Beach Colors Read online

  Jesus. It was going to be a disaster.

  Margaux was ready half an hour early. She considered having a pre-dinner glass of wine to calm her nerves, but in her state, she might get rip-roaring drunk by the end of the meal. She sat down on the couch to wait. Her new knit dress began to creep up her thighs.

  She should probably have stuck to something more subtle. A black pantsuit. But she was done with black; besides, what kind of date omen would that be? Strange how her attitude toward black had changed since she’d been in Crescent Cove. In the city, black was chic, de rigueur for evening. It had been the impetus for her success. Here it was depressing.

  She looked good in her green sheath. She’d found a pair of stilettos in her suitcase, but she wasn’t wearing hose. Not because she was thinking of getting out of them later, but because she hadn’t brought a pair to the beach.

  Besides, she wasn’t trying to seduce the man. That was a laugh. She hadn’t tried to seduce a man in years. Probably couldn’t even remember how. Not that she wanted to.

  Except was that true? Wasn’t that what she did every day with her designs? Promise beauty and desirability? Every time she met a new designer or retailer or potential client at a party, didn’t she go about seducing them into buying her clothes, giving her floor space, wearing her latest creation. Of course, that was what the business was about; glamour and façade and watching your back.

  Wowing Nick should be a piece of cake. And yet, she was as nervous as a girl going to the prom. It was ludicrous. It just showed her how far away from her true self she’d come. Because she was looking forward to spending the evening with him.

  She liked him and respected him for taking care of his family and for his work ethic. And if she were truthful, she was attracted to him physically. Bone-deep attraction. Every time he was close, she had to force herself not to find reasons to touch him.

  And that might be difficult tonight.

  It was just dinner, a table between them. But what about after dinner? Would he kiss her? Would he expect more? Or would they end the evening awkwardly shaking hands at the door.

  She jumped off the couch when she heard his truck pull onto the graveled parking area. Stood there until she heard his knock at the back door. She straightened her skirt, smoothed back her already smooth hair, and forced herself to walk calmly to answer it.

  He was wearing a light gray jacket and charcoal gray trousers. His hair had grown since she’d arrived a few weeks ago, and she could see just the beginning of curl against his forehead.

  Definitely symbolic of the man, she thought. Was he beginning to lighten up from his no-frills attitude? It was charming. Was it because of her?

  She’d like to think so. She smiled at him, invited him in, and thought, Girl, you are in deep trouble.

  The Cove Inn was a columned mansion built in the mid-nineteenth century. It was painted white with dark green shutters and sat behind a manicured lawn surrounded by a stack stone wall. The grounds were filled with trees lit with tiny white lights à la Tavern on the Green.

  Nick drove through the wrought-iron gate and around the circular drive to the entrance where a valet took the truck with a sheepish look at Nick.

  “I gave him a ticket once,” Nick explained as they walked into the restaurant.

  They were met by the maître d’. “Good evening, sir, madam.”

  Margaux did a double take. The maître d’ was a large man with a shaved head and a deep voice. He filled out his tuxedo beautifully.

  He led them to a table at the far end of the restaurant that overlooked the water.

  “Michael will be your waiter this evening,” he said. “Enjoy.” He nodded slightly, winked at Margaux, and walked away.

  Margaux stared after him, then looked across the table to Nick. “That was Harlan.”

  Nick grimaced. “Hence the secluded table.”

  “You gotta hand it to her. Linda knows how to get what she wants.” And Linda obviously wanted the two of them together.

  Michael came with the wine list. Nick consulted her about preference, then ordered a Napa Valley Cabernet that made Margaux blink. Either he knew his wines or someone had prepped him before he came. She appreciated his effort. It was a sweet thing to do.

  She looked at Nick, but when he looked back she turned her attention to the twinkling trees outside.

  Michael returned with the wine and poured. They touched glasses, “To your new endeavor,” Nick said. “Linda said you got the loan.”

  “Yes, the bank came through, thanks to Jude and Roger Kyle.” Margaux decided to get it out and over with at once. “I hope you don’t mind me hiring your mother. Her reputation as a seamstress and finisher preceded her. It’s hard to find that kind of talent anywhere, especially outside of New York. So I feel especially lucky that she agreed.”

  Nick half smiled. “I wasn’t real thrilled with the idea at first. But she really wants to do it.” He paused, looked out the window, then back at Margaux. “She actually seems younger and more animated since she decided to go back to work.”

  “But you still don’t like it.”

  “I guess I’ll have to get used to it.”

  The conversation stalled. Normally Margaux would fall back on some current event in the fashion world, but she didn’t know where to start with Nick. She went through society functions by rote, she realized. And now that she thought about it, she couldn’t remember a time when she’d really enjoyed one, just for itself, and not as a means to an end.

  “What?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You sighed. Is the wine no good?”

  “It’s excellent.”

  “Would you rather go someplace else?”

  “No, this is wonderful. I . . . I was trying to remember the last time I had been to dinner just to have a pleasant evening. And I am . . . Having a pleasant evening. More than pleasant.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  Margaux laughed. “You weren’t worried, were you?”

  “Me? No. You?”

  “No . . .”

  “I’m sensing a but here.” Nick put down his wineglass and leaned forward. “Is there a but?”

  “Not anymore. I was afraid that it might look weird. I mean, I’m still officially married, and you’re the police chief.”

  Nick gave her one of his rare but unique smiles. “Were you afraid for my reputation or yours?”

  Margaux laughed. “Both, I guess, but I’m over it.” She sat back while Michael placed arugula salads in front of them. “Have you always lived in Crescent Cove?”

  Nick frowned, hesitated. “Until I was twenty, then I joined the army.”

  Margaux wrestled with a smile, remembering her initial response to Nick and his sunglasses.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. It’s just that I can tell.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “How?”

  “Just can.”

  “You think I’m uptight and hard-nosed and don’t know how to have fun.”

  Margaux laughed and held up a hand. “Okay. I did when we first met. The operative word here is did.” She grew more serious. “Now I think you’re a man who takes care of his family. It’s a rare trait where I come from.”

  “I thought you were from Crescent Cove. You told me you were three-quarters townie.”

  “I am. I meant from where I’ve been lately.” She picked up her wineglass, mainly to have something to do. She suddenly felt like crying, not for what she’d lost but for the time she’d wasted. She took a breath and it passed.

  “Dottie says you just came back last year. Were you in the army all that time?”

  Nick shook his head, looked out the window into the night. “I lived in Denver. I was . . . a teacher.”

  “Really? What did you teach?”

  “History. At a college the
re.”

  “Ah, a history professor. You’re full of surprises, though I guess I should have guessed from your reading material.”

  Nick winced.

  “What? Is the Ostrogoths in Italy a big secret? Who were the Ostrogoths anyway?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Kind of. I could Google them, or you could just tell me about them.”

  “Okay, but tell me when you get bored.” And Nick gave her a concise history of the Ostrogoths until Michael took their salad plates away.

  “I bet you’re a good professor.”

  “Was, maybe. Does the bank loan mean you’re staying in Crescent Cove?”

  It was such a non sequitur that Margaux was speechless.

  “I was just wondering.” He paused, swallowed. “If I should make arrangements for Connor . . . if my mother is going to be working a lot.”

  “Adelaide and I already discussed this. The job is temporary, but I can’t say how temporary. It depends on a lot of things. I have to get back in the thick of things to stay viable.” She hesitated. “But there are a lot of factors, and strangely enough, I’m kind of settling in. I know I can’t stay, but the longer I do, I know that it will be harder to leave.”

  “So why can’t you stay? I mean, aren’t there designers who don’t live in Manhattan?”

  “Sure. They live in Milan. Paris. Tokyo. London.”

  “But not in Crescent Cove.”

  She shook her head. “It’s tempting, but I worked all my life to get where I am.”

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  Nick looked away. “I can imagine.”

  “Of course. You had to study to become a historian. And you have to be—” She broke off. He must have given up his teaching position to return to Crescent Cove and take care of his family.

  “Where the jobs are,” he finished.

  Michael returned with their entrées, which ended the subject. She bet anything Michael would be getting a big tip for his timely interruptions, if not for the impeccable service.

  After dinner, they walked out to the patio at the back of the mansion where tables were set up for alfresco dining. Nick seemed lost in his own thoughts, and she wondered if he was ready to end the evening. She wasn’t.

  He led her across the patio and beneath an arbor to a brick path that followed the shoreline. It was lit by lanterns that hung from wrought-iron posts.

  At first they walked side by side, not touching, but after a while Nick took her hand and linked it through his elbow. It was such a gentlemanly, old-fashioned gesture that Margaux’s heart melted toward this brusque stubborn man.

  They were so mismatched. And yet, it felt right. She let herself move closer to him. They walked in silence, looking out to the Sound, listening to the gentle lapping of the waves against the seawall.

  As they walked farther from the inn, the lanterns became more sparsely spaced until the path was lit only by the stars. They came to the end of the path where it widened into a patio with benches facing the sea. Nick led her over to one of them and they sat down. Close enough to feel his warmth, not close enough to feel intimate.

  He pointed to the sky. “Look.”

  She looked. Thousands, millions of stars hung fragilely in space, as if a breath could shake them loose and set them falling toward earth. And she thought how daily dramas were played out against a world that was near perfect, that adapted and changed, but never broke under the weight of its own importance. Accepted all without judgment. Her. The man sitting next to her. Even Louis.

  She shivered.

  “Cold?”

  “No, it’s just so beautiful.” And she could see the fabric in her mind’s eye. Silk velvet in a blue so deep as to be almost black. And the stars . . . not glitter, not diamantes, something she hadn’t found yet. But she would; she only had to look.

  They sat for a while longer, then Nick stood up. “We’d better get going.”

  Margaux tried to read his expression in the shadows, but it was impossible. Was he anxious to go home? Get rid of her?

  “I’ve had a really nice time,” she said.

  He looked startled. “I’m glad. So did I.”

  They started back toward the Inn. They’d just reached the lit portion of the path when Margaux stopped. Off to her right was a large terrace, part of the inn that had been hidden by trees until they turned to retrace their steps. It was lit only by the lights coming from the inn, but even from where she was standing, she could see it was large enough for a banquet-sized crowd. And she suddenly, vaguely remembered attending a wedding there years before.

  It was long enough to hold a decent-sized runway and wide enough to fit a hundred people or more. Large enough for an experienced videographer to get a good tape. And the French windows of the inn and the surrounding twinkling trees would be the perfect backdrop.

  Unfortunately it was probably reserved through the next decade. And the fees would be astronomical. But maybe not if she held it on an off night, or even an afternoon. It didn’t have to be an “event.” She just needed a few models and enough people to look good on film. The back of a few heads. Well-styled heads. And she bet between Linda, Jude, and her, they’d have no problem filling the house.

  She became aware of Nick watching her curiously. He might decide she was nuts, might never ask her out again, but she would always be grateful to him, because she had just found the perfect venue for catapulting her back to success.

  “Thank you,” she said, and threw her arms around his neck.

  Nineteen

  At first Nick was too shocked to move. He was pretty sure she wasn’t giving in to passion. It had to be some gut-level response to whatever she was thinking.

  But he wasn’t going to argue. He let her hug him. His arms went around her waist. He knew he shouldn’t do it.

  He didn’t care. He basked in the feel of her, memorized every curve, every scent. He drank her in and knew he’d gone off his rocker, because he couldn’t get enough of her. Knew he would never get enough of her. Wanted to ease her down on the bricks and make her his.

  She loosened her grip as if she just realized what she was doing. His arms fell away, and he prayed that she hadn’t felt his heart pounding or any other reaction he was having to her.

  He struggled for breath. Tried to think of something to gloss over the awkwardness while chastising himself for not kissing her when he had the chance.

  “Sorry,” Margaux said. “I got carried away. This is the perfect place for me to set up a showing of my new line.” She smiled, embarrassed. “As soon as your mother constructs them.” She sighed. “If I can rent the space and if I can talk Brianna into modeling for me.”

  The mood was broken, but he was glad that he’d been part of her excitement. He just wished it had been over him. But it didn’t matter what he wanted. You played the hand you were dealt and that was that.

  The valet brought the truck around and he helped her in. When he climbed into the driver’s side, she smiled at him and she looked so right sitting there beside him that it hurt. He tried to ignore the rush of desire that pulsed through him as he drove toward the entrance.

  “You probably think I’ve got a one-track mind,” she said, sounding apologetic.

  “I think it’s great. I can appreciate someone being wedded to their work.” God, why had he chosen that word?

  “So which work are you wedded to, Nick? Teaching history or being chief of police?”

  Sucker punch. He hit the break too hard and they both rocked against the seat.

  “Did I hit a nerve? Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. It just sort of popped out. Because I’m interested in you. I mean. I care about . . . Oh shit. You know what I mean.”

  “This is just an interim position. I needed the job for . . . well, you’ve seen what for. No big deal.”


  “Sounds like a pretty big deal to me.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” He hadn’t meant to sound so harsh. She was watching him with an expression he couldn’t read. Wariness. Anger. Pity. But hell, he didn’t want her to think he was some heroic person. Women did that kind of thing. Made huge leaps of faith. And he wasn’t like that. But he did pay his debts. He couldn’t bring his brother back, but he sure as hell would take care of his son.

  He felt her touch on his arm. She did that when she wanted to communicate. He’d miss that when she was gone.

  “I’ve seen how much you care about your family. Not every man would make his family first priority. I should know.”

  He cut his eyes toward her, but didn’t comment. He knew she was getting a divorce. But not why.

  He turned onto Salt Marsh Lane. They were almost at her house, and he knew he should let the subject drop. He didn’t want the evening to end on an angry note, with her thinking about her husband and him thinking about all the shit he’d done wrong in his life—a wedge hammered between them. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

  “I know you’re getting a divorce. Your husband must be an idiot.”

  “Oh, he’s much worse. And I was a fool. It’s hard to admit you’ve wasted a huge amount of your life on a lie.”

  He stopped the truck in the middle of the street and turned to her. “That’s bullshit. You didn’t waste it. You’re famous. I saw all those magazines.”

  “All I ever wanted to do was design dresses. But I took a wrong turn when Danny died. I was desperate to do something to take away Mom and Dad’s pain. I married Louis. I was going to fill their lives with grandchildren, give them so much that it would ease their loss. And look—no husband, no children—” She broke off, her face looking ghostly white in the dark.

  “I wanted kids, too. Now I have one.” His words sounded sharp almost bitter.

  “Connor is a sweetheart.”

  “Yeah.” He put the truck in gear and continued down the street. He’d confessed enough for one night.

  “But what about a wife?”

  The truck swerved, he steadied it. “Is this a proposal?”