Beach Colors (13 page)

“Our carousel? Does it even run?”

“No. But it’s still there,” Grace said. “And that’s enough to garner interest in saving it.”

Margaux sighed. “McMansions on the boardwalk. Is no place sacred?”

“Evidently not.” Brianna leaned back on her elbows. “So, Mags. I heard you closed M Atelier. What’s up with that?”

Margaux glanced at Grace. Grace shook her head.

“Grace didn’t blab. I read it in the trades. They didn’t say why.”

“Thank God for that.”

“So what happened?”

“Oh God.” Margaux dropped her head to her hands.

“Come on. Out with it.”

Margaux looked up. “The short version. Louis stole every cent I had, then disappeared, the bank foreclosed on my apartment and my business. I’m finished.”

“Shit.” Bri sat up. “Shit. That rat bastard. Do you need a good lawyer? I just happen to know of one.”

“I already offered.”

“I have one. She’s a shark.”

“With sharp teeth, I hope.”

“I’m counting on it,” Margaux said.

“So do you have a plan?”

“To start on my tan.” Margaux lay down and for the next few minutes life was good.

“This is great,” Grace said on a yawn. “Being back together.”

“Hmm,” agreed Margaux. “Thank God for friends.”

“Hmm,” said Grace.

“I wasn’t sure I still had any.”

Bri sat up. “Are you kidding me? We’re the Selkies. We swore to be friends forever. Remember?”

Grace opened one eye. “Not really.”

“Sure you do. We wrote down our dreams in a diary and buried it in the Grotto and swore to be together forever.”

Margaux sat up. “I remember. It was the summer before you moved to New York. Do you think it’s still there?”

“Wouldn’t that be a kick? Let’s find out.” Bri struggled to her feet.

Grace lifted her head. “Are you sure we want to go there?”

Bri looked down at Grace, hands on her hips. “Figuratively, yes. Literally? I might need some help getting over the rocks. It’ll be fun.” She leaned over and hauled Grace to her feet.

“Come on, Mags. Don’t you want to see what we wrote?”

“I guess.”

Bri struck off toward the jetty. Grace and Margaux fell in behind and they walked up the beach as they had hundreds of times before, climbed up the rocks of the jetty, picking out hand- and footholds as if twenty years hadn’t passed. Except that every now and then they had to stop to help Bri over a difficult place.

“This used to be a lot easier,” Bri grumbled.

“We used to be younger,” said Grace. “And there used to be cute boys swimming on the other side.”

“Maybe there still are.”

“No,” Margaux said.

Bri gave her a look. “Something you want to tell us?”

“No. I mean, do you really want to spy on twelve-year-old boys?”

“I was hoping they’d grown up by now. Oxymoron, I know.”

“I thought you were done with men,” Grace said.

“I am, but it doesn’t mean I don’t like to look. Come on.”

Please don’t let Nick Prescott be there
, Margaux prayed. He’d probably think she brought an audience. She gave herself a mental kick. She was approaching middle age, not puberty, she really needed to get a grip. But still she sighed with relief when they reached the crest of the jetty and the cove was empty.

“What are you smiling about?” asked Grace, huffing to stop beside her.

“Me? Was I smiling? Just remembering, I guess.”

“Yeah. The good old days.” Brianna started down the other side.

Grace scrambled after her. She might be used to Bri’s injury, but Margaux noticed that she stayed close enough to help if she started to fall.

The tide was in and they splashed knee deep through the water to reach the pebble beach. Brianna led the way up the narrow path. She yanked her T-shirt away from a brambling vine. “I don’t remember it being quite so—wild.”

They walked single file until the path ended in a tiny clearing.

“Where’s the Grotto?” asked Grace.

“Probably behind that tree.” Margaux pointed to a lopsided pine. It was at least two feet in diameter and grew at a sharp angle. The roots lay like coils of gnarled rope over the rock and disappeared beneath the rotting leaves that covered the ground.

“Don’t tell me that’s the little runt we used for our pirate flag.”

Margaux had forgotten that. The days when they were still young enough to play pirates and had made a skull and crossbones from one of Jude’s best handkerchiefs.

“It used to be so little.”

“So did we,” Bri said.

“You were never little,” Grace said.

“That’s okay. You were short enough for both of us.”

“Yeah. That was before I hit five-two.”

Bri barked out a laugh and stepped past them to peer through the tangle of roots and branches.

Margaux and Grace crowded behind her.

It wasn’t a real cave, but a deep hollow carved into the rock. Just big enough for three young girls to sit tailor-style, knees touching, and swearing to be friends forever.

“Well, I can’t go in there,” Bri said, stepping back. “Grace, you’d better go get it.”

Grace gave her a look. “Now, suddenly you’re going to start crying infirmity.”

“Oh hell, but if I get stuck you’ll have to drag me out.” Bri crouched down.

“No. I’ll go.” Grace stepped through the vines and disappeared.

A screech echoed from inside. A chipmunk skittered out and shot into the underbrush.

Grace ran out. “What was that?”

Brianna laughed. “A chipmunk. We’ll all go.”

It was a tight squeeze and they had to squat down to get beneath the overhang. Margaux knew Brianna must be terribly uncomfortable.

Grace peered around. “So where’s the diary?”

“Too bad we didn’t bring a flashlight,” said Brianna. “But I think . . .” She twisted around and stretched out one arm. Something clinked. “Well, I’ll be damned. The cairn,” she intoned in a sepulchral voice.

“Cairn?” asked Margaux.

“A mound of rough stones used as a memorial.”

“Let me guess. English 101,” Grace said.

“History of the Irish 202.”

Margaux squinted at the back of the cave and saw the rocks each of them had placed to hide the diary.

Brianna took the first stone and moved it to the side. “Okay, Mags.”

Margaux removed the second stone.

Grace went next.

They peered into the crevice.

“Now what?” asked Margaux. “I’m not sure you should stick your hand in there.”

It was too late. Bri’s arm disappeared up to the elbow. There was a scraping noise; the sound of dirt and pebbles rolling away. Brianna withdrew her hand and lifted a plastic Tupperware container into the light.

A hush fell over the Grotto. The air was so still Margaux could hear the faint buzz of a skill saw in the distance.

Brianna thrust the Tupperware at Margaux. “I say we read this over a martini.” She scrambled awkwardly back to the daylight, Margaux and Grace at her heels.

They retraced their steps through the cove and over the jetty.

“I hope this isn’t going to turn out to be one of those Pandora’s box–type things,” Margaux said, clutching the container to her chest as they strode across the beach.

“Nah. It was before we became so jaded,” said Bri.

“I’m not jaded,” Grace said.

“No, alas, you’re not, but hope springs eternal.”

Grace made a face at her.

“Happy hour,” Bri announced as soon as they reached the porch.

They went straight through the house to the kitchen. Margaux placed the container on the kitchen table while Bri made the martinis and Grace opened bags of nuts and chips, and spooned dip into a bowl.

By the time they carried everything out to the living room, Bri had refilled their glasses and half the chips were gone. Margaux pushed aside the pencils and sketches that littered the top of the blanket chest and placed the diary in the center. Grace arranged the drinks and hors d’oeuvres.

“Hmm,” Bri said, picking up the stack of sketches. “The lamp, the couch, the rug, the window. Is this some kind of therapy?”

Margaux shook her head. “I was just doodling. Waiting for the muse to return.”

“Huh,” Bri said, and took a sip of her drink. “The thing I’ve learned about muses is that you can’t wait for them to act. Sometimes, you have to grab them by the hair and beat them into submission.”

“You have a muse?” Grace asked incredulously. “She could probably sue you. I know a good lawyer.” She grinned and flopped back on the couch and Margaux realized they were all getting a little tipsy.

She and Bri sat down and they all looked at the Tupperware container.

Brianna took a sip of her martini. “Who’s going to open it?”

“You are,” Margaux said.

“You’re the oldest,” Grace said.

“Don’t remind me.”

“And it was your idea,” added Margaux.

“Like I said, don’t remind me.” Bri took another sip of martini and set her glass down.

“We vowed to meet in twenty years to see if our dreams had come true. Seeing how it’s been nineteen-plus years—”

“Maybe we should wait,” Grace said.

“So maybe none of us is in the best place to talk about dreams coming true, but, hell, aren’t you curious?”

“I’m not sitting around wondering what it says for another year,” said Margaux. “We started this, let’s finish it.”

Bri eyed the plastic diary as if it were the Lost Ark of the Covenant.

Grace slid the container toward Bri. “You got it out. You read it.”

Bri cut her a look but reached for the Tupperware. She lifted the edge of the rubber top and pulled it off, revealing a square pink book closed with a golden lock.

There was an audible sigh from all three.

She held it for a moment, then pushed the brass button on the side. Nothing happened. She threw it onto the coffee table. “It’s locked.”

“Oh, for crying out loud. Give it here.” Grace took the diary from Bri. “Mags, you have a paper clip somewhere?”

“Probably.” Margaux found one in the writing desk. Grace unfolded it, stuck it in the keyhole, and with one twist, the lock flipped open. “You didn’t see that.” She handed the diary back to Bri.

“Here goes.” Bri opened the diary and read. “This diary is the property of the Selkies. Anyone caught reading these words will answer to us.”

Grace chuckled. “Hard to believe we were ever that young.”

“Speak for yourself.” Bri turned the page. “August 31, 19—well, forget the date.” She flipped several pages over. “Grace.”

“I object,” countered Grace. “Go in order.”

“Overruled,” said Bri. “ ‘Grace Holcombe, age thirteen. I’m going to be an attorney when I get out of college. Not the kind that makes lots of money, but the kind that will help bring justice to the world.’ ”

“Okay, stop, stop.” Grace grabbed for the book. Bri snatched it away and continued to read with it held out of Grace’s reach.

“ ‘It doesn’t matter if a client can’t pay. If I believe in their case, I’ll help them. The crooks of the world won’t have a chance if they come up against me.’ Favorite color: pink.” Bri burst out laughing. “Pink? You were going to right the wrongs of the world and your favorite color was pink?”

Grace threw a peanut at her.

“Pink aside, you seem to be right on target with your dream of being a poor bleeding-heart attorney.”

“Thank you.”

“Favorite food: Skilling’s hamburgers. Favorite boyfriend: Larry T? I thought you were going steady with Bobby Covington.”

Grace laughed. “I plead the Fifth.”

“Okay. Margaux.” Bri lifted both eyebrows at her. “Are we quite ready? ‘I, Margaux Sullivan, have a dream.’ ”

“Oh shit, I didn’t write that.”

“Yes, you did.” Bri turned the book around. “See, right here. ‘I, Margaux Sullivan, have a dream. To design clothes that will make people who wear them feel good about themselves. I have a long way to go, but I’ll get there.’ ”

“Favorite color: Granny Smith apple-peel green. How poetic. Favorite food: tacos. Boyfriend. What? I can’t even read this. It’s just scribble.”

“I kept changing my mind.” Margaux sighed. “I can’t even remember any of their names. Your turn.”

“I think I need another martini.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Grace protested. “You’re not going to start slurring your words just when we get to you.”

Bri turned the page and read silently.

“Out loud!” Grace and Margaux cried together.

“ ‘I, Brianna Boyce, will set the world afire’—shit—‘I’m going to New York and sign with Elite Management. Watch for me on the runways of Paris, Milan, and New York.’ ” Bri’s voice wavered. “Well, I made it . . . and lost it.”

“Me, too,” said Margaux. “I guess that’s something. Just to get there.”

“Yeah,” Grace said. “But did it ever occur to you that dreams are just that—dreams.”

“Is that legalese for ‘we really screwed up’?” asked Bri.

“No. Just keep reading. Which of your many boyfriends did you put down. Or did you put them all down?”

“Ben,” said Bri.

“The lifeguard? You never even talked to him, just giggled whenever he was around.”

Bri shrugged, a gesture of loss. “I know and now he’s dead. You just never know . . .” She trailed off into silence.

“No you don’t,” Margaux said, suddenly wondering what happened to the boy in the library, what he was doing now and if his dreams had come true.

Bri stood up, swayed slightly. “Time to cook the steaks.”

They finished the pitcher of martinis while Bri manned the grill and Margaux and Grace made salad and kibitzed from inside the screen door. They ate in the kitchen and polished off a bottle of wine over dinner, then donned sweatshirts and moved to the porch where they stayed up until the wee hours.

Margaux told them the long version of her crash and burn; Bri described her stay in a Swiss sanatorium. Grace listened to it all just as if she was in a courtroom, but swore there was nothing much to tell about her life.

“Not to worry,” Bri told her. “Your time is near. The Selkies are back and ready to rock and roll.”

It was nearly three when Bri stood up and announced, “I’m going to bed. I have to get up early to feed the animals.”

Margaux squinted one eye at her. “You have animals?”