Beach Colors (18 page)

“I’m just trying to get us through this. Give Connor a place where he feels safe. Loved.” He couldn’t believe he was saying this stuff to a shrink.

“Mrs. Ames says you had to give up your teaching. Your life in Colorado.”

“It was my choice.”

“And?”

“That’s all. It was my choice and I made it. End of story.” And end of session. He stood up. “Thank you for your time, Dr. McKinnon.” He stuck out his hand. Businesslike, firm.

The doctor smiled slightly before he took it. “Thank you for coming. I’ve made another appointment with Connor for next Thursday. I’d like you to be here if that’s possible.” Nick started to explain that the summer season was just starting, that he was understaffed and overworked, but he was tired of fighting. “Sure. I’ll be here.”

He moved to the door, fumbled with the knob with a sweaty hand, and yanked the door open.

A young woman in jeans and a bright blue T-shirt was walking down the hall holding Connor by the hand. She looked about twelve, but he knew she was a teaching assistant. Nick didn’t know if Mrs. Ames had called down to tell them they were finished or if Connor had been too much for the girl to deal with.

He strode down the hall and took Connor by the hand.

“Bye, Connor,” the girl said with a smile and a wave.

“Bye,” Connor whispered before Nick whisked him down the hall toward the parking lot.

They’d brought his mother’s old Buick and Nick lifted Connor into the backseat and strapped him in, then he helped his mother to climb in the front seat. He really needed to get her a more manageable car.

He thought about Jude’s little Citroën, but couldn’t see his mother driving anything so cute. Or wearing a perky hairdo. Or any of the things Jude represented. There was a world of difference between the two women. He wished it could have been different.

He dropped them off and picked up the police cruiser, turning down lunch because he had to get back to work. He wouldn’t be getting any more time off until the fall. The prank at the marina last night had just been the overture.

He drove back to his apartment to change into his uniform. As he turned the corner onto Marina Way, he saw Quinn Palmer’s truck parked at the curb outside. He and Darren Whitcomb were carrying boxes into the house. The new tenant must be moving in.

He was mildly curious, but didn’t have time to check it out. He ran up the stairs to his apartment, and ten minutes later he came out dressed for work and carrying a peanut butter sandwich for his lunch.

He pulled out of his parking space just as a bright blue coupe drove by.

Eleven

T
his is perfect,” Margaux told Linda as they stood in the doorway of Margaux’s new studio. Her drafting table was set up in the bay window. Her paints and pastels were lined up on a bookshelf she’d brought from the beach house. Her easel was placed in a corner.

The door opened and the “Toreador Song” filled the air.

“Go forth and create,” Linda said. “Us mere mortals have to paint some hair. Coming, Mrs. Fortuna.”

Margaux stood in the middle of the room. Light streamed in through the windows. The walls were white and there was crown molding along the ceiling. It was a good space.

Small compared to her loft space in New York. But then, she was just starting out . . . again. Somehow that fact didn’t bother her as much as it should.

What had she said in the diary? She had a dream. To design clothes that would make people feel good. Now she realized she hadn’t even been thinking about the people who would wear her creations. Just about which models to use in order to wow the industry.

Her work had become about the design, not about the actual clothes. It was gratifying in a remote way—to be on top, to be the one others copied. It was exciting, exhilarating, and yet somehow empty.

But where did you go after New York and Paris? Crescent Cove? Brianna was probably the only woman in the area who could pull off an M Atelier design. To do what? Go out and feed her chickens? Her goat?

And where did she start?
Clothes to make people feel good about themselves.

She spent the next few hours sketching and tossing. None of her usual designs appealed to her. Yet nothing appeared to replace them. She knew she was in trouble when she found herself doodling the masts that rose over the marina wall.

She tore off the page and aimed it at the corner of the room. She was collecting quite a pile of rejects, though a few had survived and were clothespinned to a fishing line she’d strung along the west wall.

She leaned back in her chair and stared out the window at the street, the marina, the salt marshes, the point, the Sound.

She placed another sheet of paper on the drafting table, let her hand move, trying to let it roam free without her mind pushing it into what she knew. The outline of a dress emerged, not sharp and angular, but soft and gauzelike. She reached for her pastels, let her hand guide her head for once.

Blues on blue with bits of white, whimsical. She had to force herself not to interfere, but let it grow. She scalloped the hem and wrapped a flowing scarf around the model’s neck. Then she leaned back and took a look.

She laughed. It looked like the old Margaux. The young Margaux actually. And she liked it.

She pinned it to the fishing line and stepped back to study it. She liked it. But would it sell?

As she stood there, the front door opened and the “Toreador Song” echoed through the house. Someone went into the salon. Margaux picked up a lighter shade of blue pastel and added another swirl to the skirt.

She felt movement beside her and looked down to see Connor Prescott, standing close and gazing at her sketch. It was as if he materialized out of thin air. His grandmother or uncle must be close by.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” the boy breathed. He smiled up at her and went back to looking at her dress design.

She bent down beside him. “Well, what do you think?”

He looked from the sketch to her, his big brown eyes so sweet it was heartbreaking.

“It’s the ocean,” he said.

Margaux looked back at the dress sketch. “It
is
the ocean. You are so smart.”

He said something. She leaned closer.

“I like you.”

“Well, thank you. I like you, too.”

“Connor. Connor, where are you?”

Margaux stood up, and Connor pressed close to her.

“Connor!”

“He’s in here,” Margaux called, her hand going instinctively to the boy’s shoulder.

Nick stepped into the doorway and froze. He looked tired and harried, but he wasn’t looking at his nephew. He was looking at Margaux.

Linda pushed him through the door. “Did I mention that Margaux is my new tenant?”

“No, you didn’t.” Ignoring both women, he stepped toward his nephew. “Connor, you can’t run off like that.”

Connor cowered against Margaux.

“Sorry,” Margaux said. “He was giving me his advice about my new sketch.”

“What?” Nick looked at the row of sketches hanging along the wall.

“The blue one. He said it was the ocean.”

“Well, dee and tarnation,” Linda said. “It
is
the ocean.”

Nick looked from the sketch to Connor to Margaux and shrugged.

Linda guffawed out a laugh and Connor shrank even closer to Margaux.

“Sorry he bothered you,” Nick said.

“He didn’t.” Connor felt good nestled against her side. A longing erupted deep inside her and she gently pushed the boy away.

Linda squatted down by Connor. “You two doing manly things this afternoon?”

She nodded and listened to words Margaux couldn’t hear. “Going to Deke’s?” Linda grinned wickedly. “You know Connor. Margaux was just telling me how she wanted to go to Deke’s.”

Margaux shook her head.

Nick shot a fulminating look at Linda.

Connor took a deep breath. “Can she go with us, Uncle Nick?” And out of the blue, he took Margaux’s hand.

“Ms. Sullivan is too busy—”

“Connor, sweetie, I can’t—”

“She’d love to go. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll lock up.” Linda practically shoved them out the door. “Have a good time and don’t let Margaux eat all the clams.”

Connor’s shoulders shook with a silent giggle as they walked to the street.

Margaux tried to pull back when they reached the sidewalk, but Connor held on tight and pulled her toward Nick’s truck. She looked at Nick and shrugged.

He turned to Margaux. “Do you mind? I just have to drop off some lumber first.”

“No,” she answered slowly. “But you don’t need to be polite. Linda was just being—”

“Linda. I know, but Connor wants you to go.”

“And you always do what Connor wants?”

He frowned.

“That wasn’t a judgment.”

“He never asks for anything much.”

“I’d love to go.”

Nick lifted Connor into the cab and helped Margaux in after him. There was a bustle about whose seat belt belonged where and Margaux and Connor giggled a lot while Nick watched stoically.

The man had no sense of humor.

At last they were strapped in and ready. They left town, passed the entrance to Little Crescent Beach, and turned into the next side street. The street dead-ended in a clump of trees. Nick pulled the truck to a stop at the last house.

Connor unbuckled his seat belt. Nick opened the door and Connor scrambled over Margaux and slid down to the ground.

“Jake has a tree swing,” Nick explained.

They watched the boy race across the grass. He was several yards away when he came to an abrupt halt. Slowly he turned back and looked at Nick, then Margaux. His excitement drained away to something else. Fear? Pain?

Nick’s breath caught, then he expelled a sigh. Margaux got a sense of total defeat. It was as if Connor had stopped himself from having fun. Because he expected to be yelled at? Nick was intense and serious, but she could tell he loved the boy. And she also saw his face when Connor lost his enthusiasm and slumped into quiet. It wasn’t anger or disapproval she saw, but sorrow, bone-deep unhappiness.

“You do what you need to do, I’ll do swing duty.” She struck off across the grass to where Connor stood.

“Wow, that’s some swing,” Margaux said, taking him by the hand and leading him toward the tire that hung by a rope from an old maple tree.

He came willingly, but his lip trembled.

She dropped down beside him. “What is it, sweetie? Do you want me to push you?”

He nodded.

“Cool.” She lifted him up and he stuck his legs through the tire opening. “Hold on tight.” She pulled the tire back and gave it a push. He pumped his legs and smiled a big gap-toothed smile. Margaux waited for the
“whe-e-e”
kids were supposed to make when they swung higher, but it didn’t come.

The swing died down a bit and Margaux gave it another push.

Nick came across the lawn.

Margaux pushed the swing.

After a few minutes, Nick said, “Thanks for coming.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it,” she said.

They went back to watching Connor.

When the swing died down again, Nick walked over to Connor. “Last time, buddy, it’s time to go.”

Connor immediately stopped pumping and slid out of the tire. No whining, no dawdling. He just came to stand by Margaux and Nick.

They headed back to the truck. Halfway there, Margaux saw what looked like a path going into the woods.

“Is that Little Cove beyond those woods?”

“Yeah.”

“So that’s where you came from. Is that how you guys always came to the cove?”

Nick frowned. “Yeah. A friend of mine lives here.”

“We always wondered where that path led to, but we never went any farther than the Grotto.”

“The what?”

“Grotto. It was our secret hideout.”

He grinned, the first truly amused expression she’d seen from him all day.

“Would you like to walk down to the cove?”

“Yeah, I would. If you don’t mind.”

“Fine by me. Connor’s never been down there. He might like it.”

Connor had stopped to dig a soda cap out of the ground.

“Connor, come on, we’re going for a walk.”

Connor immediately stood and hurried toward them.

Beneath the trees was cooler than in the sun and Margaux shivered, probably from excitement, which was silly because it was just a normal path. One she knew very well from the other end. And she couldn’t for the life of her figure out why they had never followed it to its beginning.

The path was too narrow to walk side by side. It was rutted and overgrown as if never used. Roots grew over the earth and fern leaves slapped against their ankles as they walked, and only a few patches of dappled sunlight made its way past the trees.

Nick led the way. Margaux walked right behind Connor. Even so, he kept looking back as if making sure she was close by.

The path curved unexpectedly and Margaux knew they were near the Grotto.

She almost walked past it, it looked so different from the other side. It was completely hidden. No wonder the boys had never discovered them.

“Wait,” she said. “There it is.” She felt a little weird about showing it to strangers, but she didn’t think Bri and Grace would mind, and she bet Connor would be impressed with a secret hideout.

Connor and Nick both stopped. Ignoring Nick, she crouched down next to Connor. “Do you want to see the secret hideout my friends and I had when we were kids?”

He nodded, his eyes round. She motioned for him to follow her. “It’s over here.”

The underbrush had already been trampled where they had visited the Grotto the week before. She stopped when she was at the edge of the overhang. “There it is,” she whispered. Connor leaned over and peered inside.

She could feel Nick standing behind them.

Connor said something. It sounded like “cool.”

“You have to duck-walk to get inside.”

“Look before you step,” said the voice of authority behind her.

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Margaux said automatically.

She heard Connor’s puff of laughter.

The two of them duck-walked inside and crouched beneath the ledge. Connor grinned up at her.