Beach Colors (7 page)

The two of them had kept up their friendship, often met for dinner, to go sailing or to a museum. She knew Roger had once hoped for more than friendship. But Jude couldn’t imagine waking up to anyone other than Henry. He would always be her husband, even in death.

She had tried. She was still a young woman when she was widowed. Even Dottie, her closest friend and confidante, had urged her to remarry. She had dated several men, but Roger was the only one she continued to see through the years.

They were both getting older. Roger’s hairline had receded. His hair, once the color of corn silk, had turned to white. Sailing, his passion, kept him fit, but the sun had crinkled the skin around his eyes and mouth. She didn’t think of him as old, just mellowed like a good cognac.

Time had changed her, too. Though Linda had put life back into her fading hair, and exercise kept her muscles toned, she felt her years. She hadn’t noticed it until today, worried about her daughter, the only thing she really had left of Henry.

An involuntary shudder passed over her. Roger looked up, their eyes met. She reached for her wineglass, but Roger’s hand closed over hers and held it poised above the table. Then he drew it toward him and lightly kissed her fingers.

“I’m sorry, Roger. I’m not very good company. I just can’t stop thinking about Margaux. She’s so unhappy.”

“Margaux’s lawyer sounds up to snuff. It’s pretty hard to hide money these days, even with offshore accounts or in Geneva.” Roger smiled and released her hand. “I know what I’m talking about. I didn’t work in the governor’s office for thirty years without learning a thing or two about nefarious dealings.”

“I have some savings,” Jude said. “I could sell the condo. It wouldn’t be close to what she lost, but it might be enough to start over again.”

“Do you think Margaux would let you do that?”

Jude shook her head.

“It’s an altruistic gesture, but the condo wouldn’t bring nearly what it’s worth in this economy. There are small business loans set up for just this kind of thing.” He looked at her from beneath eyelashes bleached almost colorless from the sun. “Unless you’d like to sell and live somewhere else . . .” The sentence trailed off, leaving the question in the air. “No. Don’t say it. You know you have a standing invitation and that’s the last we’ll say on the subject.”

After dinner, Roger kissed her good night and put her into the Citroën.

“Drive carefully and call me when you get home.” He stood watching from the parking lot as she drove away.

There was always a part of her that wanted to turn around and stay. Maybe once Margaux was free and her life was back on track, Jude would think about changing her life. But she knew she wouldn’t. Every time she tried, something held her back. And that thing was Henry. She couldn’t bear to say goodbye.

Four

T
he carillon was ringing as Jude and Margaux pulled into the parking lot across the street from St. Michael’s Church of the Ascension. The priest stood at the red arched doors, greeting his parishioners, his thick white hair gleaming halo-like in the sun above a gray cassock.

“It’s Father Timothy,” said Margaux.

“Who did you expect? Come on. You’ll want to say hello.”

Margaux smoothed the skirt of her black linen dress.

“You look fine,” said Jude. She was wearing a jade green pantsuit and looked twenty years younger than she was. “And if anybody asks you about Louis, just say he’s a lying, cheating snake and you’re better off without him.”

“Mom,” Margaux whimpered. “I can’t go in there.”

“Magsy, it’s the twenty-first century. Even Catholics get divorced.”

“I can’t. I’ll meet you afterwards.”

“No you won’t. Father Timothy’s seen you. You can’t sneak away now.”

Margaux reluctantly let Jude guide her across the street to the church. What if the priest asked her when she had last been to confession? She hadn’t confessed in at least ten years, and there was too much she’d have to tell if she started now.

But Father Timothy just smiled and said, “Welcome back.”

They walked down the aisle to the front of the church to their regular pew, the same pew Sullivans had used for three generations. Margaux acknowledged everyone’s nods and smiles, but she didn’t slow down. By afternoon everyone in town would know she was back. She prayed, really prayed, that no one would ask her why.

The service began. Gratefully, Margaux settled back in her seat and the next hour passed in a blur. Margaux stood, knelt, and sat at all the right times. At least most of the time. Jude only had to nudge her once when her mind wandered. So she was surprised to find everyone rising to their feet and the processional music fill the air.

She vaguely remembered Father Timothy talking about forgiveness. That’s when she’d tuned out, she realized. She wasn’t ready to forgive. It might be a long time before she could think of Louis without wanting to tear him limb from limb.

Outside, knots of people stood on the grass chatting. Father Timothy was standing with a spare little woman in a lavender suit and old-fashioned hat, clasping a pair of white gloves in one hand. A small boy stood next to her, holding on to the strap of her purse.

Jude guided Margaux toward them.

Father Timothy beamed at Margaux when they reached the group. “So good to have you with us.”

“Thank you, Father,” Margaux said meekly, feeling like a child again.

“Have you met Mrs. Prescott? One of our most faithful parishioners. Adelaide, this is Jude’s daughter, Margaux.”

“This is Margaux?” Mrs. Prescott said. “I wouldn’t have recognized you.” She exchanged smiles with Jude, one of those one-mother-to-another smiles. “Are you home for long?”

Good question,
thought Margaux, and gave a noncommittal shrug.

“We’ll take her for as long as we can get her,” Jude said breezily. “Adelaide makes the best zucchini bread in town.”

Mrs. Prescott smiled and shook her head, pleased at the compliment.

“And this is Mrs. Prescott’s grandson, Connor.”

“Hi, Connor,” Margaux said, looking down at the boy.

“Hi.” The boy’s response was hardly more than a puff of air. He pressed closer to Mrs. Prescott and peeked out at Margaux from behind her skirt. He was a beautiful boy with dark expressive eyes beneath dark brown curls that just begged to be brushed off his forehead.

Father Timothy excused himself and joined another cluster of parishioners. Mrs. Prescott said goodbye and led her grandson across the street. As they reached the parking lot, Connor looked back at Margaux. She waved; he pressed closer to his grandmother and they disappeared into the maze of cars.

“Dottie’s for brunch?” Jude asked as she and Margaux headed back to the car.

“Not today. I need to get groceries and I think I’ll head over to Skilling’s later. I never made it yesterday.” And she didn’t want to take a chance of running into the chief of police at the diner. She was pretty sure she’d had an erotic dream about him last night. Just as she was pretty sure that was a venal sin. The sooner she got back to the solitude of the beach house the better.

N
ick was frowning when he came to a stop in front of his mother’s house. He was thinking about Margaux Sullivan. He’d been thinking about her for two days. He’d even gone by the station today hoping that paperwork would keep his mind off of her. It hadn’t.

Maybe an afternoon at the ball field will do the trick.
He got out of the truck. Connor was waiting for him at the front door, his face pressed to the screen, and Nick forgot all about Margaux.

The door opened and Connor, wearing Ben’s old high school baseball cap, struggled through the opening. Nick’s throat tightened. He quickly pushed aside the memories the hat evoked and grinned at his nephew. His skinny arms were wrapped around two bats, the new red Louisville Slugger that Nick had bought him, and an old heavy wooden one for Nick. Two mitts, one small and new, the other old and beat-up, were wedged under his chin. He held a baseball in each hand.

Nick’s grin widened even as something sad pulled at his heart. This was Ben’s son, not his. Ben should be taking Connor to the park, just as their father had taken Nick and Ben years before.

Connor was trying to hold the door with one shoulder. His face screwed up in concentration as he struggled to ease the door shut and keep all the equipment balanced at the same time.

One mitt slipped out from under his chin. He grabbed for it and dropped the baseballs. The other mitt popped into the air and the bats clattered to the wooden stoop. One of the baseballs bounced down the steps and came to rest in the grass.

Connor was all arms and legs trying to catch everything at once. The screen door slammed and Connor froze. Slowly he straightened up, the baseball equipment forgotten. His bottom lip quivered, then his face crumpled.

Nick rushed across the lawn and took the steps in one leap. “Hey, big guy.” He scooped Connor off his feet. “Ready for some batting practice?”

Connor didn’t make a sound, but tears rolled down his cheeks.

“It’s okay. It was just the door.” Nick pulled the boy close and held him tight.

Connor was wrapped around him like a little monkey, his head burrowed into Nick’s shoulder, his body trembling. He smelled like peanut butter and kid and seemed too fragile for a six-year-old. Nick rested his cheek against the boy’s hair. Dark and curly like Ben’s, like his, like their father’s, rest his soul.

God, he felt like crying himself. He had come back to help his mother with Connor, to make things better, to fix the things he’d screwed up. He was failing.

He cleared his throat. “Hey, Connor. It was just the door. Guess the spring came loose again. I’ll fix it when we get back.” He’d wrench the damn thing off its hinges if he had to. He slid Connor down his side, picked up a ball, and put it into the boy’s hand. He had to close the small fingers around it. He retrieved the other ball from the grass, then picked up the bats and mitts.

“Let’s get this gear in the truck.” He smiled down at his nephew. “Race you!” He took off at a dog trot toward the street, looking back over his shoulder.

Connor stood where he left him.

“Come on, Connor. We’re outside, you can make noise.”

Connor looked back at the closed door, then took a slow step, then another. Nick ran in place, pumping his arms, lifting his knees. Being ridiculous. Connor watched him, his expression worried. Nick ran in a circle around the boy. He ran backwards, panting, his tongue hanging out like one of Connor’s silent cartoon characters. Then Connor’s mouth popped into a gap-toothed smile and he bounded for the truck.

Connor won and they sat in the truck, grinning at each other and breathing hard. They both needed more exercise.

Nick leaned over and fastened Connor’s seat belt.

“That was fun,” he whispered.

The words were said so quietly Nick could barely hear them. How would the boy ever survive in school if he startled at every loud noise, only talked in whispers. It had been a disaster when Nick had registered him for kindergarten mid-year. The other kids made fun of him. The teachers were too busy to give him extra help.

The pediatrician checked him out. He was fine physically. The school psychologist ran a bunch of tests. Couldn’t find anything wrong. She talked with Connor, she talked with Nick, she talked with his mother, with all of them together, and none of them could figure out why he wouldn’t talk louder. And Connor wouldn’t, or couldn’t, tell them.

Nick cupped a hand to his ear and said in an old codger voice. “Eh?”

“That was fun,” Connor whispered.

Nick moved closer until their heads were almost touching. “Eh?”

He heard Connor take a deep breath. “That was fun.” But it was still a whisper.

Disappointed, Nick mustered a smile and pulled the brim of Connor’s cap over his eyes. “Let’s play some ball.” He started the truck.

The kid spent too much time in the house with his grandmother. He was pale and thin. He had the natural grace of his father, but he didn’t know how to do little boy things. He didn’t jump on the bed or race through the house whooping like an Indian. He didn’t even laugh out loud at the muted cartoons he watched. If Nick turned the television up, Connor just turned it down again. And he cried when the screen door slammed.

The doctor was right. Connor needed something that Nick couldn’t give him, but it wasn’t a special school. Connor needed a father and a mother. And Nick couldn’t give him either.

“Uncle Nick?”

“What, sport?”

“Are you sad?”

“No way. I was thinking that after baseball, we’ll stop at Skilling’s for some ice cream. What do you say to that?”

“Okay.”

An hour later, Nick turned off Shore Road into the graveled parking lot of Skilling’s Ice Cream stand and pulled into a space in front of the wooden building. Baseball had been a bust. Connor’s arms got tired right away. And Nick couldn’t get him to run, not even to first base. He hoped to hell ice cream would salvage the day.

There was a crowd at the stand. There always was. Skilling’s was probably the last place in Connecticut you could still get real homemade ice cream.

They took their place at the end of the line. Nick leaned over, close to Connor, and asked, “Know what you want?”

“Chocolate with sprinkles.”

Nick smiled. That had been his favorite, too. It seemed like somebody else’s life, his childhood was so remote. He looped his arm around Connor’s shoulders and pulled him close. “Good choice.”

They stepped up to the window. Connor’s nose barely came up to the sticky sill. The teenage girl on the other side smiled at them.

“Hi, Chief. What can I get for you?” She peered down at Connor. “Are you the chief’s deputy?”

Connor shook his head. Nick gave him a nudge.

“He’s my uncle.”

The girl looked at Nick. “What did he say?”

Nick swatted at a fly and felt sinking disappointment. “He’s my nephew.”

The girl looked back at Connor. “What would you like?”

“He’ll have a chocolate cone with sprinkles,” said Nick, too tired to even try to get Connor to speak at an audible level.