Beach Colors

by Shelley Noble

“Mind if I come in?” Nick stood in the doorway. He was wearing his uniform; Margaux hoped he wasn’t here to tell her he couldn’t come to the showing.

  “Of course not. I was just . . .” She ended with a gesture that took in her surroundings.

  “Thinking of all the disasters that might happen?” He came up to her and slipped his arms around her.

  She leaned into him. He was warm and strong and something twisted inside her.

  He kissed her neck.

  She shivered. “Your mother’s next door.”

  “Hmm.” He walked her over to the door and kicked it closed.

  An hour before the runway show they were still hanging orchids from the lampposts. Brianna had the models ready to go, and she was giving instructions to four young women on how to keep the models dressed and on schedule.

  “Who are they?”

  “One works at the Sun and Surf shop on the boardwalk, one is a student teacher, and the other two I met at the feed store.”

  Margaux looked toward heaven.

  “Not to worry. They’ve been drilled. Plus each model has her own seamstress—they never had it so good. And never will again. And if all else fails, we got the beautician with the mouth.” She grinned. “Everything will be fine. Now, go change into something stunning.”

  Margaux went, but before she could change, Linda pushed her into a chair in front of the portable makeup table.

  “I blow-dried it this morning. It’s already looks great.”

  “Well, it’s gonna look greater. I have my reputation to uphold.” She spritzed, twisted, pulled, and curled while Margaux squirmed and sneaked peeks at her watch.

  Linda handed her a mirror and twirled the chair around.

  “Wow,” Margaux said. Her hair had been pulled into a twist, tendrils curled loosely around her face and neck.

  “I call it”—Linda struck a pose—“Tequila Sunrise with a twist.”

  Margaux laughed. Linda snorted and conga-lined around the chair.

  “I call it fabulous. Thank you.”

  By the time Margaux put on makeup, changed into her dress and new heels, there was only a half hour before showtime, and she was a bundle of nerves.

  “Fabulous,” said Bri. “When the hell did you have time to do that?”

  Bri stirred the air with her finger and Margaux dutifully turned around, displaying the sheath that she’d hand-painted that week and Adelaide had “whipped” up. It was pretty nice if she did say so herself. Celery green shantung with four shades of darker green shooting upward from hem to bust and over one shoulder. It didn’t have a name yet. Somehow “Salt Marsh” didn’t have the right ring to it.

  “Adelaide made it. She’s amazing.”

  “It’s amazing. And that odd detail on the skirt. It works.”

  Grace arrived, a pair of four-inch heels dangling from one finger. “Linda,” she said by way of explanation.

  Jude and Roger arrived next, Jude beautiful in a silk sarong and Roger wearing a tuxedo and looking very dapper and very happy. Dottie and Tom Palmer came in right behind them, and even Quinn and Darren made a brief appearance.

  The patio began to fill with people as waiters moved through the crowd with trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne.

  The Thompsons brought several families from Little Crescent Beach. Sarah Thompson introduced Margaux to a young man with a camera. “Emily Whitelaw’s boy,” Sarah told her in an aside. “Just graduated from Rhode Island School of Design.”

  Margaux let him take her picture with the model wearing the Sunrise dress.

  She was standing in the hallway with Bri, counting the final minutes and wondering if Nick had been called out on an emergency, when he came in, wearing a tuxedo. He looked rugged and handsome—and lovable when he ran his finger inside his collar, setting his bow tie askew.

  “He cleans up very nicely,” said Bri, “but go fix his tie and tell him to stop squirming.”

  Wine and champagne flowed freely. By eight o’clock, there was barely space for all the guests, all dressed to the nines and having a good time.

  But the hit of the evening was Adelaide Prescott. The bun was gone and in its place was a helmet of wispy honey-colored hair. The dress she wore was not one of her usual shirtwaists, but a sweep of deep purple and magenta orchids on a black background.

  “Am I a genius, or what?” Linda whispered in Margaux’s ear.

  “A genius. She’s beautiful.”

  Connor was almost invisible behind her, but she pushed him forward and he came toward Margaux carrying a bouquet of flowers. He looked back at his grandmother, then shoved the flowers at Margaux.

  “Thank you, they’re beautiful.” Margaux knelt down and hugged him.

  She stood up. “Do you see something special on my dress?”

  He scrunched up his face in concentration. “It’s grass.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “See anything hiding in the grass?”

  He studied every inch of her dress, then his face lit up. “It’s my dinosaur. You put my dinosaur on your dress. Look, Nana. Margaux put my dinosaur on her dress.”

  “Dinosaur,” said Bri. “Genius.”

  Margaux followed them out to the patio. Dottie, Jude, and several other ladies crowded around Adelaide. Margaux searched for Nick and found him on the edges of the crowd, standing with Tom Palmer. His eyes were on his mother, a combination of surprise and wistfulness in his expression.

  He slowly made his way through the crowd and came to stand in front of her. He leaned over to kiss his mother’s cheek. Mrs. Prescott glowed.

  Margaux looked around the patio. Friends, neighbors, acquaintances, strangers, there wasn’t a person here who didn’t wish her well. Not like an opening in New York where half the attendees were praying that you’d flop. Gratitude swelled inside her.

  Bri came up beside her. “It’s eight.”

  Margaux took a deep breath. “Oh God.”

  “Too late to chicken out now.” Bri took a breath and made her way toward the stairs to the runway.

  Margaux watched her go, wondering if it was hard for Bri to be up there but not as a model, and hoping she hadn’t asked her friend to give too much.

  The patio lights dimmed, the runway lit up. Bri, looking majestic, took the stage.

  “Good evening and welcome . . .” Bri’s voice lifted above the crowd, clear and rich and deep.

  The crowd quieted as if mesmerized by her voice, their attention riveted on the stage as one by one the models took the runway, each one looking more stunning than the last. As soon as a model exited, she was redressed in a new outfit and sent out again. Bri and Margaux had spent a whole afternoon working out the order and they’d nailed it. Not one glitch.

  Still Margaux didn’t breathe easy until the final model had finished her walk and they all took the stage for a final group pose. Margaux was swallowed by a crowd of well-wishers while several photographers crowded around the runway to take pictures for their local papers and the video people wrapped and packed up their equipment.

  It was after eleven when they finally ushered everyone out.

  Several women promised to come to the store as soon as it opened, but Margaux knew better than to rely on promises made after multiple glasses of champagne. It would take a few weeks before she had a clear idea if this could really work. A few months for it to build any momentum. And two years to flourish or fail.

  But Margaux would worry about that later. Now she was content to bask in her success.

  Jude and Roger said good night and walked out arm in arm. Nick carried a sleeping Connor out to his mother’s car while Margaux insisted Mrs. Prescott go home for a much-needed rest. Margaux gave the models their checks and her thanks; they already had their luggage packed and a ride to the train station.

  “They really did beautifully,�
�� Margaux told Bri. “Thanks to you. Though they can’t wait to get back to Manhattan.”

  “That’s because they don’t realize that the next big fashion capital is Crescent Cove, Connecticut.”

  Margaux laughed. “And you were, and are, wonderful. I really appreciate it. I mean it.”

  Bri nodded. “What? Did you think I was going to get up there and forget my lines?”

  “No. I just thought it might be hard, you know, not being out there yourself.”

  “Honey, I’m thirty-six. I wouldn’t be out there anyway. Now, let’s get this stuff packed up and back to Margaux. There’s a martini there with my name on it.”

  Margaux. For the first time it really hit her. She’d embarked on a new life.

  Nick returned from the parking lot. His tie was already untied and hanging from his collar. His collar was open at the throat. Margaux shook her head affectionately. He was rough-and-tumble and would probably never own an Armani suit, but he looked perfect to her.

  “Congratulations,” he said, and gave her a quick kiss. “I’ll go help Harlan load the van.”

  An hour later they had unloaded everything into the back room at Margaux and hung the outfits to air. Margaux sank down on the stool behind an old wet bar Jake McGuire had transformed with pickled wood and oxidized hardware into a cashier counter.

  Grace appeared in the doorway. “Okay, everybody out. There’s sustenance in the kitchen.”

  Bri stretched. She’d changed into black stretch capris and an off-the-shoulder beige knit top.

  “It better include watermelon.” She pushed Margaux off the stool and toward the kitchen.

  There was watermelon, a blender full of it. And Grace was waiting with a glass filled to the rim. The kitchen counter was laden with tinfoil containers, a Crock-Pot, paper plates, napkins, toothpicks, and a dozen champagne flutes. Linda was just taking a tray out of the oven.

  “Don’t look at me. Dottie sent this over. She said no success was complete without her cocktail weenies.”

  Bri looked under the tinfoil-covered dishes. “And potato salad, baked ham, artichoke dip. Spanakopita? Yum.”

  Harlan and Nick came in. Harlan was still wearing his tuxedo, but Nick was back in jeans and a T-shirt, the rented tuxedo probably lying on his bedroom floor. Margaux remembered her first impression of him, harsh, stubborn, uptight. He was all those things, but more.

  “Let me do that.” Harlan took a champagne bottle from Grace, who was struggling with the foil cover. He unwrapped the cork and pulled it out in one efficient movement. The pop set off applause all around. They drank a toast to the show, to the boutique, to each other, they all filled their plates and stood around the kitchen eating and talking.

  “I used to have a dining room,” Linda said, “but this is much more intimate.” She fed Harlan a cocktail weiner. He chewed the weiner and licked her fingers, and the room seemed to grow quiet as everyone watched. Margaux felt a twitch in her gut and sneaked a glance at Nick, only to find him looking at her.

  Grace and Bri put away the food and got ready to go. Margaux walked them out. When she returned to the kitchen, Linda and Harlan were gone.

  “Some night,” Nick said. “You made it. I knew you would. Smart and beautiful and determined.”

  “Hmm.” Margaux stifled a yawn.

  “Tired?”

  “Yes, but I think it was the champagne that did me in.”

  “Need a designated driver?”

  “I sure do. I’m hoping it’s you.”

  Twenty-five

  Saturday morning, Margaux met Grace and Brianna for brunch at Dottie’s. Brianna was the last to arrive. She slid into the booth and slapped a newspaper down on the table. “Look at this.”

  Margaux and Grace leaned over the paper. It was the New Haven Register, and there in living color was a picture of Margaux standing next to the Sunrise dress. The headline of the article read, Art Meets Fashion at the Shore.

  “Omigod,” Grace said.

  “I don’t remember the Register being there,” Margaux said.

  “It must have been that photographer the Thompsons brought.”

  “Emily Whitelaw’s boy,” Margaux said. “I was just helping the kid out. No one said he was a staff photographer for the Register.”

  “And there’s more.” Bri opened the paper to a half-page spread of the photos from the show.

  “Wow.”

  “And look at the caption,” Grace said. “It announces the grand opening on Tuesday. You’re going to be mobbed.”

  “We can but hope,” Margaux said, having a hard time believing things were going this well. “I still have a lot of work to do.”

  “We,” Bri corrected. “We have a lot to do.”

  “Does that mean you’ll be my manager until I can find someone permanent?”

  “As long as I’m off in time to feed the animals.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And I’m in whenever I’m not in court.”

  “Selkies forever,” said Margaux. “You guys are the best.”

  “Looks to me like you’re on your way. Here’s to Tuesday.” Grace lifted her coffee cup.

  “To Tuesday.”

  Nick helped Jake McGuire maneuver the new Margaux sign into place.

  “Is it even?”

  “A little more on Jake’s side.”

  They shifted the sign. Nick went down to stand beside Margaux and looked up at the sign. It was a wrought-iron rectangle with filigree cutouts and Margaux scripted in sea green.

  “It’s beautiful.” Margaux’s eyes were shining and he wanted to take her in his arms and love the daylights out of her.

  “So tomorrow’s the big day,” said Jake, climbing down from the ladder.

  Margaux took a deep breath and let it out. “That’s what the paper says.”

  “Well, good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re going to be a huge success,” said Nick. He was so proud of her. She’d pulled herself from disaster and wouldn’t give up. “You’ve done an amazing job.”

  She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. He cut his eyes to Jake, who shrugged, grinned, and began to fold up the ladder.

  Margaux’s cell rang. “Sorry.” She walked away to take it.

  Nick watched her as she listened. She was frowning. He hoped it wasn’t bad news. She’d worked so hard, was just beginning to settle into the idea of staying in Crescent Cove.

  Jake carried the ladder back to his truck. Margaux hung up.

  “Everything okay?” Nick asked, searching her face.

  “Yeah. But it was weird. That was a fashion house in New York They saw the spread in the Register. They want me to come talk to them.”

  The world went out of focus for a second. “They want to buy some of your clothes?”

  Margaux shrugged. “I think they may want me.”

  Stayed out of focus. “What did you tell them?”

  “That I’d get back to them.”

  “You’re thinking about going back?” He was having a hard time wrapping his mind around this. He’d thought . . . but it didn’t matter what he thought.

  “I haven’t thought about it in weeks.”

  “But you’re thinking about it now.”

  “No. I don’t know. No. They’re a little house and couldn’t possibly accommodate the things I want to do. But it is flattering.” She reached up and put her arms around his neck.

  She was so warm, so right, so perfect for him, that he wanted to hold on and not take the chance of losing her. But he knew you couldn’t hold on to people against their will. He just hoped this call would be the last.

  He gently removed her arms. “I have to get to work.”

  “What time do you get off? Shall I make dinner? Meet you somewhere?”

 
“I’m not sure. I’ll call you later.”

  He leaned over and kissed her. Right there on Marina Street. In front of Jake. In full view of the two old fishermen lounging on the marina bench. He didn’t care. Already he felt as if he were being left behind.

  Margaux watched Nick get into the truck, waved when he drove away; she turned to find Jake McGuire watching her. There was something in his eyes that was suddenly darker. “Is something wrong, Jake?”

  “I sure as hell hope not.” He gave her a two-finger salute and got in his truck and drove away.

  The call from New York had certainly put a damper on everyone’s mood, including hers. Elsie Rule had a nice little distribution, a lot smaller than Margaux had generated in the last few years. It was a little insulting that they should even ask her. They were small potatoes. And she was—well, she was no potatoes at the moment, but she would be.

  She should have explained to Nick about the industry. How the game was played. She’d told them she’d be in touch not because she was seriously considering their offer, but because that was the way business was done. Keep them hanging, make them come back with a better offer, it was just part of the positioning game.

  Surely he realized she wouldn’t just walk away from all that she’d worked for, from him and Connor, from her friends.

  She’d explain it to him tonight, then show him how much she loved him. She stopped mid-stride. That pesky L word again. It was too early to talk about love, much too early. Especially after her disastrous marriage. But wasn’t that just what she was feeling? If she stayed here, Nick would become a part of her life. Was already a part of it.

  Margaux’s stomach dropped like a roller-coaster. It seemed like yesterday that her life had spiraled out of control and she’d come limping back with no home, no future, no prospects. Now, suddenly everything was happening too fast. The store, Nick and Connor, the call from New York. She didn’t want to work for Elsie Rule, but she couldn’t deny that she’d felt a thrill of excitement when she answered the phone. She’d felt the same thrill just a few nights ago, when the first model walked down the runway wearing her new design, but would that thrill last?

  She needed to slow down, take control, keep her mind on the now, not on the what ifs. She took a deep breath, climbed the steps, and went into Margaux.