Beach Colors (3 page)

“My future.”

“Oh, Margaux. It only seems that way now. You were right to come home.”

Margaux sniffed. “Where else could I go?” She hated herself for sounding so needy, so incapable, but she’d used up every reservoir of strength just getting through the last two months.

“No place else in the world. You’ve got family and friends and a home. You’ll create more designs, make more money, and someday you’ll meet someone to love and have a family with.”

“Mom, I’m thirty-four.”

“Thirty-four is nothing. Women have children into their forties these days.”

“There won’t be anyone else.”

“Of course there will be. It’s early days yet.”

“There wasn’t for you.”

“No.” Jude smiled. “You’re exhausted. Things will look better when you’ve rested. Why don’t you come stay at the condo with me tonight?”

“Thanks, but—” Margaux shook her head.

“Or . . . I could stay here.”

“No. I just need to sleep. You go on home. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll be fine. I promise.”

Jude gathered up their trash. “Okay, but call me if you change your mind. Doesn’t matter what time. I mean it.”

“I will.” Margaux walked her to the car.

Jude kissed her good night. “Dottie’s for waffles. I’ll pick you up at nine.”

“Mom, I can’t.”

“Sure you can. You don’t want to hurt Dottie’s feelings and you need to eat.”

Margaux gave in. It took more than she had to resist. By tomorrow she’d be able to hold herself together. For a while anyway.

Jude beeped as she rounded the curve and Margaux went inside. She was numb with shock, with pain, with sheer exhaustion, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. It seemed like she hadn’t slept in years, and the stairs to her bedroom seemed to stretch forever.

She walked through the parlor and out the front door.

She hesitated at the bottom of the porch steps. The beach was dark, the sand eerily illuminated by the sliver of moon. She took a step and the sand shifted beneath her feet. Another step, another shift. Another . . . and another until the sand turned wet and hard. Another and another until she stood ankle deep in the cold water of the Sound.

She looked into the darkness, opened her arms, and gave in to the pull of the tide, strong, relentless, its siren call singing her home.

Two

N
ick waited for the printer to spit out his last report. He was drowning in paperwork, something he hadn’t bargained for when he agreed to take the job of police chief. And the season was just beginning.

But a job was a job and this one paid regularly and had good benefits. He needed both.

He pressed his fingertips to his eyes. The skin was rough. He’d been spending every spare minute doing chores for his mother or moonlighting at Jake McGuire’s woodworking business. By next month, he wouldn’t have time for any of that. His entire force of seven would be working overtime dealing with congested traffic, illegal fireworks, fender benders, sunstroke, stolen purses . . . The list seemed interminable.

When the printer clicked back to Power Save, Nick scooped up the pages and tossed them into the outbox.

He stretched to ease the stiffness in his back, then pushed himself out of his chair. God, he felt more like eighty-eight than thirty-eight. And he still had to do the shopping and drop the groceries off at his mother’s before going home.

Out of habit, he reached into the desk drawer for his copy of
A History of the Ostrogoths in Italy
. Though if he was learning anything about the Ostrogoths, it was through osmosis. He’d barely opened the book in weeks.

He tucked it under his arm, turned out the lights, and closed his office door. The public area was empty except for Dee Janowitz, the night dispatcher, and his deputy, Finley Green, who was perched on the edge of the switchboard.

Finley stood up, unfolding like an accordion, six feet of sinew and charm. He grinned at Nick. “Dee here tells me you made a stop and search today. And there I am sitting down in the hollow all day, and nobody even rolled through the stop sign.”

Nick grunted. He didn’t want to think about Margaux Sullivan. “A stop, not a search. It was just some tourist, driving over the limit.”

“I heard it was Jude Sullivan’s daughter,” said Dee, giving him the I-was-dispatcher-here-when-you-were-in-diapers look. “Nick, how could you?”

Hell. Somebody must have been driving by and seen him. He’d been too floored to notice. “Just doing my duty, ma’am.” He flicked two fingers at his forehead. “I’ll have my cell if you need me, Finley. See you on Monday.”

He drove to the Cove Market at the edge of town, pulled a basket away from the outside rack, and pushed it through the automatic door. He went straight to the cereal aisle.

He tossed a box of Lucky Charms into the cart, knowing his mother would click her tongue and put them on a top shelf where she hoped they would go unnoticed. Connor loved Lucky Charms and a kid, especially one who had been through what Connor had been through, deserved some sugar in his life. Nick added a box of All-Bran as atonement.

He wielded the cart into the next aisle. Maxwell House, dish detergent, Mop & Glo. He grabbed a bag of potatoes from the produce section and sped toward the checkout stand.

The cashier, a plump thirtyish woman whose name tag read
Hi, I’m Cindy,
pursed her lips as she scanned the Lucky Charms. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, Chief. I hope you’re planning to have these with milk.”

“Shi— I’ll be right back.” He sprinted off. Sprinted back with a gallon of milk. She finished ringing him up; he packed the groceries and wheeled them out.

“Enjoy your breakfast,” she called after him.

He drove back through town to the Cape Cod where he’d grown up. His mother was standing at the side door, waiting for him.

“Sorry I’m late, Ma. Lots of paperwork.”

She tried to relieve him of the groceries but he fought her off. She was small and fine boned. Lately it seemed she had grown more delicate, and tonight she seemed frail. He swore at himself for not being able to help her more.

“Sit down, Nicky. I’ve got a plate warming in the oven.”

“I’ll just wash up.” He started rolling up his sleeves on his way to the door.

He stopped by the bathroom, then looked in on his nephew. Connor was lying on his side, his Shrek night-light illuminating his face. He sighed in his sleep and for a split second he looked just like Ben. Nick leaned his forehead against the doorframe trying not to think about his brother, or to remember. Then he gently closed the door, leaving it ajar in case Connor became frightened in the night.

When he returned to the kitchen, his mother was standing on tiptoe, pushing the Lucky Charms onto the top shelf of the cabinet. He took it from her and set it between the All-Bran and the oatmeal on the bottom shelf. He heard the oven door open and close, and when he turned around, a plate covered with aluminum foil was sitting on the table.

She lifted the foil away and a finger of steam curled into the air. “I hope it didn’t dry out.”

He sat down. “It looks great. Thanks.” Pot roast swimming in gravy. Chunks of potatoes and slices of carrots and green beans.

She poured him a glass of milk and he smiled at her. He’d been thinking what he really needed was a double shot of Scotch.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down across from him while Nick dug into the roast.

“Karen Ames called today.”

“The school psychologist? What did she want?”

“She’s scheduled an appointment for Connor on Thursday with the therapist she recommended.”

“Ma, we discussed this. We’re not sending him to a special school.”

She nodded. The little wisps of hair that always sneaked out of her bun lifted in the air. Hair, he noticed, that was more white than honey these days.

“They just want to do more tests.”

Nick stopped with the fork halfway to this mouth. “No.” He pushed the forkful of beef into his mouth, chewed slowly, hoping he would be able to swallow it.

“He’ll be a year behind the other children as it is. There’s a nice school out on the highway. Deke and Peg O’Halloran’s daughter goes there.”

“Cecilia is mentally challenged. Connor is not. He’s—”

“Traumatized.”

“Quiet. He’s just quiet. The summer will be a perfect time for him to get to know other kids. We sent him to school too soon after . . .” He couldn’t even say it. “After he came here.” Nick had made a lot of mistakes in his life but he wasn’t going to rob Connor of a normal childhood in a normal school. “I’ll set up some playdates, maybe we can send him to day camp. I’ll take him to the park, down to the beach—”

She reached across the table and laid her hand on his. A little bird hand, a feather’s touch. He felt a stab of panic, that there would be a time in the future when she would be gone, and he would be left to take care of Connor by himself.

“Nicky, you’re exhausted.”

“I’m fine, Ma. Just a little tired.”

“You stop here every night,” she said as if he hadn’t spoken. “Spend weekends with Connor.” She turned his hand over. “And I know you’re working for Jake McGuire, though I don’t know when you find the time.”

He gently pulled his hand away and picked up the paper napkin next to his plate. “I like working with my hands. It’s relaxing.”

“And what about your schoolwork?”

Nick thought of the history book lying on the passenger seat of his police car. “It’s an Internet course. There’s no time limit.” It didn’t matter. He had already written the Denver college where he taught to say he wouldn’t be back in the fall.

“I’ll take him to the kiddie shrink, but Connor needs to go to school with normal kids.” His appetite was gone, but he forced down the rest of his dinner. His mother would be hurt if he didn’t. He carried his plate to the sink; she took it out of his hands.

“I’ll do this. You go on home and get some sleep.”

Gratefully, he dried his hands. “Thanks. And thanks for dinner.”

She walked him to the door and they stood for a moment looking out. The street was dark, there was barely a moon, and the stars were sprinkled like confetti through the sky.

“What would make a mother leave her child?”

“She was . . . overwhelmed . . . perhaps.”

“Selfish.”

“She may come back.”

“She may, but she sure as hell won’t take Connor away from us.”

“Nicky.”

“Sorry, Ma, but I won’t give him back, not after how she left him.”

His mother placed a hand on his sleeve. “You know best, Nicky.”

They stood for a while longer, just looking into the night. Nick sighed. “Margaux Sullivan is back.”

“Is she? Jude will be so pleased. We were talking about her just the other day.”

“You talked to Jude Sullivan?” How much could they have in common? They might be close to the same age, but his mother was working-class. The years had worn her down. Jude was sophisticated, still young-looking and vital.

“Of course. We’re on the flea market committee together.”

“I’d forgotten.”

“How did she look?”

“Margaux?” He swallowed. “Fine . . . I guess. She looked . . . okay.”

She smiled. “You’re tired. Go home.” She reached up and kissed his cheek, then patted the place as if sealing the kiss there.

“Tell Connor I’ll see him at supper tomorrow, then Sunday we can play some ball maybe.”

He cut across the front yard and began the three-block walk to the marina and his apartment over the Cut ’n Curl—Le Coif, he corrected himself. Even though Linda, the new owner, had changed the name and put up a cutesy sign, it would always be the Cut ’n Curl to Nick.

He always left his police car in his mother’s driveway. It made him feel better about leaving them alone. Not that there was much crime in a town the size of theirs, but you never knew. He enjoyed starting and ending each day with a walk. It was surprising how little exercise he got as a policeman. And if there was an emergency, his truck was parked at the marina.

Once the summer was over, things would be better. The antiques dealers and art galleries that had sprung up around town drew hordes of shoppers on the weekends. But for the other five days of the week, they would enjoy their sleepy little beach town, forgotten until the next summer rolled around.

Then he’d catch up on all the things he would have to let slide during the tourist season. Connor would settle in; get used to living with his grandmother; he’d go to school, make some friends. And maybe by next summer Nick would have a new teaching job closer to Crescent Cove, and he could afford a house large enough for the three of them. But first he had to get through the next three months.

The beauty parlor was dark, but he could see light coming from Linda Goldstein’s apartment on the second floor. Fortunately, his attic apartment had its own entrance, even if he had to climb a deeply pitched outside staircase to get there.

He hung his uniform neatly in the closet and went to bed—but not to sleep. His mind became a treadmill, his thoughts exploring the same territory over and over and never finding a solution. How to support his mother. How to make Connor whole again. How to finish his master’s while working fourteen-hour days. How he would ever be able to pay for a private school if Connor had to be sent there. How to make up for the things he’d done and hadn’t done. His mind roiled and his body tensed until he thought he’d never fall asleep.

When at last sleep came, he was thinking about the reappearance of Margaux Sullivan.

M
argaux awoke to darkness, wondered where the hell she was, remembered. She was at the beach house, asleep on the couch. And she remembered why she was here. Panic surged up. She forced it down. She’d deal with it tomorrow. Tomorrow when she was stronger. Tomorrow in the sunlight.

She rolled off the couch and padded upstairs to her old bedroom. She climbed into bed, pulled the quilt up, and fell asleep in her clothes.

When she awoke again it was light. A square of blue filled the window and sunlight cast warmth across her face. She was home, in her own room.