Beach Colors (11 page)

She ducked under a cloud of cobwebs and went inside.

Beneath the first tarp, she found a wicker chair and dragged it into the yard. It was painted white with a rounded back and blue-striped cushions; it looked so comfortable, evoked so many memories, that she was tempted to sit down. She pushed it aside and went back into the shed.

She heard the
beep-beep
of Jude’s Citroën. She stuck her head out of the shed; this time she forgot to duck and got a face full of spiderweb.

Jude got out of the car.

“Hi, Mom,” Margaux said, picking the gossamer spiderweb from her face. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I can find it faster.” She ducked into the shed. “It’s probably behind the love seat. Grab that other end. We might as well get out the porch furniture now. It’s almost summer.”

They carried the love seat and two chairs around to the porch.

“There,” Jude said, slapping her hands together and standing back to look at the furniture. “Just like—summer,” she ended lamely.

Margaux knew she was thinking of the days when all four of them had sat on the porch, happy and content and not suspecting the tragic change that lurked ahead.

“Let’s go find the grill.”

Jude smiled distractedly, but led the way. They found the grill at the back of the shed. Margaux rolled it outside. “It looks pretty beat-up.”

“Just let the fire burn off all the gunk and it’ll be fine. What are you going to grill?”

“Bri and Grace are coming out tomorrow. They’re bringing steaks.”

“How wonderful. I’m sorry I’ll miss them.”

“You’re invited to drop by.”

“Can’t. I’m going sailing.”

“Sailing? You’re kidding. You can’t swim.”

“Yes I can. Learned at the Y three years ago.”

“And did you learn to sail there, too?” Margaux asked, peering into the shed looking for the grilling utensils.

“No. I’m going out with Roger Kyle. He taught me.”

Margaux stopped, looked at Jude. “Roger Kyle?”

“You remember Roger and his wife Alice. Your father and I used to go out with them a lot, back before . . . Now that Alice and Henry are gone . . . well, Roger and I meet occasionally just to stay in touch.”

And her mother was explaining way too much. Which meant there was a lot more she wasn’t saying. But it wasn’t Margaux’s business what her mother did, or whom she saw. Roger Kyle was a nice man. But he would never—Jude would never.

She found the utensils, then went back into the shed and tossed out the beach umbrellas. Behind them, her old bicycle leaned against the back wall.

She rolled the bike out into the sunlight. “Look what I found.”

“Oh Lord. I didn’t know we saved that.”

It was a purple mountain bike with a big wire basket and a flat front tire. Spiderwebs clung to the seat and a rust spot was creeping down the crossbar. But the Bon Jovi license plate on the back had escaped unharmed.

“I was thinking I needed some exercise. This should do it.” Not to mention it would save on gas.

Margaux went back inside the shed and found the air pump. It was hanging from a peg on the wall. The Sullivans might be pack rats, but they were organized pack rats. “A little soap and water and WD-40 and it will be as good as new.”

“Please practice before you decide to ride it down Shore Road.”

“Think I’ve forgotten how to ride a bike?”

“I just think you should practice before you go into traffic.”

A
fter Jude left, Margaux went inside to clean off the dust and spiderwebs. One look in the bathroom mirror told her that either it was Halloween or she needed some serious repair work. Why hadn’t Jude said something? Her hair was a wreck, but that was just the first catastrophe. There were dark circles beneath her eyes; the skin was drawn across her cheekbones. Her face looked like it had never seen a makeup brush. She leaned into the mirror. Damn, she had a freckle.

In her business, image was everything and it was about time she did something about hers. And her first stop would be Jude’s “genius” on Marina Street. Even if it turned out to be a disaster, it couldn’t be worse than this. She could always get it fixed when she got back to New York. And if the cut was decent, at least her friends wouldn’t feel sorry for her.

The Cut ’n Curl took up half of the first floor of an old white Victorian house across the street from the marina. Margaux almost drove past it. It had been newly painted a soft mauve. Shutters and porch were moss green, edged with a fine detailing in burgundy. White gingerbreading ran beneath the roof and the eaves of the porch. To the left of the entrance, a huge bay window overlooked the street and marina. On the right, a painted wooden sign hung above the porch rail.
Le Coif
was scripted out in gilt letters.

Margaux just hoped the stylist was as good as the paint job.

She parked across the street in front of the seawall that ran along the cove that gave Crescent Cove its name. Below it was a small marina, used mostly by locals, with one gas pump, a bait shop, and no amenities other than some benches where old-timers sat and reminisced.

Margaux got out of the car, crossed the street, and climbed the steps to the porch. A sign in the door’s oval window read,
I’m in
.

“Terse but to-the-point,” she muttered, and pushed the door open. Above her head, chimes played the “Toreador Song” from
Carmen.

The foyer was softly lit from an overhead chandelier. In the center of the oak floor, a shag rug depicted a smiling Elvis Presley. The smell of ammonia and hair products permeated the air.

Margaux looked into a door on her left. The room was empty but filled with morning light. She was just about to try the door on her right when it opened and a woman, dressed in a
Beauticians Do It with Style
T-shirt, black leggings, and chartreuse bunny-fur slippers, stepped out. She was about five feet tall, with black spiked hair shot with gold streaks. An open paisley smock flapped around her calendar girl’s figure and she held a mug filled with yellow liquid.

She stopped when she saw Margaux, peered out from behind cat-eye glasses, and screeched, “Holy moly!” in an unmistakable Brooklyn accent. The liquid sloshed out of her mug onto the floor. She rubbed the spot away with her toe.

“Chamomile, good for the wood. Linda Goldstein,” she said, pumping Margaux’s hand. She immediately released it, pulled her glasses to the tip of her nose, and peered over them.

Margaux was about to turn and run when the hairdresser grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her inside a room crammed with salon equipment.

A long Formica counter ran across the far wall. A huge bank of mirrors partially obscured the windows behind it. Three sinks were attached to the back wall, each with a padded reclining chair facing the room. A display of hair care products was lined up across the marble mantel of the fireplace left over from the original parlor. It was the same layout as the Cut ’n Curl, but somehow, it looked brand-new.

Linda flicked a switch beneath the counter and a marquee of lights flared to life around the mirrors. She turned to frown at Margaux.

“Damn, don’t know if you need a hug or a cut first. Let’s go for the hair. It’ll be the easiest fix. I know hair. Whatever else is making you look like you do is beyond me.”

She nudged Margaux into the salon chair, then whirled it around to face the mirror. She stood behind Margaux, lifted and dropped her hair, batted it with her fingers, capped it close to her head.

“Uh-huh. Beneath that frizz, I see a good cut. Fifth Avenue? Jacques Cotille or I don’t know my hairdressers. Surprised you, didn’t I?”

“How did you—yes, it is.”

“Not your fault. Not Jacques’s either. Good cut, but not for the shore. Too short or too long. If you get what I mean.” She grabbed a fistful of Margaux’s hair. “Too thick. In this humidity, the bulk’s gotta go. Lucky for you, you came to the right place.”

Unconsciously, Margaux reached up to smooth back her hair.

Linda expelled a gust of air. “Well, that’s a good sign. Whatever’s wrong, it isn’t so bad if you’re worried about your appearance. What I say is if you have the right outfit and the right hairstyle, the rest is a piece of cake.”

“There’s nothing wrong,” Margaux said defensively.

Linda pulled her glasses down to look over the rims at Margaux. “What? You always walk around looking like you just lost your last cabana boy?”

Margaux barked out an involuntary laugh.

“That’s better.”

“Okay, do whatever you think best. I’m in your hands.”

Linda guffawed. “You know the rest of the joke that goes with that punch line?”

Margaux laughed. “No, but I can imagine.”

Linda took out a pink plastic cape and snapped it in the air. “All right, Mags. You don’t mind if I call you Mags, do you? Used to be this girl in beauty school, her name was Margo. She was a first-class
beyotch,
nah I take it back, there was nothing classy about her.”

“How did you know my name?” asked Margaux, wondering if Linda was actually a lunatic impersonating a beautician.

Linda shrugged. “Crystal ball? Or is it because you and Jude have the exact same color hair. Hell, if I could bottle it, I’d retire.”

She motioned for Margaux to follow her to the sink.

“Sometimes I cut curly hair dry, but this”—she pushed Margaux into the reclining chair and took her hair in both fists—“this could give me a hernia.”

She began humming as she lathered Margaux’s hair. Her fingers moved from her scalp to the base of her neck and she massaged the tight muscles there. Margaux gave in to the experience and began to relax. After a lukewarm rinse, she wound a towel around Margaux’s head and held it while Margaux moved back to the counter.

With a magician’s flurry, she pulled the towel off, tossed it over the back of the adjacent chair, and lined up several scissors and razors on the counter.

Margaux swallowed and hoped for the best. It would always grow out again. And it couldn’t look worse than it did already . . . she hoped.

Linda combed out her hair with quick jerky movements. She parted the bottom layer of hair and pinned the rest to Margaux’s head.

Just breathe,
Margaux told herself.

Linda picked up a pair of scissors and snipped at the air.

“What are you going to do?”

“Hell if I know. Get out the garden shears?” She patted Margaux’s caped shoulder. “There, there, don’t worry. Think Rodin and a block of stone. I’ll just start hacking away until something comes to me.” Linda snorted and took a gulp of tea that had to be cold by now.

Margaux closed her eyes while a comb raked down the length of hair. She felt a tug, heard a snip.

Linda parted out another section and clipped the rest back. “When was the last time you had this thinned?”

“I don’t. It looks better in the city.” Margaux couldn’t believe that she was apologizing for her two-hundred-dollar cut. “I know how to look good. It’s my business to look good. I’m usually . . .” She wound down. Usually what? Whatever it was, she wasn’t that now.

“That’s the reason I left in the first place.”

“What is?” asked Margaux, totally not following the non sequitur.

“Too much freaking stress, too much hard edge. Always being on, never relaxing for a second. A person needs a place to blossom, am I right? Take me. I was a hard-assed dynamite hair designer. I could turn out a classic do asleep with my eyes closed. Then one day I got a wake-up call when two of my appointments showed up at the same time. And damn me, they looked exactly alike. I was ready to pack in the scissors. I mean Pete and Repeat. Who needs that shit? Life is too short. Am I right?”

Margaux opened her mouth.

“I stood on my feet three hundred fifty-one days of the year just so I could spend two weeks on my butt at the beach. Last year, when I was up here for the summer, I thought, What the shit. A little change of pace, a little ocean view, freaking-freezing-in-the-winter air. A new me. So I stayed. People have to have their hair cut no matter where they live. Job security. It’s great to be needed. Makes you fit in right off the bat.”

Margaux couldn’t imagine this brazen-mouthed Brooklynite fitting in with the quiet seaside residents. Her mouth would have most of them running in horror if her personality didn’t, but no one had said a bad word about her.

“And I get to experiment.”

“Experiment? How so?”

“What? Don’t you trust me?”

An hour later, Linda handed Margaux a mirror and spun the chair around.

“Am I good, or what?”

Margaux stared. It had shape. It softened her face, made her look less harsh. “You’re better than good. You’re a genius.”

Margaux shook her head; strands swirled across her face. “It moves!” she exclaimed. “What did you do? Am I going to be able to do it myself?”

“I just thinned and feathered and layered and prayed. Lightning didn’t strike and your hair looks great.”

“It does. How much do I owe you?”

“How ’bout twenty bucks.”

“Are you kidding? Do you know how much this cut would cost in New York?”

“Yep, two hundred, two-fifty. That’s what I used to charge. But like I said. That’s why I left. So now I gouge the tourists all summer so I can do what I want for the rest of the year.”

Margaux paid her twenty and left a twenty-dollar tip. She might be broke but that didn’t mean she had to cheat people who still had a living to make.

Linda just gave her a look and stuffed both twenties down her shirt.

Margaux glanced at herself in the mirror. Who would have thought it? Right here in the back roads of Connecticut—a mouth like Joan Rivers, a figure like Marilyn Monroe, and a genius like Vidal Sassoon. It was amazing and the new haircut really raised Margaux’s spirits.

Linda handed Margaux a tube of hair product. “Use that when it’s raining. On the house.”

She walked Margaux out to the foyer. “You don’t know anyone who wants to rent a retail space?” She lifted her chin toward the open door Margaux had seen on her way in.

“I live upstairs, but I rented this out to a couple of aliens from the sixties last summer. It opened and tanked before Labor Day. A glorified head shop. Remember those? Well, these guys couldn’t sell a hookah to an opium addict. Pitiful. Knew it was a mistake from the beginning. They kept snagging my clients coming and going. I was glad to see the back of them. But it’s been vacant all winter. I wanted to get a nail place in or some kind of spa thing, but hell, nobody’s starting up businesses these days.”