Beach Colors (25 page)

“Jesus H. Christ, I could have shot you. What the hell are you doing here this late with the lights off?” He clicked on the overhead.

She blinked. “I forgot to close the windows when I went to the flea market. I was planning to come back and work, but I didn’t and I forgot about them until I was almost asleep. So I came back. And the reason I didn’t turn on the lights is because I didn’t need them, I didn’t plan on staying.”

“Go lock the windows now,” he said, fighting nerves and adrenaline and thanking God he hadn’t killed her.

She went back inside the second room and he heard the windows scraping down. He should probably go help her, but he could only stand with his back against the wall, shaking and trying to draw breath.

When she came out again, she had more color, but looked worried. “I’m sorry,” she said. “About everything.”

She walked past him and pulled out a ring of keys. He followed her out and waited for her to lock up. He followed her to the porch and waited while she locked the front door. Then he walked her across the street to her car, which in his tired state, he hadn’t noticed in his rush to apprehend the burglar.

She opened the driver’s door.

Nick gritted his teeth. “You should always lock your car, especially at night.”

He leaned forward to check her backseat just as she turned around. Right into his arms which automatically closed around her. He didn’t let go. Couldn’t let go. She was tense beneath his touch, but she didn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry about the way I acted this afternoon,” he said, so close to her that his breath ruffled her hair.

“Forget it.”

“It’s just that I’m worried about Connor getting attached.”

“I understand, but I’m afraid it might be a little late for that. Maybe if I explain to him that I might—”

He wanted to tell her not to leave. For Connor. For himself. But he had no right. He eased away and for a second it seemed that she came with him. Then there was space between them, the night air cool around them.

“Maybe I can help,” she said.

“How?”

“I’m not sure. But at least he’s reaching out to someone . . . even if it is me.”

He turned away from her and leaned against the car. He was afraid she might be right. It was hard for him to admit he needed help. He’d depended on himself and himself alone for so long, he wasn’t sure he could depend on anyone else. And he wanted to be the one Margaux could depend on, not the other way around.

“Why don’t you bring him to the beach. I could introduce him to some of the other kids. Or you could come and introduce him yourself if you’d rather.”

“I’ve taken him to the park, to the playground, I tried to get him to play with other kids.”

“I’m sure you’re doing everything you can. But you’ll be busy soon and the beach might be fun.”

“More fun than me.”

“No, of course not. I’m sure you’re a lot of fun. I mean, I’m sure Connor thinks so.”

“No he doesn’t.” Nick laughed, dry and without humor. “Just when he starts to have fun, I say something too loud, or lose my temper, or move too fast, and he crawls right back to where he was before.”

He closed his eyes, felt her hand on his arm.

“You know what they say about it taking a village. Maybe you shouldn’t try to do it all yourself. You don’t have to.” Her hand moved away and he felt oddly bereft.

“Just think about it. Good night.” She got into the car.

Nick roused himself in time to shut her door. “Drive carefully.”

She smiled up at him and left him standing alone under the streetlight.

Seventeen

A
sk the girl out on a date,” Linda said the next morning as she handed Nick a cup of coffee.

“I can’t go on dates. I’m the chief of police.”

“Exactly my point.”

“What?”

“You’re not the pope. Chiefs of police can date. It’s expected.”

Nick shook his head, imagining the talk if he went out with Margaux. If she’d even go out with him, though there was definitely something between them.

“For a big tough guy you can be a real wuss. You want me to ask her for you?”

Coffee sloshed in Nick’s mug. He grabbed a napkin to soak up the spill. “Don’t even think about it. I mean it, Linda. Don’t mess in this.”

She was standing on the other side of the table, hands on her hips, giving him her cheeky grin.

“I mean it.”

The grin just broadened.

“I’ll never forgive you.”

“Never?”

“No. Never.” He stood up. “I’ve got to get to the station. Thanks for the coffee.” He left by the back door. As he walked down the drive to the street, she threw open the window and sang at the top of her lungs, “Can’t get no . . .”

M
argaux parked across from Le Coif and checked to make sure the police chief was nowhere in sight before she got out of the car. Which was stupid, because she really wanted to see him again. And at the same time she didn’t—and shouldn’t.

She hurried across the street and went inside. Linda poked her head out. “Hell’s bells, it’s eight o’clock. You sleep in or something?”

“Or something. You’re open early.”

“Yeah. I had to mainline the chief with some joe this morning.”

“Your tenant almost shot me last night.”

“I heard. You sure have that man rattled.”

“He thinks I’m an idiot and he warned me to stay away from Connor.”

“He didn’t.”

“Well, he did, though to give the devil his due, he did apologize later and said it was because he doesn’t want Connor to get attached and then have me leave.”

“And are you leaving?”

Margaux frowned at her. “No. Not right away, but as soon as I get a line to show, I’ll have to.”

“Uh-huh. Is that my phone ringing?” Linda popped back into the salon.

Margaux unlocked the door to her studio and stepped inside. What had been an empty space days ago was now filled with bundles of fabric, both dyed and waiting to be dyed. Fabric hung from coat hangers, was draped across tables, was folded and stacked on the bookshelves. Her work had eaten up the second room and threatened to need more.

And she still didn’t have one design constructed. She could draft her own patterns, but she was not a seamstress. She needed a staff. And she had no way to pay them.

She sat down at her drafting table and called her lawyer while she looked out the window at the marina. There had been no progress in the money search, nothing about the whereabouts of her erstwhile husband, even though it seemed he was a person of interest in a hedge fund scheme.

“If they do find him, can you make him sign a divorce agreement? I don’t relish being married another year to the creep while I wait for the abandonment limitations to run out.”

“I’ll talk to some people; in the meantime, go out and have some fun. There is no way that jackass can touch anything you have, not if you paraded a hundred lovers before the court. He’s in deep, Margaux. I’ll make sure you get a divorce before he becomes a felon.”

“I can’t pay you right now.”

“But you will. I can wait.”

But how long?
Margaux wondered as she hung up. Even if she gave up and got a normal job with a salary or hit the streets of New York and begged for any position in a studio, she would barely make enough to live on, much less pay her expensive lawyer.

As much as the idea of running her own business appealed to her, the only way she could get back on her feet was to come up with a production line. Either way, she had to start work. She called Jude.

“Of course I’ll help. I already offered. I’ll be your silent partner.”

“No, Mom, I need to be totally responsible for this, but I could use some advice. I’ll need someone to construct the clothes. I don’t even know if I can find someone locally who can do that kind of work.”

“Well, I do. Adelaide Prescott.”

“Nick’s mother?”

“She used to work in the garment district before she married Cyril and moved here. She’s an excellent seamstress.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“I know what you’re thinking, but she told me the other day she was going back to work when Connor was in school. Between you and me, they need the extra money and this would be perfect.”

“But what about Connor?”

“She can bring him with her. He won’t be in the way. He sat at a three-hour meeting the other night so quietly that I forgot he was there. Any more arguments?”

“No.”

“Then shall I call her?”

“Would you mind? It might be better coming from you. I’m not sure Nick would want his mother working for me. He seems kind of sensitive that way.”

“I’ll call and bring her by this afternoon if she’s amenable.”

“Maybe we should wait to make sure the loan goes through.”

“Nonsense. The loan will go through. Now don’t worry. I’ll call Adelaide, you make an appointment at the bank, and we’ll ask Roger to come and advise us.”

“We don’t need a man to do this for us,” Margaux said.

“No, we don’t. But it makes things easier. Trust me. Besides, he worked on the state planning board for years. He knows about costs and accounting and returns and that kind of stuff. I confess I don’t.”

“Neither do I,” Margaux admitted reluctantly. Until a few months ago, she’d had an accountant to do those things.

“He’s just going to advise. Not dictate, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“All right, ask him. And Mom. Thanks.”

She hung up, opened her notebook and studied her ever-lengthening list. She had temporary space. She had the fabric and the designs. She was about to hire a seamstress. She’d need additional staff, more equipment, which meant more space, and models. She’d present an invited runway showing, which meant she would need to find an appropriate venue, and a videographer to make a decent demo tape.

A giant money pit with no guarantees.

T
hat afternoon, Jude brought Mrs. Prescott to Le Coif with Connor. Her hair was twisted neatly at the nape of her neck. She was wearing a summer suit, beautifully made, but a few years out of date. Chanel maybe, thought Margaux.

Connor stood quietly at her side, but he smiled at Margaux.

Mrs. Prescott held her purse aside while she bent over the worktable. “This shantung is exquisite.” She glanced at the design board. “For the pantsuit?”

“Yes,” said Margaux. “How did you guess?”

“It’s perfect for it.”

“You’re hired,” said Linda, coming into the room, frosting brush in her hand.

“Well, I . . .” Mrs. Prescott looked doubtfully at Margaux. There was a faint pink to her cheeks that hadn’t been there before.

“Don’t you have a head to dye?” Margaux asked.

Linda looked down at the brush in her hand. “Oh yeah, but don’t close the door. I want to hear everything.”

“Sorry about that,” Margaux said. “Linda isn’t the most patient soul in the world.”

Margaux took Mrs. Prescott around the room, showing her fabric and the designs and explained what she envisioned. Jude stood out of the way, but Connor wedged himself in between his grandmother and Margaux.

“Would you be interested? I’m not quite ready to set up. I have no machinery yet and . . . And it would only be for a few weeks until I can get enough designs to hold a show.”

“Wouldn’t you like to see samples of my work?”

“Like the suit you’re wearing?” Jude asked.

Adelaide blushed rosily. “I copied it years ago from a Chanel suit I saw in
Vogue
.”

“It’s beatifully made,” Margaux said.

“We’d be in your debt, Adelaide,” Jude said. “I can’t think of anyone we could trust more to manage the workshop. We really need your help, if you think you could find the time.”

“Well . . .” Mrs. Prescott hesitated, then looked at Margaux. “You’ll need space to begin with. I don’t have enough room at my house for cutting, sewing, and fitting. I do have an industrial Pfaff. It isn’t new. It’s in good working order, but we’ll need a serger. Silk thread. Are you going to use premade binding?” She wrinkled her nose. “I’d advise against it. Using the original material as binding is time-consuming and not cost-effective, but gives a much nicer look.”

“I agree,” Margaux said, imagining her expenditures soaring into the stratosphere. Cost-effective? She’d be lucky if she didn’t go bankrupt. Again.

“Would you like to think about it and let me know?” asked Mrs. Prescott.

“No-o-o,”
came Linda’s voice from the salon. “You’re hired. Give me a minute and I’ll come over.”

They continued to talk about fabrics and construction until Linda popped her head in. “Last one’s cooking. I’ve got twenty-five minutes. Walk this way.”

She led them upstairs.
“Wal-lah.”

“What do you mean, Voilà?” Margaux asked. “This is your apartment.”

“Yeah, but I still have two empty bedrooms. She opened a door on her right, reached in and turned on a switch. “Wow, look at that. Looks like a sewing room to me.”

It was empty except for a pile of cardboard boxes.

“I’ll just move those . . . somewhere and it’s yours.”

“Linda you can’t—”

“Of course I can.”

Mrs. Prescott stepped inside. “Good. There’s room for at least three sewing machines, a steamer. We could put a cutting table in that corner. Cramped but workable.”

The woman knew her stuff.

Linda went back to finish with her client, and Jude, Margaux, and Mrs. Prescott sat down to organize. Feeling sorry for Connor, who hadn’t spoken a word since his initial whispered “Hi,” Margaux found a scrap of rejected chiffon and tied it around his neck like a cape. She tied a narrower piece around his forehead.

“Now you’re a bona fide pirate,” she said.

Mrs. Prescott looked on, her expression so wistful that Margaux was afraid she’d done something wrong.

“If your grandmother says it’s okay.”

“You look mighty fierce,” Mrs. Prescott said, and Connor grinned and brandished an imaginary sword.

They were going full steam when a cell phone rang. Mrs. Prescott reached for her purse. “Sorry, Nicky insisted I get this.” She opened it. “Hello?”