“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.
Nick 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 codg
er 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.
A blue sports car pulled into a space next to the truck. There was only one blue sports car in town that Nick knew of. He tried not to look but he couldn’t help himself.
She was walking toward them, looking up at the board that listed the ice cream flavors. She paused for a moment reading, her head cocked up, her neck stretched like a baby bird taking food . . . or a beautiful woman reaching up for a kiss.
“Chief?”
“What?” The image dissipated.
“Do you want some ice cream?”
Margaux Sullivan had made her choice and was standing right behind him. His mind went blank. “Oh, uh. Chocolate with sprinkles.”
Nick took out his wallet while the girl moved off to get their cones. He was acutely aware of Margaux, but he should probably pretend he hadn’t noticed her. Pretend that his heart wasn’t knocking like an engine with a bad carburetor. Yeah, like that was possible.
He was being ridiculous. He couldn’t just ignore her. First of all, he was the chief of police. Secondly, he’d just dripped all over her at the cove the day before. Had held her close enough to feel her breath on his skin. He’d seen her cry. Surely that called for some kind of acknowledgment.
He turned around. Smiled, at least he meant to smile. It felt more like a grimace.
A quick half smile in return and she looked away to scan the menu board.
Connor tugged at his pants leg.
“What, sport?”
“Why is that lady wearing black? Did her daddy die?”
Nick cringed. Even though he whispered, Margaux had to have heard him. She had. Her cheeks turned pink. It hadn’t been sunburn yesterday. She was blushing.
Margaux looked down at Connor. “Guess I’m not dressed for the beach, huh?”
Connor shook his head.
“That’s because I’m from the city. We wear black there.”
“Why?” he breathed.
Margaux moved closer to hear him. She was practically kneeling at Nick’s feet. Not that she noticed. Her attention was focused on Connor. All Nick got was the top of her head, those bright wild curls corkscrewing in the sunlight.
“Hey, buddy, I bet our ice cream is ready.” He turned Connor toward the counter. “Sorry he bothered you.”
She stood. “He didn’t bother me. I guess I better get out my beach clothes, though.”
“No. You look fine. I mean you look . . . you look good.”
“Thanks.” She dipped her chin. He stared at her. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes away. “Um, I think your ice cream . . .” She dipped her chin again.
“What? Oh.” He turned toward the service window, glanced back at her. “Nice to see you.”
He pulled out a ten-dollar bill and shoved it through the window. Took the ice cream, handed one of the cones to Connor and hustled him to a picnic table at the side of the building. He should probably have asked her to join them. No, that would be stupid. Why would she want to have ice cream with him and a kid?
A couple of minutes later, Margaux Sullivan picked her way across the gravel toward her car, licking a double pistachio ice cream. As he watched, she backed out of the parking place and slowly drove off toward Little Crescent Beach. And Nick was hit by a feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time. Regret.
This was getting weird, Margaux thought as she drove away. She was prepared to see him in town occasionally. But three for three was too much. She couldn’t even go for ice cream without running into the man. And his kid, she added. The same kid she’d seen at Mass. Connor Prescott. Nick Prescott.
Now she knew what the chief of police’s hair would look like if he let it grow. Like his son’s, you dolt. Her face heated all over again. She’d been having thoughts about a married man . . . with children. At least one.
Ice cream began to drip down her wrist. She licked it off and a smile crept to her lips. She’d never have figured him for a chocolate-with-sprinkles kind of guy.
The smile disappeared. The kid thought she was in mourning. A kid that young shouldn’t know about mourning. But he was right.
She was mourning. Not for a father or a brother, not anymore, not even for her marriage, but over her life. And that had to stop.
The sun scudded behind a cloud, seconds later the sky turned dark. The first raindrop fell as she turned onto Salt Marsh Lane. By the time she reached home, it was coming down in sheets. Nobody had said anything about rain.
Head tucked, she raced to the back door, dumped her ice cream in the trash, then stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, soaked to the skin. She slipped out of her espadrilles and headed for the stairs and a change of clothes.
She opened her closet door. Her city clothes were lined up neatly across the rack. She was looking at black, black slacks, black shirts, black dresses, black. She pulled out the top two drawers of her dresser but she already knew what she would find there. Black—lingerie, camisoles, blouses. All black.
The kid had nailed it, she looked like a bird of prey.
She was sure there must be some hand-me-downs or forgotten clothes in one of the closets. The Sullivans never threw
anything useful away. So what if they might be a little out of date, a little faded.
It didn’t matter. No one in the business knew where she was and no one at the shore cared that she wasn’t dressed in the latest style.
She hit pay dirt in the bottom drawer of the dresser. There was a pair of shorts, not high-fashion, but still in wearable condition. Two pairs of stone-washed jeans and a pair of cutoffs. How about that, she did have cutoffs. A faded bikini that would do in a pinch. And three T-shirts with advertising across the fronts.
She went back to the closet. Rummaged in the corners where she remembered seeing a red Windbreaker and rehung it front and center.
She got down on her hands and knees and crawled into the closet, groped along the floor until she came up with a pair of pink flip-flops which she threw out into the middle of the floor. Her hand hesitated over a paint-splattered pair of sneakers, then she tossed those out, too.
She was backing out of the closet when her elbow caught the edge of a large brown portfolio. It had been pushed to the very back corner and forgotten.
She dragged it out and carried it to her bed.
It was her first portfolio, dusty and a little frayed at the edges. She sat down on the spread and just looked at it, half curious, half hesitant to look inside. Carefully she untied the black ribbon that held it closed and opened the flap. She tipped it toward the bed and a sheaf of sketch papers slid out.
On the top was a primitive self-portrait. She picked it up and shook her head. It did resemble her in a Grandma Moses sort of way, except the hair was a deep chestnut, long and totally straight instead of red and curly. In the corner was one of her early signatures.
She put it aside and looked at the next. This was a seascape. The jetty was depicted in muddy grays on the left of the canvas. Little people dotted the bright yellow beach that spread across the bottom of the canvas.
The next was another seascape, this time in a storm. The beach glowed almost white as if lightning had just lit the sky. Whitecaps jumped out at the eye from a midnight blue sea. Waves too large for the Sound, except in a hurricane, crashed on craggy rocks in a fireworks display of spray.
Beach Colors Page 6