Why does it matter?” the other fired back, adjusting his giant lens. “Who is she?”
“A local,” Madison said and added with emphasis, “Not an actor.”
“Show us those dimples,” the second guy demanded.
“What brings you to Valentine Bay?” asked the first.
It was only going to devolve from here. Madison turned on her heel and headed for the cottage again, not once looking back.
Coco, leaning on the railing above, was waiting for her. She ran up the steps. They left the pails of castle-making equipment at the door along with their shoes, brushed the sand from their feet and went inside, where Madison explained as simply as she could that the men on the beach were photographers taking pictures of her because she was an actress.
Coco listened attentively and then asked for a cold drink. “Or a Popsicle. Do you have Popsicles?”
Madison gave her a glass of orange juice and then walked her back to the other house, using the front door this time. The paps were nowhere in sight. That didn’t mean they weren’t lurking nearby.
When Sten got home, she told him what had happened. He went out and looked around, but found no sign of anyone else in the cove. They went over to the other house to report the incident to Karin and Otto, who seemed no more concerned than Sten had.
The Larsons didn’t understand. Two guys with cameras was just the beginning.
* * *
The next day, shortly after the Larsons and Killigans left for the day, six photographers appeared. Madison watched them from behind the glass door of the cottage. They appeared out of the mist from way down the beach somewhere and they stayed close to the water. She had no way of knowing if there were more of them lurking on the cliffs above the front of the house.
Madison remained inside. She Googled herself. Yep. There she was playing in the sand with Coco, who was shot from the back and unrecognizable, thank God for small favors.
The caption read: America’s Darling makes sandcastles in the Pacific Northwest.
