Beach Colors (40 page)

Connor didn’t move.

“Connor, please come out. It’s time to go home.”

Connor shook his head.

Clinging to the ragged edge of his patience, Nick ducked under the ledge, grabbed the boy by the arm, and pulled him out. He didn’t resist, didn’t cry, didn’t make a sound.

Nick backed out and put him on his feet.

Jake bent over to look under the ledge. “What was he doing in there?”

“I don’t know. He saw it one day when we were with . . . you know.”

Connor didn’t resist when Nick took his hand and the three of them walked back to the street.

As soon as they were in Jake’s yard, Nick knelt down. “I don’t want you to go there again. I want you to promise or I can’t bring you with me anymore.”

Connor stood there. Quiet. Just standing.

Nick raked his fingers through his hair, hair he was wearing much longer these days. He’d get a haircut first thing tomorrow.

Jake gave Nick a look and knelt down. “What were you doing in there?”

Connor turned his head toward Jake and whispered, “Making a wish.”

“Making a wish?” Jake looked at Nick for clarification.

“Margaux told him that it was where they used to make wishes or some nonsense like that.”

“It’s not,” Connor said on an expulsion of breath. “My wish will come true. Margaux said.”

“Well, Margaux was wrong. Get in the truck.”

Connor glared at him but walked slowly toward the truck.

“Nick,” Jake said. “Cool it. He’s just a kid.”

“Cool it? Let him keep thinking his wish will come true? He’s wishing that Margaux will come back.”

“Ouch.”

“I’ll bring my stuff over when I get off from work tomorrow.”

“Sure. See you then. And Nick, try not to be so hard on the boy or yourself.”

Nick raised a hand and got into the truck. He buckled Connor’s seat belt; Connor refused to look at him. “I’m sorry, champ. I miss her, too, but missing and wishing won’t bring her back.” He’d been right twenty years ago. He’d known it, but that hadn’t stopped him from falling for her all over again.

Twenty-eight

M
argaux spent the next two days designing and fretting. She stopped only long enough to eat and call Bri. The first time she was with a customer—at
Margaux
— and didn’t have time to talk. When she called back, Margaux was in the shower. She left a message. “Hope you’re doing okay. Jude said we should keep the store open until further notice.”

Store? Bri had called
Margaux
a store, not a boutique? She was still pissed.

“So let Jude know, so we can decide what to tell the seamstresses and Linda will know what to do about the rent.”

Margaux didn’t call her back. She called Jude.

“Am I making the right decision? Sam’s offering good money, my own line, a chance to get back in the game.”

“Only you can decide,” Jude said. “Go with your gut.”

“My gut hurts. Everybody’s mad at me.”

“They’re just disappointed that it didn’t work out. You have to do what’s best for you.”

“Have you talked to Nick? He never even returned my call.”

There was a pause. “No, actually I haven’t seen him.”

“Why?”

“He hasn’t been around.”

“What about Connor?”

“He’s been coming to work with Adelaide, but he’s going to a preschool term at the Eldon School, starting Monday.”

“That’s good, right?”

“We all hope so.”

“This is what I’ve always wanted,” Margaux blurted out, trying not to think of Connor alone at school.

“I know, Mags. And it’s all right, whatever you decide.”

She thought of Nick, punishing everyone because he was mad at her. He probably wouldn’t even let her see Connor if she went back. “I’m taking Sam’s offer.”

Silence.

“But if Bri doesn’t mind, she can keep
Margaux
open until everyone can find other jobs.”

“I’ll tell her.”

“And don’t worry, Mom. I’m good for the loan payments. I won’t let you down.”

“Sweetheart, you’ve never let me down.”

Was it Margaux’s imagination that she heard the unspoken “until now” in her mother’s voice?

“Well, stay in touch. Let us know how you make out.”

Margaux’s throat tightened, her eyes stung, she’d burned her bridge, it was onward and hopefully back upward.

“I will. Bye,” she said, and hung up before Jude could hear her cry.

N
ick climbed down the outside stairs of his apartment. He was still recovering from his conversation with Linda when he tried to pay her an extra month’s rent for the inconvenience of his leaving without notice.

She refused to take the money. As he left, she began singing: “Money can’t buy you love.”

He turned on her, pushed to the limit. “Maybe you should tell that to Margaux.”

“Maybe you should tell her yourself. I’m calling the hippies to see if they want the apartment. I’m out of yak butter.” And she slammed the door in his face.

He was just putting the last box of his possessions in the back of the truck, and thinking he’d made it out of his apartment without any more scenes, when Brianna came running out the front door. She was wearing one of those Driftwood pants and a flowing top and it made his throat tighten.

Holding the rail, she took the steps two at a time, marched over to his truck, and planted her hands on her hips. “What are you doing? Is this the move to New York?”

“What move? No. Don’t be stupid.”

She sank into one hip and he knew he was in for it.

“As long as we’re name-calling, you can own the ‘stupid’ and add the ‘stubborn’ and the ‘selfish’ to go with it.”

Nick dropped the box and turned on her, ready to give her back insult for insult. He was fed up with everyone ragging on
him
for what Margaux did.

Then she smiled. Slowly. Beautiful, distant, and accusing. How the hell did she manage all that at once?

“Go get her.”

“Right.” Nick moved toward the driver’s side but Brianna stepped in front of him. She had to be close to five-ten, but hell, she seemed about seven feet tall as she scowled at him, almost eye-to-eye.

He slipped past her, she punched him in the arm as he passed. “Goddammit.”

Nick turned on her. “Why? Why would she come back? What can I offer her that New York can’t?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe yourself and Connor?”

“That wasn’t enough.”

“Are you sure?”

Jake’s question needled at him. “Did you tell her you loved her and wanted to marry her?” He’d come close, but it had stuck in his throat . . . because he knew what her answer would be.

“She was sure,” he said, but he began to wonder if he’d been a coward. “Hell, she didn’t even stick around for this store, and it was way more important to her than we were.”

Brianna rolled her eyes at him; he cut her off before she could say something painful.

“She threw it all away. For her old life.”

“Jeez. You can’t be as dense as you sound. She got scared. Haven’t you ever been scared, Nick? Forget I asked. I can see it; sense it on you. You’re scared now.”

“I’m—”

“She went back to what was familiar, where she knew the rules.”

“It’s what she wants.”

“Maybe. Or maybe she just needed to go back to make sure she was doing the right thing by staying here. Did you ever think about that? Did you do anything to convince her she had a life here?”

He flushed. He could feel it and he couldn’t stop it. “I thought I did.” But he could hardly get the words out.

“You know, sometimes it’s easier when you don’t have a choice. Take me, there was no going back, I had to make a new life for myself. She’s torn, afraid of making the wrong decision, taking the chance of losing it all again.”

He heard her words, but he was having a hard time focusing. He’d been so besotted, so . . . happy, that he’d forgotten she was still reeling from losing everything she had cared about. “They’re the same here, make a dress, sell a dress.”

“Oh sure, she’s got that part down, it’s the you-and-Connor part she doesn’t know what to do with.”

“Exactly. At least now you get it.” He moved her aside, opened the truck door, and climbed in.

She held the door open. “You forced her hand.”

“How so?”

“She asked you to come to New York.”

“How am I supposed to do that? What about Connor? His life has been about loss. I can’t pick him up and go to a city that’s frightening, where he has no friends, I have no job, and what about my mother, should I just leave her here?

“Jesus, Bri, what does she want from me?”

“Oh, please. Connor has more sense than you do and
he’s
supposed to be the child.”

“She didn’t want us.” Nick started the truck. “Everything was fine until she came back.”

“Call her, butthead.” Brianna slammed the door.

Nick revved the engine and drove away. He wouldn’t call her. She’d called him. And left a message. “Hi. Just wanted to see how Connor is doing. I just . . . just hope things are okay. Okay. Bye.”

Hardly the words of someone who wanted to come back, to be a part of his life, to love him till death did them part.

M
argaux threw herself into her new designs. By Wednesday afternoon, she had a stack of false starts and four or five designs that would pass muster. She spent a good amount of time staring out the kitchen window to the brick wall of the apartment building next door. Found herself sketching the brick pattern, pulled over the latest rejected design, went into the bedroom, rummaged for her pastels, and brought them back to the kitchen table.

Black with a hint of brick red. Nothing too extreme, just a pop of color. But after several attempts, she had to admit defeat. Brick red was not doing it for her. She longed for ocean sunsets and marsh grasses. Her fingers itched to pick up her pastels and just doodle something . . . just for fun. But she wouldn’t have time for fun once she went back to work.

Already the colors were fading, the sunsets, the salt marshes, the midnight sky turning to grays. She could recapture them. She had once. She could do it again. After her first season, maybe her second. Once she was back on top.

But how long would that take? It had taken her twelve years to find the style that established her in the business. It had only taken three months to find her voice in color.

Wednesday night she carefully packed her portfolio. Deliberated about what to wear, and at nine Thursday morning, she was riding up the elevator to S and B.

She didn’t have to give her name to the receptionist this time. She was greeted with a “Good morning, Ms. Sullivan. Mr. Breed is expecting you.”

Margaux nodded, smiled, read the woman’s name tag. Doris. For a brief second she thought about her own secretary and wondered if she could steal her back from the competition.

“So can I show you to your new office?” Sam said once they’d gone through the obligatory air kiss.

“We’ve put you in a large office back here.” He led her through a sea of desks, piled high with swatches, daily books, spreadsheets. Phones rang; staff hurried through the maze of aisles, heads down, energetic, tense, determined.

She didn’t see any completed designs, not one draped dressmaker’s form. Because all that work was done on another floor, another building, city, or country.

She slowed as she recognized Lisa Raul, a young designer who had been a bright star on the horizon for several years before she fizzled. She was back on the floor, designing as part of the pack. Margaux smiled slightly and Lisa turned quickly away. Margaux could feel her humiliation across the room.

“I’ve appointed Joey Carlin as your assistant,” Sam said as he led her through the room. “He helped us on the Paris show. We stole him from Lagerfeld. But if you have someone else in mind, no problem.”

“Joey’s perfect.”

“Here we are.”

Sam showed her into a freshly painted and carpeted office where Joey was standing by a large desk and smiling. He pumped her hand. “So glad to have the opportunity to work with you.”

“Well, I’ll let you get settled. Then we’ll take a look at your new line.”

“Thanks, Sam,” she said, trying to sound more at home than she felt.

“Uh, Mr. Breed, Production said they wanted to have the new Atelier drawings by noon.” He turned to Margaux. “If you’ve got something finished.”

Sam looked a question at her.

“Of course.” She placed her portfolio on the desk and spread several of her latest designs out on the desktop. Sam leaned over, studying them closely, pushed two out of the way. Chose two others. “What else do you have?”

Margaux showed him two more.

“Okay this one, and . . .”

He pulled the next one across the desk and turned it around. Margaux had included a design of one of her ochre and ecru Driftwood sarongs . . . Just as an experiment.

Sam nodded, reached over to snag a pencil out of the pencil caddy, and scribbled something across the page and a huge arrow pointing to the dress.

“Love it. Joey, call over to the warehouse and see if there’s more of that black shantung. Perfect for this cut, don’t you think?” He glanced at Margaux.

“Perfect,” she said. And it
was
. For New York, for the runway, for the fashion industry.

“And Joey, I want full mock-ups by tomorrow’s meeting. Margaux, these are dynamite. I’m wondering if we could bump the production schedule up? I’d love to see at least a couple of these in the fall show.

“Joey, check with Cynthia on what spots we can lose. If we can get these constructed, I’ll pull a couple of pieces from the fall show, put these in their place. It’ll be tight, but I think we can get it done.”

Joey’s mouth opened. “But—”

“Get going.”

Joey left the office.

“Yell if you need anything. Welcome back.”

Alone, Margaux looked around her new office. A steel and glass desk, drafting table in the corner. Natural light as well as work lights.

She set up her supplies and got to work.

It was after seven when she left that night. As she walked across the main room, lights shone from at least half the cubbies. They were gearing up for Fashion Week. And with a little luck, M Atelier would be part of it.