Deborah Pearce led a charmed life. Born in the right place at the right time, her beauty had vaulted her into a sphere of prestige and privilege that few women could ever dream of. The culmination of her good fortune had been winning the Miss America crown. She’d met Greg Sanderson the same year. A sweet, sincere man, he had pursued her with quiet determination. And Debbie had liked his single-minded devotion almost as much as his business savvy. Greg was the kind of man who succeeded at whatever he put his mind to.
            Six weeks after her reign ended in 1987, they married on a yacht in the Caribbean. Both wore flowing white attire. His suit of fine silk a gift from her along with a Cartier watch. Her wedding gown had been provided by Valentino. The veil was hemmed in an intricate lace pattern, which was echoed in the swirling confection of the two tiers of train at her feet. Diamond crystals on the bodice sparkled in the reflected light off the aqua waves. Debbie played the wedding video on occasion in her sitting room. And each year in June she carefully extracted the glorious dress from its protective wrapping and ensured that she hadn’t changed a bit. She still looked exquisite in the tulle and chiffon.
            She had thought that her crown and marriage were just the start. And in a way, they were — the start of her modelling career, the start of her family. Yet in another way, they had heralded the end. If only she’d known back then that she was at the zenith of her life, she might have held on a bit longer, savoured the very essence of being the most beautiful woman in the world. But Debbie had truly believed that things could only get better.

Clam holes breathing.
    Kev pushes his index finger deep into one of the holes and digs. Six inches. Nothing. The sand is coarser at this depth, mixed with bits of shell and stone. “He’s in here,” he tells Briony.
    “How far down?” She watches Kev and the distant ripples of surf.
    “Far. I need to shovel.” He bends to his knees to scoop the sand into a mound at her feet.
    Suddenly, Briony feels the terror of being pursued. “Leave it.” She walks toward the water into a warm wind that lifts the short black curls from her neck.
    “I’m not going to kill it,” he yells.
    Then why bother, she wonders. The game seems childish and unnecessary. The day is perfect. They are standing on miles of sandy beach between clear blue water to the east and evergreen trees to the west. Stillness is settling in the rising heat of the afternoon.
    It is the great escape they’d been hoping for.
    “Here he comes,” Kev’s voice peels away the quiet.
    A crab, camouflaged to look like shifting sand, scurries across the beach between them, its claws tangoing side to side. Briony waits until it has found a new hole then turns back towards the water.
    “It wasn’t a very big one,” Kev says as he races up to her. She can hear his disappointment. “Cool though, right?”