Beach Colors

by Shelley Noble

  Margaux took the flowers, embarrassed to realize that she was blushing. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice.

  “You didn’t have to do this.”

  He nodded brusquely. “The least I—we could do. I’m not sure I remembered everything.” He began unpacking the groceries. “Milk, bread, hamburger . . .”

  Margaux rushed to stop him. There was something too intimate about watching him unload her groceries.

  “I’ll get those.” She reached for the carton of milk he was holding. Their fingers brushed. Electricity jolted down to her toes. She snatched the carton away and shoved it into the refrigerator.

  The chief was already heading for the door.

  “Do you have to go back to work?” she asked, kicking herself simultaneously for the words. What did she think she was doing?

  He hesitated, looked back over his shoulder. “I’m off duty but on call in case there’s an emergency.”

  “Do you get a lot of emergencies?”

  He turned to face her. “Always, but more so in the summer.”

  “Which is right around the corner.”

  He nodded, almost warily.

  “Well . . . Maybe I could whip up a meal or something,” she said tentatively. “There’s a decent bottle of wine.” She shrugged and added, “Since you brought me groceries.”

  “Are you asking me to dinner?”

  No, she thought. “Yes,” she said. “To show my appreciation.” Geez, what happened to that sophisticated businesswoman from the city?

  Nick’s eyes narrowed and Margaux burned with chagrin. Did he think she was flirting with him? Propositioning him even? He was single and he probably had women chasing him all the time.

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  Margaux shrugged. “I know. It’s no big deal.” She couldn’t tell whether the whole room vibrated with unspoken questions, unsure emotions, or the desire to flee.

  “Okay,” Nick said. “Thanks.”

  The room seemed to exhale. “Do you like eggs?”

  Margaux stood at the stove sautéing mushrooms, peppers, and onions while Nick uncorked the wine.

  He handed her a glass, and tucked a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. It was such a natural gesture that Margaux hardly acknowledged it until Nick asked, “Did Linda strong-arm you into letting her cut your hair?”

  Margaux started and flipped a piece of mushroom onto the stovetop. “Sort of. But it needed it.”

  “I thought it looked fine.”

  She gave him an incredulous look. “You saw it. It was out of control with the humidity. And I hadn’t had time lately to get it done in the city.” Because my life was falling apart and the last thing I was thinking about was my hair. Though maybe Linda was right, if you cared about what you looked like, things couldn’t be that bad.

  She glanced at Nick. “Are you’re saying I shouldn’t have?”

  Nick considered her for a moment and Margaux wished she’d never asked.

  “No. It’s nice. It’s just so tame.”

  Margaux took a sip of wine and raised an eyebrow.

  Nick smiled. His whole face softened and for a second Margaux forgot the intense by-the-book policeman. “That’s not a bad thing. I liked it both ways.”

  “Very diplomatic.”

  “No, really.”

  Margaux held up her hand. “Don’t dig yourself in any deeper.”

  Nick rested his elbow on the countertop. They both watched the sizzling vegetables like they were the most fascinating things in the world.

  The silence lengthened. It wasn’t uncomfortable, at least not to Margaux. She glanced sideways at Nick. She couldn’t tell how he felt.

  “Dottie told me you were in the army.”

  “I was.”

  Margaux remembered that Nick’s brother had died in the war. She immediately backed off.

  “That’s how working-class people get an education.”

  The bite in his voice surprised her. “And did you? Get an education?” And did that sound condescending or what?

  “I have a degree in history.”

  “Which explains the book about the Ostrogoths.”

  He shrugged.

  She poured the egg mixture into the pan. It would be a long night if he didn’t loosen up.

  “Are you planning to stay long?” he asked.

  The question caught her off guard. “Why?”

  “Just making conversation. Not the third degree.”

  “I’m taking a little vacation. I’ve been working really hard and needed a break.” And that didn’t sound convincing even to her. Designers on their way up didn’t take vacations. Fortunately Nick probably didn’t know that.

  “Are you back here for good?”

  He didn’t answer and Margaux opened the oven door and slid the pan onto the rack. She set the timer. “Just a few minutes. I’ll make a salad.” She rummaged in the fridge, trying to think of something else to talk about.

  “I don’t really know. This is just an interim position until they find a permanent replacement for Herb Green. I needed the job for . . . well, I have responsibilities.”

  Taking care of his nephew and mother. Margaux had an overwhelming desire to put her arms around him. “I admire a man who doesn’t shirk his responsibilities.”

  Again they settled into silence. Nick sliced tomatoes for the salad. Each slice exactly the same thickness. Margaux smiled to herself. A man that neat could drive you nuts. On the other hand, not every man would make his family first priority.

  Margaux wondered why he wasn’t married. If he’d ever been married. She was just curious. She was married and look where it had gotten her.

  “I’m in the middle of a divorce,” she blurted. The timer went off and she turned back to the oven with relief. Maybe she should stick her head in and never have to face Nick or anyone else again.

  When she placed the egg pan on the top of the stove, Nick was holding out her glass of wine. “Do you want to talk about it or is it none of my business?”

  “Neither. I don’t know why I even said it.” She took the glass and gulped down a mouthful.

  “You just wanted to set the record straight.”

  “I guess.”

  “Margaux. It’s an omelet, not a commitment. But I can leave.” He set down his glass.

  He was so prickly and he was going to leave. And God help her, she didn’t want him to. “How are you at getting an omelet from the pan to the plate?”

  He visibly relaxed and reached for the spatula. He divided the omelet and slid each half onto a plate, filled their glasses with more wine, and held her chair while she sat down. He made her run-down kitchen as elegant as any New York restaurant.

  Margaux speared a bite of omelet, glanced at Nick, and realized he was waiting for her to begin. Their eyes met over their forks. Margaux smiled to herself. She certainly hadn’t expected good table manners, which she realized now was a stupid assumption. She had a feeling that all assumptions about Nick Prescott might prove to be wrong.

  He was sitting across from her like he belonged in her kitchen. As if the kitchen and maybe Margaux had been waiting for him all along. Which was absurd. She ate her bite of omelet, trying to figure out why she was feeling so . . . right.

  He didn’t seem to mind the absence of conversation. It was restful for a change. She didn’t often cook; she never had the time and she mostly dined out where dinner was more about networking and deal making than enjoying food. But she hadn’t forgotten how, and she’d made one pretty mean omelet tonight.

  “This is good,” Nick said, reflecting her own thoughts.

  She laughed. “Are you surprised?”

  “No, I just thought that working in fashion, you probably don’t have a lot of time to eat, much less cook.”

  Worked in
, she thought. “I was Jude’s daughter before I was a fashion designer. The Sullivan household was always a place of celebration, especially on the holidays, food, family, friends.” She sighed. “Then I left for school and my brother Danny was killed . . .”

  “I remember. I’m sorry.”

  “You knew Danny?”

  “Not really. My mother wrote me when it happened.”

  She waited for him to say something about his own brother, but he only looked around. “This kitchen feels like it’s seen a lot of family gatherings.”

  “That it has.” And maybe it would again.

  When they finished eating, Nick started to carry the dishes to the sink, but Margaux stopped him. “I can also load a dishwasher. Sit. I’ll make coffee.”

  They took their cups into the living room. Margaux glanced around the room. Sketches were strewn across every surface. Luckily, she’d hidden the merman sketch in the trunk with the diary.

  Nick picked up a sketch from the coffee table. She craned her neck to see which one it was.

  “I was just messing around with some ideas.”

  “A lot of ideas. You’ve been busy.” Nick returned a pencil sketch of an evening suit and picked up a pastel of the sun setting behind the marina.

  “Just filling the time.”

  “Jude said you had a really successful exhibit, or show, at Fashion Week in New York.”

  “Yes.” It should have skyrocketed her into position for the fall Fashion Week. Instead she’d been catapulted out of the business completely.

  “Are you cold?” Nick stepped toward her, concern in his eyes.

  “What? No. Why?”

  “You were shivering.”

  “No. Just—” He was standing close enough that she could feel his body warmth. Another shiver ran through her. Maybe she was cold, had been cold for a long time, and hadn’t even noticed until now.

  Nick reached out his hand and a deeper emotion invaded his eyes. But before Margaux could guess what it was, his beeper went off.

  Nick groaned. “Sorry.” He checked the number, opened his cell phone, and pressed speed dial. He listened for a minute and hung up. “I have to go. Someone set several boats adrift down at the marina. Kids, probably. They’re starting early this season. Finley said to be sure and apologize for him.”

  She followed him to the back door.

  “Thanks for dinner.”

  “Sure. Anytime.” Which was a stupid thing to say. They shouldn’t be having dinner together. They shouldn’t be doing anything together.

  Nick wasn’t really making a move to leave. She was pretty sure they were thinking the same thing. There was an awkward moment while some unseen force drew them together.

  She looked up at him, expectant. Nick dipped his head. But his lips bypassed her mouth and kissed her cheek.

  “Thanks again.”

  And he was gone. Margaux heard the truck start up and drive away while she stood at the screen door, surprised, disappointed, and feeling better than she had since her first fashion award.

  She turned back to the kitchen. Two plates, two wineglasses. She had to fight really hard to keep this particular fantasy at bay.

  She began loading the dishwasher; the telephone rang.

  “Was that Nick Prescott’s truck I saw driving away?”

  “Hi, Mom. Yes, it was.”

  “I’m not prying, but is everything okay?”

  “Yes. My bike had a flat tire and he gave me a ride home.”

  “That was nice of him. The other reason I called was that I want to come over tomorrow morning and go through the attic. I thought I’d donate some things to the flea market.”

  “If you come early, I’ll help.”

  “Great. See you tomorrow.”

  Margaux hung up, thanking her stars Jude hadn’t come in person to see the state of her leg, and making a mental note to wear long pants tomorrow.

  It was nearly midnight when the last boat was spotted on the rocks of Crescent Point and towed back to the marina.

  The night guard managed to catch one of the perpetrators, a boy from a neighboring town and home from prep school. He refused to name his associates, which Nick was sure would make him popular with his friends. Nick had Finley haul him off to the jail to wait for his parents.

  Linda’s kitchen light was still on when he finally crossed the street from the marina, exhausted, wet, and shivering. It had been a long day and longer night. And he hadn’t even been on duty.

  Dinner with Margaux had faded to a dim memory. He knew they’d eaten in the kitchen, talked about some things, but for the life of his tired mind, he couldn’t remember what they’d said.

  Instead of going straight up the stairs to his apartment, he went around back and knocked on the kitchen window.

  Linda opened the door right away.

  “Yo, Chief. You look like a drowned rat.” She tossed him a towel.

  “Thanks. You know you shouldn’t open your door to strangers. Especially late at night.”

  “Well, kiss my butt. I didn’t think we were strangers.”

  “You didn’t know it was me.”

  “Of course I did. Who else would be knocking on my door at midnight? Not my freaking fairy godmother, that’s for sure.”

  Nick started to tell her that safety was a serious issue, but he was just too tired.

  “Sit down. I’ll get you coffee. It’s fresh-brewed. I’ve been keeping the home fires burning. And I knew it was you ’cause I saw your freshly mowed hair as you walked past my window. Though I gotta say, the wet look becomes you.”

  Nick scrubbed his hair and face and sat down at the table while Linda poured him a cup of coffee, something he did not need.

  He drank it anyway.

  “Just so you know. I rented the hippie’s space.”

  “Oh God, what is it this time?”

  “You’ll like this one. I’m sure.”

  “A fortune teller?”

  “You want to know what your future’s gonna be? It isn’t a fortune teller.”

  “Then who is it? Did you get references? Have you checked out their financial situation? You don’t want to get stiffed again.”

  “Hey, I only lost a month’s rent with the hippies and I gained a pound of yak butter they left in the fridge.”

  Nick chuckled and drained his cup. “Thanks for the coffee and the perspective on life.” He stood and headed for the door.

  “Sweet dreams,” she called after him.

  “You, too.” As the door closed behind him, she started singing. She was in full voice when he trudged up the steps to his apartment.

  “Everybody’s looking for someone.”

  Ten

  The ceiling was creaking. Margaux opened one eye against the morning sun. She closed her eye again, turned over, and pulled the sheet over her head. Moments later a loud thunk above her made her sit up. She looked at the clock. Eight-thirty.

  Jude was in the attic, and Margaux had overslept, probably because she’d stayed awake for hours making plans for her new studio. Which was better than walking around shell-shocked, which she’d been doing for months now.

  She pulled jeans over her healing calf, put on a sweatshirt, and went into the hallway.

  The attic stairs were pulled down. Margaux made a quick trip to the bathroom, then climbed the rickety wooden steps, holding on with both hands until she could peer into the attic.

  Dim light pushed its way past a dirt-streaked gable window. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, turning stacks of old magazines, end tables, and other objects into phantasmal shapes.

  Jude stood in the middle of the room bent over a torn cardboard box. A jumble of old books spread out around her feet.

  “Morning,” Margaux said.

  Jude yelped and turned around. �
�Good morning. Did I wake you?” she asked. “I was trying to be quiet, but the box broke.” She held up a torn piece of cardboard.

  Margaux climbed the last few rungs and stepped into the attic. She brushed her dusty hands on her jeans and sneezed. “I haven’t been up here in ages.”

  “Neither have I. Where did we get all this old junk?”

  “When did a Sullivan throw anything away?”

  “True. Well, today we turn over a new leaf. Quinn Palmer will be here with his truck at eleven. I just hope we’re finished by then.”

  “Where should I start?”

  “You don’t have to help.” Jude’s voice sounded hollow in the musty, dead air.

  “I don’t mind. And don’t sell that dressmaker’s dummy. I may need it. Have you seen my easel or the drafting table?”

  “The drafting table is probably over by that gable.”

  Margaux squeezed through the forest of forgotten objects toward the window.

  “Found it, but it’s buried under a bunch of stuff that looks like it should go to the flea market.” A white Victorian étagère with one curve of molding broken off, a steamer trunk with a missing strap, a stack of Life magazines from 1972, and two mismatched mahogany end tables nested together.

  She hauled them out and piled them near the opening to the stairs.

  It took both of them to pull an old trestle sewing machine across the wooden floor.

  “Are you sure you want this to go?” asked Margaux. “Wasn’t it Grammy’s?”

  Jude considered the machine. Margaux could see that she was torn between keeping the past and letting go. She felt a little like that herself.

  “Or at least have an antiques dealer look at it?”

  Jude let out her breath. “No. It might fetch a good price from a collector at the flea market. And it will go to a good cause.”

  “What is it this year?” Each year the town put on a flea market and carnival to raise money for a special project. One year it had paid for refurbishing the historic village schoolhouse. One year they had sponsored three children to the Special Olympics.

  “We’re donating the proceeds to help clean up the old boardwalk. It’s really gone to seed. The arcade went out of business last summer. The old dance hall has been boarded over since that big nor’easter years ago. Even Seamus McGuire had to stop running the carousel after his heart attack.”