Beach Colors

by Shelley Noble

  Jude was eyeing one of the new hostess gowns that had just come down from the sewing room, but she said, “I don’t know if I’m speaking out of turn.”

  Margaux laughed. “It never bothered you before. Is it something bad?”

  “That depends. Adelaide said you and Nick weren’t seeing each other.”

  “He won’t see me. He doesn’t want to have anything to do with me and I can’t blame him.” Her mouth twisted. “I have everything I wanted now, but I lost the one thing that I need.”

  “It isn’t too late.”

  “Yeah. It is. He won’t take a chance again. I can’t blame him. And I don’t even know where he is. He isn’t staying at his apartment.”

  “He’s staying at Jake McGuire’s until he can find a new place.”

  “Oh great. I’ve hurt him and driven him from his home. What kind of person am I?”

  “You’re a lovely person. And so is Nick. But you’re both wary and stubborn. Somebody has to make the first move.”

  “I guess that someone would be me.”

  Jude nodded. “Come on, Mags. Nick needs you. Connor needs you. You just have to convince him you’re here for good. You are here for good?”

  Margaux nodded.

  “Be absolutely sure before you do anything.”

  “I’m sure. Even if Nick never speaks to me again, I’m home for good.”

  “Then get going. Roger and I will mind the store.”

  “Go where?”

  “To Adelaide’s. She’s home. I just saw her car in the driveway. Go on.” She gave Margaux a quick hug and shooed her toward the door.

  Margaux prayed that Adelaide would see her. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the Buick parked in the driveway, and another sigh of relief that there wasn’t a white truck parked there.

  She got out of the car, smoothed her hair, and walked up the driveway to the kitchen door.

  She knocked, called, “Adelaide, could I see you for a minute? Please?”

  It seemed forever before the door opened and Adelaide looked out at her.

  “Can I come in?”

  Looking resigned, Adelaide opened the door and let Margaux in.

  “Say what you have to say. If you’ve come to fire me, think we can’t work together because of what’s happened between you and Nicky, I understand.”

  “No, no,” blurted Margaux, taken off guard. “I need you. I couldn’t run Margaux without you. I was afraid maybe you had quit, because of how stupid I’ve been.”

  Adelaide turned away and Margaux was afraid she was about to get kicked out, but Adelaide merely poured a cup of coffee from the carafe, put it on the table and motioned her to sit. Margaux saw the other cup already sitting on the table.

  “Where’s Connor? Is he okay?”

  “He’s over at the Eldon School, and no, he’s not okay.”

  “The Eldon School. Isn’t that—”

  “Hopefully it’s just temporary. Now that we’ve learned why he was so quiet, the therapist is hopeful he’ll be ready for school, maybe not in September but soon. We owe you that.”

  “You have every reason to hate me. I know I hurt Nick and I hurt Connor. I didn’t want to, but sometimes I’m a slow learner and what I thought I wanted wasn’t what I wanted at all. But I had to find that out in my own way. Being a famous designer has always been my dream.” But that wasn’t true. To design clothes that made the people who wore them feel good about themselves, that’s what her diary entry had said. There was no mention of “famous.”

  Adelaide put down her cup. “Nicky had dreams, too. But when Cyril died he put them on hold to take care of Ben and me. Nick’s always taken care of his family. Never neglected his duty. Never put himself first. Those years he was at home, he closed off a little piece of himself.”

  “The part that dreamed.”

  “And then Ben died and Connor came to us. And again Nick gave up everything for his family. It’s a rare thing for a man to do. A thing to be proud of.” Adelaide sighed, a weight seemed to settle across her shoulders. “For a while this summer, I thought he might get it back, that little piece, but . . .” She turned away, but not before Margaux saw the glimmer of sudden tears.

  “It’s my fault.”

  “Enough with fault,” Adelaide said vehemently. “Life is what it is. We do the best we can. The two of you could do worse than each other. You both started out with dreams. There’s no reason you can’t fulfill them. You might accomplish it alone. But it’s a much better thing to share it with someone you love.”

  Margaux hung her head, fighting her own tears. “It’s too late for us. He would never let us try now. Too many years, too much baggage.”

  “Fiddlesticks. Baggage. I don’t know what all this talk about baggage is. Just excuses for lack of courage. You and Nick could be happy if you would only try.”

  “He doesn’t want to try. He hates me.”

  Adelaide shook her head. “He has loved you since he was a boy.”

  “What—what do you mean? I didn’t even know him then.”

  “No, but he knew you. At least I always assumed it was you. And then when I saw you together this summer, I knew.”

  “But I don’t remember.”

  “I know. Even then, Nick didn’t talk much about his feelings, kept it all inside, like his father. But he let things slip without knowing it, in the way boys will do. Forever rushing through his chores to go to the library. He loved his history books, but I always suspected that it was because of a red-headed pixie who sat at his library table who he was forever talking about.”

  “Nick was the boy in the library? He couldn’t be.”

  The boy at the library. Sitting there day after day, never making a sound.

  “He never even talked to me.”

  “I expect he didn’t want anything to change. It was a hard time for our family and especially for Nick. He didn’t have much to look forward to. His books and you sitting at that table every summer were special to him.”

  “Why didn’t he tell me?”

  Adelaide shrugged. “You know Nicky. He keeps things to himself. I don’t mean cold, but reserved. Not like Ben, who always wore his feelings for the world to see. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel, deeply.”

  “What should I do?”

  Adelaide gave her a long searching look. “That’s up to you, but I have to pick up Connor from school now.” She stood up, put her cup in the sink, and picked up her purse. “You can ride along if you want.”

  The Eldon School was out on the highway about twenty minutes away on a large wooded lot. School was just letting out when they pulled into the long drive to the one-storied building. Cars lined the drive; teachers stood with small groups of children, releasing them to their parents. It was overwhelming to see children with so many different challenges, and Margaux vowed to do whatever it took to make Connor happy.

  Adelaide parked the Buick and they walked toward the entrance. A young woman was herding a line of four students out the front door. Connor was among them, his head bowed, his feet scuffing the sidewalk. He looked up, searching for his grandmother. Saw Margaux and stopped. The teacher urged him on but he didn’t budge.

  Margaux smiled. Waved.

  Connor stood perfectly still. His expression didn’t change. And she wondered if she had done irreparable harm.

  “Connor.” She held out her hands.

  He began to walk slowly toward her, stopped, then he began to run. He flew into her arms. “I knew you would come back. I went to the Grotto and wished it.”

  “And I’m here.” She lifted him up and hugged him.

  They drove home, Connor sitting in the front seat, holding on to Margaux as if he were afraid she would leave again. “I’m losing another tooth.” He wiggled it to show her.

  “I see.”


  “And school is fun.”

  He chatted happily, quietly at first, getting louder and more animated as they drove. Margaux didn’t notice that Adelaide had turned into the police station until she pulled to a stop behind Nick’s cruiser.

  “You go on inside and talk to Nick.”

  Connor clung to her.

  “Connor, let go.” Adelaide pulled his hand from Margaux’s sleeve. “Let Margaux go now. She needs to talk to Uncle Nick.”

  “You’re coming back?”

  “Yes, I promise.” She licked three fingers and held them in the air. “That’s a special Grotto promise.”

  Adelaide looked over his head to Margaux. “Don’t take no for an answer. We’ll be waiting at home, won’t we, Connor?”

  Connor nodded. “Don’t take too long.”

  “I won’t.” Margaux waited until they drove away, then she walked into the police station.

  “Not here,” Finley Green said. “Left about an hour ago.”

  “But his cruiser is still here.”

  “Huh. Maybe he went to Dottie’s for coffee.”

  Dee Janowitz stood up from the switchboard. “Hi, Margaux. Heard you decided to give us another chance. Nick had that big old history book with him. My guess is he’s over at the library.”

  “Thanks, Dee.”

  She started toward the library. If Nick wasn’t there, she might not have the courage to do this again. If he was there, she hoped he would at least hear her out.

  She hesitated outside the library door to make one final, silent plea. Don’t walk away, give me another chance.

  She pushed open the door and went inside. The library was a small building, one main room and a side room that had been converted to a computer room. There were two tables on the far side of the room. The one where she always sat as a young girl was occupied by a man.

  A man whose mere presence made her overflow with love. His head was bent over his book; his hair was longer than it had been when they first met, and she was hit with an image so strong that she staggered back.

  That same head bent over his book years before. As steady and predictable as the tide. She hadn’t understood what that kind of steadfastness meant. Had given it no thought. She was too involved in her plans for her future. But she understood now. And she remembered the sense of loss she’d felt the summer he hadn’t been there. Every day for the rest of that summer, she went to the library, looked at their table, hoping he would be there, but after several weeks, she had to admit he was gone for good.

  She stopped by the magazine rack, quietly lifted out the latest issue of Modern Bride, and walked slowly to the table, almost afraid to disrupt this fragile moment. She pulled out the chair across from him and sat down. She opened her magazine to a page filled with bridal excess and smiled at the girl she had been and prayed for the woman she’d become.

  Nick looked up.

  “Hi, I’m Margaux. What are you reading?”

  He hesitated, then slowly turned the book so that she could see, A History of the Ostrogoths in Italy. She took his hand. Kept it.

  “It sounds interesting. Will you tell me about it?”

  His eyes narrowed. He was going to look away, stand up, and leave, and she knew if he did, he would never come back.

  “I have a dream,” she said.

  He flinched and tried to pull his hand away. “Yeah. I heard.”

  She held it tighter. “I have a dream,” she continued, afraid to even look at him, “I have a dream to live at the shore, to design my own clothes, and sell them from a little boutique on Marina Street.”

  The tension was so compelling she thought it might suck her right across the table.

  “Are you sure it’s the right dream?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does this dream include anyone else?” he asked, his voice a gravelly whisper.

  “I want it to, I hope it does. But I can’t control that part of the dream.”

  “Who can?”

  “You.” She waited, hardly daring to breathe.

  “I’m not sure I believe in dreams.”

  “You have to. You believed in them once. Believe in them again.” Please say yes, please don’t turn away, you need me, Connor needs me, and I need both of you.

  “Connor believed. He went to your Grotto and made a wish. He believed it would come true.”

  “Let’s make it come true, Nick.”

  “First I want you to answer a question.”

  “Okay. If I can.”

  “Will you marry me?”

  “Yes.”

  “And promise to never leave us again?”

  “I promise. I’ve been really stupid. I was confused but I’m not now. This is what I want.”

  Nick closed his book and they both stood up, their hands linked across the table.

  “Let’s go home, Nick. Connor’s waiting for us.”

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a novel is a long, solitary journey. It is mostly a personal and private endeavor, but at some point you have to let go, and if you’re lucky the light at the end of the creative tunnel is peopled with those who will take the story on its next journey and make it into a book.

  Special thanks to:

  Pearl Wolf, devil’s advocate and cheerleader, for letting me brainstorm, act out, and question until it made sense.

  Irene Peterson, first reader, sounding board, and idea maven with an incredible eye and ear for what works.

  My agent, Kevan Lyon, for seeing the potential in this story, for her enthusiasm, and for her insistence on honing the manuscript until it became just what I meant it to be.

  My editor, Tessa Woodward, for treating the story gently and making it better.

  For the whole team at HarperCollins, for making me feel welcome, for designing this beautiful cover, and for the crash course on effective social networking.

  My writing friends at Liberty States Fiction Writers, always ready with a good laugh or a swift kick, and tons of good advice, thanks for your unwavering support.

  My nonwriting friends, who cheerfully let me drag them to look at the salt marshes at noon, then again at sunset; who aren’t embarrassed when I talk to strangers in department stores; and who don’t get annoyed when I stop conversations to jot down an idea. And, mostly, for just being you.

  And to my readers, who are the reason this book exists.

  About the Author

  SHELLEY NOBLE is a former professional dancer and choreographer. She most recently worked on the films Mona Lisa Smile and The Game Plan. Shelley is a member of Sisters in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, Romance Writers of America, and Liberty States Fiction Writers.

  She has two children and lives near the New Jersey shore. In her spare time she loves to discover new beaches and indulge her passion for lighthouses and boardwalks with vintage carousels.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  Credits

  Cover photograph © by Louisa Cook/ Trevillion Images

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  BEACH COLORS. Copyright © 2012 by Shelley Freydont. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express writt
en permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  FIRST EDITION

  ISBN 978-0-06-210308-6

  EPub Edition © June 2012 ISBN: 9780062103093

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