“That’s too bad.”
“It’s a darn shame, letting a big chunk of history just fall away. But fortunately, a developer expressed interest in buying it to build an apartment complex or some such. Suddenly, after years of ignoring what they had, the townspeople were up in arms. Now there’s a move to Save the Boardwalk.”
“Sounds like it’ll cost a fortune.”
“It would if we wanted to gentrify it, put in chichi restaurants, and draw hordes of tourists. Good for the local economy maybe, but bad for our quality of life. As it is, we just want to make it a fun, viable place for families to enjoy. Like it used to be, only better. Okay enough chitchat. The sewing machine goes, unless you want it.”
“No thanks. Too slow for my needs, and since I don’t have anywhere to keep it—” She broke off.
“Now don’t you worry. This is your house for all intents and purposes. I always meant for you and Louis to have it. Now I thank my lucky stars that I didn’t sign it over to you.”
“God, I might have lost this, too.” Margaux’s knees went weak.
“Well, you didn’t, and there is no way that so-and-so can get his hands on it even if he tried. So don’t give it another thought. Let’s see if we can pull that little slipper chair out to where Quinn can get it.”
Margaux squeezed in behind the chair. She shoved it but it didn’t budge.
“It’s caught on something. Hang on.” Margaux wiggled the chair but it stayed put. “If you can move that big suitcase, I think I can slide it out.”
Jude lifted the suitcase out of the way. Something rolled across the floor. Jude dropped the suitcase. Margaux’s breath caught when she recognized the candy-apple red motorcycle helmet resting at her mother’s feet. Danny’s motorcycle helmet.
Neither of them moved, then slowly, Jude bent down, picked it up, and cradled it to her breast.
“Mom.”
Jude shook her head.
Margaux came out to where Jude stood motionless, just holding that helmet, and Margaux thought her heart would break.
They stood close but not touching.
Finally Jude said, “Not this.” And carefully placed the helmet back on the chair.
“Why don’t we go make some coffee and let Quinn help us with the rest?”
Jude shook herself like someone coming out of the water, or out of a dream. “I’m sorry, honey. You haven’t had a cup yet. That’s a good idea. Let’s go down.”
“You go ahead,” Margaux said. “I see my old easel in the corner. I’ll just get it and come right down.”
Jude stepped down onto the ladder. When her head disappeared, Margaux picked up the helmet and carefully placed it out of sight. Then she grabbed her easel and followed her mother downstairs.
Quinn and his friend showed up in a rusty black pickup while Jude and Margaux were in the kitchen having their coffee.
“Yo, Mrs. Sullivan. Hey there, Margaux,” he said.
“Hi, Quinn,” Margaux said, trying not to look shocked at the snake tattoo that curled out of his rolled-up sleeve. “I hardly recognized you. You’re so, um, tall.”
“Six-one. This is Darren.” Quinn gestured to the second boy, who slouched behind him.
“Hi, Darren.”
Darren, shorter and stockier, grunted. Margaux interpreted it as hello.
“So where’s the stuff?”
Nick watched Connor on the other side of the glass window at Monroe Elementary School. He was sitting at a child-size table across from the child psychologist. Dr. McKinnon was a tall man, barrel-chested, and Nick wondered how the small wooden legs of the chair held beneath his weight. His knees were tucked up to either side, drawing his khaki trouser cuffs up and revealing the argyle pattern of his socks.
He seemed to be chatting amiably with Connor, who was building some kind of arch with blocks. It was strange, Nick thought, how Connor could be so jumpy at times, and yet docile at others. He didn’t cling when Mrs. Ames, the school psychologist, introduced him to McKinnon. He went happily enough when the doctor took him down the hall to the “puzzle” room to play.
It was Nick who wanted to draw him close, cling to him, beg them not to take him, to hurt him, to make him feel any more alien than he already felt.
Now, Nick sat in the padded chair, hands gripping the wooden arms. Wondering what they were looking for. Hoping that Connor didn’t make a mistake, even though Nick, a college-educated man, couldn’t figure out what they were doing.
His mother sat in the chair next to him, her hands folded demurely in her lap. She could have been at church or bingo night for all the emotion she showed. Nick felt his knee begin to jiggle and consciously stopped it. He didn’t want to appear nervous, but he was scared as hell that they would find something wrong.
He didn’t know how parents dealt with that kind of tragedy. He should probably talk to Deke and Peg O’Halloran. Their daughter, Ceci, had brain damage from lack of oxygen at birth. She was a sweet kid, but at ten she’d already outgrown her IQ.
At least Deke and Peg had each other. And faith. Nick had himself and he didn’t much believe in God these days. It wasn’t that he’d love Connor less if there was something not quite right, he just didn’t know how he’d be able to juggle all the things necessary to give him a decent quality of life.
Dr. McKinnon laughed. Connor was smiling, but Nick knew he wouldn’t be making any noise. Just those puffs of breath that posed as a laugh. It was like the cartoons Connor watched, the volume down so low that only the picture pulsed in the room.
Finally, the doctor stood. He shook Connor’s hand and the two of them went out the door to the hall. Best of buds.
Nick braced himself for the doctor’s opinion.
The door opened and the doctor came in. “I dropped Connor off in the playroom. There are other children there and Mrs. Delacorte and her aide are with them.”
Nick was halfway out of his chair, but his mother put her hand on his and he sat back down.
Mrs. Ames ushered them to the other side of the room where several chairs were placed in a semicircle.
She sat down beside Nick’s mother. Dr. McKinnon pulled a chair out so that he was facing them and sat down across from Nick.
“Connor is a very bright little boy.”
Nick let out the breath he’d probably been holding since they arrived, but he didn’t relax. He sensed the “but” that was to follow.
When the doctor didn’t continue, Nick blurted out, “So does this mean he can go to public school?”
Hell, he would home-school the kid if he had to. Except that he already had a full-time job even if it was only temporary until the next election. Plus he had a part-time job with Jake. When would he have time to teach Connor?
“I’m concerned about his social skills.”
“Jesus, the kid just lost both parents. He’s living with a grandmother he’d never seen until a few months ago, in a town he’d never heard of.” Nick stopped, took a breath, aware that he’d just lost his cool.
“I understand your frustration, Nick. But these things take time. And most children Connor’s age have already spent several years in preschool and kindergarten and other social environments.”
Nick felt his options sinking away. He wanted what was best for his nephew, but he just couldn’t believe that sending him to a special needs school was going to help him adapt to a normal life. “So what are you suggesting? There’s nothing wrong with his brain. Hell, the kid reads the newspaper.”
“Yes, but mental readiness is not the only factor in sending a child to school.”
And Connor started at loud noises, spoke only in whispers. Now he’d begun running away, looking for something or someone.
Nick rubbed a hand across his face. He was losing this battle. His mother was ready to do anything the doctor said. She was making rumblings about
returning to work as a seamstress when Connor began school in September. So far he’d been able to talk her out of it, but if they had to pay for private school, he would need the extra income.
His mother had worked all her life, and Nick would be damned if he’d let her go back just when she should be enjoying retirement. He hated thinking about her having to work all day, then come home and have to take care of Connor. Connor got a government check. They’d just have to make things work.
“Your mother told me that he was taken out of pre-K.”
Nick’s mind—his whole body—was coiled tight. “The teacher said he didn’t participate and that she didn’t have the staff to accommodate a boy . . . that shy.” Those weren’t exactly her words. It was something more to the effect that Connor was antisocial and unapproachable.
But he wasn’t antisocial, he just didn’t know how to be social. And he hadn’t always been that way. What the hell had his mother been doing with him before she called to tell Nick she’d left him with a neighbor and gave him a Fort Bragg address where he could pick him up.
He’d gone personally to talk with the neighbors and anyone who knew the family, trying to get any information he could. All he learned was that Connor had gone from a bright, quiet, but friendly kid to something near comatose. They didn’t think he’d been abused. Later examinations had confirmed this. But something had happened, not just the death of his father. And it happened before his mother took off with “some man,” as her next-door neighbor described it.
He’d signed the necessary papers, packed up Connor’s clothes, and brought him to Crescent Cove. He thought things would get better, but they were hanging on a thread.
God, he hated that bitch and hoped she had a miserable life wherever she was.
“I asked Connor how he liked school.”
Nick waited for the big blow.
Dr. McKinnon smiled slightly. “He said it was fine.”
The same thing he’d told Nick after he was sent home. Nick looked at the school psychologist, who was looking, as always, calm and nonjudgmental. She gave him a reassuring smile.
Nick wanted to shake them both until they came up with what was wrong with the kid. “There are still three months before school.”
McKinnon nodded. “We can wait and see. He doesn’t display any of the usual indicators of post-traumatic stress or Asperger’s.”
Nick flinched at the doctor’s words. He didn’t want to hear about PTSD. He’d heard enough. Read enough. Learned enough after Ben’s death. He could have told them Connor didn’t have that or Asperger’s. He’d researched every possible cause for his behavior. There were some scary possibilities, but they weren’t what Connor had.
“That’s good. Right?” God, he hated the sound of his own voice. The need for reassurance.
“It isn’t bad.”
He hated how McKinnon refused to say anything outright. Nick wanted facts. He knew invasion and armistice dates. The reasons for the War of the Roses. The number of members of Parliament. Could quote the Declaration of Independence. He wanted to know what was wrong with Connor.
“One option is to send him for more testing. I have a colleague at Yale who is excellent with nonadaptive behavior.”
He’d been tested and tested, they hadn’t found anything physically or mentally wrong with him. That left emotional, and all the testing in the world couldn’t fix that.
“No more tests. You said yourself he’s bright, he doesn’t have classic symptoms, he just doesn’t talk loud. And he won’t get any better if we keep dragging him around like a lab rat.” Nick stopped, appalled at his outburst.
The doctor looked as unruffled as if Nick had agreed with him. “I was about to say pretty much the same thing. Try to involve him with other kids. We’ll give it some time. See if they can draw him out. And see if maybe he’ll open up about why he doesn’t talk out loud.”
Nick nodded. In spite of the air-conditioning, he felt sweat trickle down his temple. He wiped it away. No sense in trying to hide it from the doctor. McKinnon was pretty astute. He had to hand him that.
“I’m also concerned with how this is affecting you.”
Nick just looked at him.
“Nick?”
What was he supposed to say? Thank you for your concern? Shut the hell up, my mother is sitting right here? Jesus. He had to get out of there.
“It’s natural to feel a sense of frustration, helplessness, even resentment in these situations. It can take its toll on the family.”
“I’m just trying to get us through this. Give Connor a place where he feels safe. Loved.” He couldn’t believe he was saying this stuff to a shrink.
“Mrs. Ames says you had to give up your teaching. Your life in Colorado.”
“It was my choice.”
“And?”
“That’s all. It was my choice and I made it. End of story.” And end of session. He stood up. “Thank you for your time, Dr. McKinnon.” He stuck out his hand. Businesslike, firm.
The doctor smiled slightly before he took it. “Thank you for coming. I’ve made another appointment with Connor for next Thursday. I’d like you to be here if that’s possible.” Nick started to explain that the summer season was just starting, that he was understaffed and overworked, but he was tired of fighting. “Sure. I’ll be here.”
He moved to the door, fumbled with the knob with a sweaty hand, and yanked the door open.
A young woman in jeans and a bright blue T-shirt was walking down the hall holding Connor by the hand. She looked about twelve, but he knew she was a teaching assistant. Nick didn’t know if Mrs. Ames had called down to tell them they were finished or if Connor had been too much for the girl to deal with.
He strode down the hall and took Connor by the hand.
“Bye, Connor,” the girl said with a smile and a wave.
“Bye,” Connor whispered before Nick whisked him down the hall toward the parking lot.
They’d brought his mother’s old Buick and Nick lifted Connor into the backseat and strapped him in, then he helped his mother to climb in the front seat. He really needed to get her a more manageable car.
He thought about Jude’s little Citroën, but couldn’t see his mother driving anything so cute. Or wearing a perky hairdo. Or any of the things Jude represented. There was a world of difference between the two women. He wished it could have been different.
He dropped them off and picked up the police cruiser, turning down lunch because he had to get back to work. He wouldn’t be getting any more time off until the fall. The prank at the marina last night had just been the overture.
He drove back to his apartment to change into his uniform. As he turned the corner onto Marina Way, he saw Quinn Palmer’s truck parked at the curb outside. He and Darren Whitcomb were carrying boxes into the house. The new tenant must be moving in.
He was mildly curious, but didn’t have time to check it out. He ran up the stairs to his apartment, and ten minutes later he came out dressed for work and carrying a peanut butter sandwich for his lunch.
He pulled out of his parking space just as a bright blue coupe drove by.
Eleven
This is perfect,” Margaux told Linda as they stood in the doorway of Margaux’s new studio. Her drafting table was set up in the bay window. Her paints and pastels were lined up on a bookshelf she’d brought from the beach house. Her easel was placed in a corner.
The door opened and the “Toreador Song” filled the air.
“Go forth and create,” Linda said. “Us mere mortals have to paint some hair. Coming, Mrs. Fortuna.”
Margaux stood in the middle of the room. Light streamed in through the windows. The walls were white and there was crown molding along the ceiling. It was a good space.
Small compared to her loft space in New York. But then, she was just starting out . . . agai
n. Somehow that fact didn’t bother her as much as it should.
What had she said in the diary? She had a dream. To design clothes that would make people feel good. Now she realized she hadn’t even been thinking about the people who would wear her creations. Just about which models to use in order to wow the industry.
Her work had become about the design, not about the actual clothes. It was gratifying in a remote way—to be on top, to be the one others copied. It was exciting, exhilarating, and yet somehow empty.
But where did you go after New York and Paris? Crescent Cove? Brianna was probably the only woman in the area who could pull off an M Atelier design. To do what? Go out and feed her chickens? Her goat?
And where did she start? Clothes to make people feel good about themselves.
She spent the next few hours sketching and tossing. None of her usual designs appealed to her. Yet nothing appeared to replace them. She knew she was in trouble when she found herself doodling the masts that rose over the marina wall.
She tore off the page and aimed it at the corner of the room. She was collecting quite a pile of rejects, though a few had survived and were clothespinned to a fishing line she’d strung along the west wall.
She leaned back in her chair and stared out the window at the street, the marina, the salt marshes, the point, the Sound.
She placed another sheet of paper on the drafting table, let her hand move, trying to let it roam free without her mind pushing it into what she knew. The outline of a dress emerged, not sharp and angular, but soft and gauzelike. She reached for her pastels, let her hand guide her head for once.
Blues on blue with bits of white, whimsical. She had to force herself not to interfere, but let it grow. She scalloped the hem and wrapped a flowing scarf around the model’s neck. Then she leaned back and took a look.
She laughed. It looked like the old Margaux. The young Margaux actually. And she liked it.
She pinned it to the fishing line and stepped back to study it. She liked it. But would it sell?
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