Beach Colors (14 page)

“Two dogs, a barn full of cats—I stopped counting at six—four chickens, a rooster, and a goat.”

“A goat?”

“Her name is Hermione.”

“You named her?”

“Well, I’m not going to eat her.”

“What about the rooster?”

“Merv.”

“Grace, is she telling me the truth?”

Grace nodded. “Afraid so.”

“I can’t even begin to imagine.”

“When I’m a little more set up, you’ll have to come see for yourself. ’Night.” Bri yawned and headed for the stairs.

Margaux stood, too. “Wait a minute. What are we going to do with the diary?”

“Take it back?” Grace suggested.

“In the middle of the night?”

Bri looked around the room. “We could put it in the blanket chest. We might want to read it again. If Mags doesn’t mind.”

“It’s okay with me, though it is kind of weird, being the keeper of our hopes for the future, especially now that it
is
our future.”

The three of them clustered around the blanket chest and lifted the lid. The chest opened in a whiff of cedar to reveal a stack of folded blankets. Grace placed the diary on top.

“The Selkies forever,” Brianna intoned. She licked three fingers, held them in the air, and yawned.

“The Selkies forever,” Grace and Margaux repeated.

Margaux closed the chest and they began returning things to the top. Bri picked up Margaux’s sketchbook. “What’s in here?”

Margaux shrugged. “More of the same. Furniture, the beach, sailboats.”

“Mags, I don’t want to be pushy, but shouldn’t you be working on next season’s line? I understand the need to cleanse the palette, but to hell with waiting on that muse you were talking about. You and I both know the fashion world doesn’t wait for inspiration.”

“Yes, I do know. But like I told you, I don’t have jack, not even a spool of thread. There’s no way I’ll get anything out by fall.”

“Maybe not, but spring surely.”

“Impossible.”

“Excuse me? You two went to Catholic school. What did the nuns always say?”

Grace groaned. “Can’t was killed in the battle of tried.”

Margaux heaved a sigh. “They obviously didn’t know the fashion industry.”

“You just figured that out now?” Bri jabbed her finger at her forehead. “Hey, maybe that’s where you got your inspiration.”

“Where?”

“From the nuns, all those black-and-white habits.”

Margaux rolled her eyes.

“Just a thought. And now, good night.”

As she tossed the sketchbook onto the trunk, a piece of paper slipped from the back pages and wafted to the floor. Before Margaux even realized what it was, Bri leaned over and picked it up. She glanced at the page as she started to put it back in the sketchbook. “Wait a minute. What—or should I say who—is this?”

“I was just doodling.”

“What is it?” asked Grace, sliding around the chest to peer at the drawing of Nick Prescott, merman.

“It’s nothing really.” Margaux reached for the drawing.

Grace studied the sketch, her eyebrows dipping in concentration. “He looks familiar. Except for the tail.”

“He does,” Bri agreed. “Really familiar.”

“I was just being fanciful. I was out on the jetty and just let my imagination run.”

Bri looked at the sketch. “You know, he really, really looks familiar. Let me think.”

Margaux slipped the merman sketch from her fingers, stuck it in between the pages of the sketchbook, and tucked the book under her arm before she nudged Bri and Grace out of the room.

“Really familiar,” said Bri as they climbed the stairs to bed.

M
argaux awoke six hours later to bright sunlight and a hangover. She was a one-glass-of-wine-a-night girl and she had overindulged—overate, overdrank, and overconfessed, big-time. She forced herself to sit up and sat on the edge of the bed waiting for the pounding in her head to stop.

After a few minutes, she realized it wasn’t nearly as bad as she anticipated. She put on sweats and tiptoed across the hall. She peeked into the other bedrooms; the beds were made and there was no trace of Grace or Bri.

She went downstairs to the kitchen where she found coffee and a note. “Had a fabulous time. Thanks for having us. We love you. Now get your butt in gear and go to work. See you soon. Bri and Grace.”

Can’t was killed in the battle of tried.
They were right. It was time she got off the pity wagon and started fighting her way back to the top.

Eight

T
he house seemed empty with her two friends gone. It wasn’t the kind of house that did well with empty. It had always been the hub of beach activity; her parents and their friends, Danny and his friends, then Margaux and the Selkies.

The emptiness just accented what she knew and Bri had pointed out. She was procrastinating and she couldn’t put it off any longer. She had to start working on new designs. Every day she was away from New York, her presence became weaker. The industry had a short memory, and it was too easy to slip into obscurity.

But the mere thought of what it would take to get back what she lost made her sick to her stomach. Made her hands tremble, made her mouth go dry.

Can’t was killed in the battle of tried.

Bri was right about the nuns influencing her. Not with their black habits, but with their work ethic. It had helped her rise to the top. And it would help her again.

She’d need a place to work where the light was good. The living room looked south, but the porch shaded it from the sun. All the bedrooms were filled with beds, chairs, and bookcases. Only her parents’ room got full light and she didn’t have the heart to move things to make room for her easel.

She even looked into the room she and Louis had shared on their few trips to Crescent Cove.

At first she stood at the closed door, afraid to open it. She had pushed her soon-to-be-ex-husband almost out of her mind since she’d been here and she didn’t want him intruding again. Didn’t want to unleash any demons that might be lurking there. But when she finally turned the knob, nothing happened. It was just an unused room, with a chenille spread covering the bed, mismatched end tables, and a rag rug made of undershirts.

Margaux sank down on the bed, the scene of their last beach house fight. When Margaux said she wanted to start a family and Louis refused. He liked their life the way it was and children would only interfere. Margaux had been floored. He’d known from the beginning she wanted children; he said he wanted them. He’d lied about that, too.

She stood up. She’d been wrong. There were demons here, the ones she’d brought with her. She crossed to the window, opened it, and let the wind blow them all away.

At that moment, she remembered Linda asking, “Do you know anyone who wants to rent a retail space? Cheap?” and looking into the bright deserted room at Le Coif
.

She could design and construct there. If it was still available and Linda would accept a fee Margaux could afford.

And out of her sense of loss and futility, something rose—not a phoenix—something smaller, newborn, like a baby chick cracking out of its shell. And for the first time in weeks, Margaux felt a spur of excitement.

She dressed, ran a comb through her hair, grabbed her purse, and went outside to her car.

The gas gauge read empty. Or near enough to have to buy gas, and that was one expense she could curtail, especially with the prospect of rent ahead of her. She had a perfectly nice purple bike. Plus riding to town would give her much-needed exercise, since a gym was out of the question. She pumped up the tires, threw her purse in the basket, and climbed on.

She wobbled up Salt Marsh Lane and nearly fell off when she hit a crack in the asphalt. Undaunted, she straightened out the wheel and made the turn. By the time she reached the gate, she was cycling like a pro, though she did have second thoughts about tackling Shore Road.

But it was only three blocks until it turned into Main Street. She waited for a minivan to pass, then crossed the road to ride with the flow of traffic. Hugging close to the shoulder, she pedaled into town and came to a stop in front of Le Coif a few uneventful minutes later.

She propped the bike against the side of the steps, making a note to find a lock before the tourists arrived.

The front door was locked. Of course, it was Sunday and Linda would be closed. Margaux could wait until Monday, but she was stoked and impatient, and she didn’t think Linda would turn her nose up at a potential renter even if it was Sunday.

Margaux rang the bell and waited.

“Hang on. I’m coming.” Linda hurried across the street, not dressed for church, but wearing a flowered sarong and a black Cyclones hoodie zipped up to her neck. A magenta bandanna covered her head, and she was carrying a giant yellow beach bag that bounced against her thigh as she trotted across the cobblestones.

She stopped a few feet away and gave Margaux the once-over. “What? Everything looks fine.”

Margaux shook her head until her hair flew. “Everything is perfect. I came because I was wondering if you still have that room for rent?”

Linda’s frown brightened into a toothy grin. “You interested?”

“Maybe. Short-term. For a studio, just while I’m here or until you can rent it out permanently. If . . .” God, she hated having to say this. “If I can afford it.”

“You can afford it,” Linda said, searching in her bag. “Here, hold this.”

She thrust a paperback book at Margaux.
The Duke Takes His Wife.
On the front cover, a Fabio look-alike and a buxom brunette were clasped in a fierce embrace. “And this.” A huge black and red beach towel followed the book. “And this.”

A bottle of suntan lotion? “You were on the beach?”

“Yeah. Not as warm as yesterday, but I couldn’t get out yesterday. I worked my as—feet off until dark. Saturday is a big day. Gotta look nice for church and Sunday brunch. Voilà.” She pulled out a key ring, gave it a yank, and the bungee cord it was attached to snapped in the air.

Margaux stepped back just in time to avoid being hit.

“One of my great ideas. I was going to attach the key ring to the bag with the bungee cord. That way I wouldn’t always be looking for my keys. It woulda worked too except I never attached it. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, but what a party.”

She opened the door and led Margaux inside.

The room was just as sunny as she remembered it. And it was completely bare, except for a pile of coat hangers in the corner, a few crumpled sheets of paper, and lots of dust. A big bay window looked out onto the marina and three large windows faced west. It would get morning and afternoon sun.

It was perfect.

“There’s a powder room under the stairs for my clients that you can use. The kitchen’s in the back of the house, you can access it through the hall. Just don’t eat all my Cocoa Krispies.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t use your—”

“Sure you would. Don’t worry. We don’t have to be best friends. We can just pass like ships in the night.” She shot her hands past each other to demonstrate. “But you might as well be comfortable while you’re working.”

This was moving way too fast. Something Margaux suspected happened with Linda a lot.

“What are you asking for it?”

“Hell, it’s been vacant for eight months, what can you pay?”

Margaux stifled a laugh. “I’m not sure how long I’m going to be here.”

“Good enough. Follow me.”

She took off down the hall. Margaux followed meekly behind her.

The kitchen was a large airy room, painted a brilliant canary yellow with oak cabinets and a light pine table and chairs.

“So you want coffee? I have to cut off my supply on cutting and perm days. Don’t want to get jittery fingers and cut off something I shouldn’t. But on Sunday? I shake, rattle, and roll all day. Nothing better than a strong cup of joe.”

“I’d love some.”

They sat at the table, a plate of chocolate chip cookies between them.

“If you’re worried about security. Don’t be. I got the chief of police living up on the third floor.”

Margaux’s cup rattled. “The chief of police?”

“Yeah,” Linda said, eyeing her speculatively. “If you’re not an escaped felon, that should be good news.”

She
wasn’t a felon, but she sure as hell didn’t know about Louis.

“Plus he’s a hunk. So even if you don’t need the security, he’s nice to come home to.”

“You?”

“Hell no. He lives like a monk. Plus he isn’t really my type. I like willowy effete men.”

Margaux choked on her coffee.

“Okay. I lied. I flirted with him a little bit when I first got here. No chemistry. You know what I mean? Plus I like a guy who can walk on the wild side. Nick lives the letter of the law.”

“I thought maybe he was married. I met Connor.”

“Connor is his nephew. Nick’s brother was killed in the war. Mother ran off. Nick got the kid. Couldn’t be in better hands. He’s a little strange.”

“Nick or Connor?”

Linda snorted out a laugh. “Both. Connor doesn’t talk much and when he does he whispers. Spooky, but a sweetheart. Nick is just plain old strange. He works, he takes care of his family. He studies.
C’est tout
.”

“He sounds perfect.” Margaux caught herself. “I mean a man who works hard, takes care of his family, and tries to stretch his horizons?”

“Know what you mean. The only horizons most men stretch is with their secretaries or some bimbette they pick up at a bar.”

Margaux had to laugh; she’d been thinking pretty much the same thing. She wondered if Louis had also been having affairs while he was stealing her money. And she was shocked to realize she didn’t care.

“But don’t worry. He won’t bother you unless you want him to.” Linda made a face. “Probably not even then.”

Just as well, thought Margaux. “It’s absolutely none of my business, but why does Connor whisper?”

Linda reached for a cookie. “Nobody knows. Kid won’t tell them, just clams up when they press him. Like I said, weird. Now about the rent. How about a hundred a month?”