The Maker: Hollywood

The morning sun in Turks and Caicos was bright, painting the sky in pale streaks of gold and bruised purple, but it hadn’t yet achieved the harsh, punishing heat of the midday. A cool, salty breeze was rolling in off the Atlantic Ocean, pushing softly through the massive open archways of the beachfront villa.

Margot stood alone in the sprawling, modern kitchen. She was leaning heavily against the cool marble of the center island, holding a thick ceramic mug of black coffee between both hands just to feel the warmth of the porcelain.

She was wearing a pair of faded, frayed denim shorts and one of Daniel’s oversized, white linen button-down shirts. Her blonde hair was a messy, tangled halo around her face, still slightly stiff from the ocean water the evening before. She wasn’t wearing a single drop of makeup.

She took a slow sip of the coffee, looking out past the living room and onto the sprawling wooden deck.

Two canvas weekender bags and a sleek black leather duffel were sitting side-by-side near the sliding glass doors. The private, air-conditioned black SUV that would take them to the island’s secluded airstrip was scheduled to arrive at the security gate in exactly twenty minutes.

The vacation was over. The bubble was about to burst.

But as Margot stood there, listening to the rhythmic, hypnotic crashing of the waves against the shoreline, she realized something profound. The heavy, sinking dread that usually accompanied the end of a trip—that sudden, frantic tightening of the chest when reality comes rushing back in—was entirely absent.

More importantly, there was no morning-after awkwardness.

Usually, in Hollywood, an unscripted night like the one they had just shared would be followed by a frantic, deeply uncomfortable scramble to rebuild the professional walls. There would be averted eyes, polite coughs, and a mutual, unspoken agreement to pretend the whole thing was just a momentary lapse in judgment fueled by expensive tequila and a tropical sunset.

But Margot didn’t feel regret. She felt an overwhelming, bone-deep sense of peace.

The soft, barely-there padding of bare feet on the hardwood floor pulled her out of her thoughts.

Florence walked into the kitchen. She was wearing a simple, flowing black sundress that stopped mid-thigh, holding her cell phone loosely in one hand. She didn’t offer a polite, cautious ”good morning.” She didn’t hesitate or keep her distance.

Florence walked right up to Margot, wrapped her free arm seamlessly around Margot’s waist, and rested her chin comfortably heavily on Margot’s shoulder. She let out a soft, contented sigh, looking out at the turquoise water with her.

”The driver is at the gate,” Florence murmured, her voice still thick and raspy with sleep. Her skin was warm, radiating the heat of the Caribbean sun they had soaked up all week. ”He’ll be pulling up to the house in ten minutes.”

”Okay,” Margot said quietly. She didn’t flinch away. Instead, she shifted her weight, leaning back slightly into the embrace, and rested her hand gently over Florence’s arm.

”I really, really don’t want to go back to Los Angeles,” Florence complained softly, closing her eyes and pressing her face into the curve of Margot’s neck. ”I want to stay right here. I want to live in this house and eat grilled fish tacos for the rest of my natural life.”

”I think the studio executives might actually send a heavily armed search party if we don’t bring Dan back to the editing bay,” Margot smiled, taking another sip of her coffee.

”Let them come,” Florence mumbled stubbornly. ”We have the high ground. We can hold them off.”

The sound of a heavy door opening down the hallway echoed through the quiet house.

Daniel walked out of the master suite, carrying his laptop case. He was wearing dark, tailored jeans and a plain, fitted gray Henley shirt.

Margot watched him walk toward them, struck by the sheer physical difference a week had made. The terrifying, gaunt specter of the Joker was completely gone. The heavy, bruised bags under his eyes had vanished. The pale, exhausted complexion had been replaced by a healthy, sun-kissed tan. He looked rested, his shoulders broad and relaxed, his eyes sharp and completely present.

He dropped the laptop case next to the bags by the door and walked over to the kitchen island.