Ask the girl out on a date,” Linda said the next morning as she handed Nick a cup of coffee.
“I can’t go on dates. I’m the chief of police.”
“Exactly my point.”
“What?”
“You’re not the pope. Chiefs of police can date. It’s expected.”
Nick shook his head, imagining the talk if he went out with Margaux. If she’d even go out with him, though there was definitely something between them.
“For a big tough guy you can be a real wuss. You want me to ask her for you?”
Coffee sloshed in Nick’s mug. He grabbed a napkin to soak up the spill. “Don’t even think about it. I mean it, Linda. Don’t mess in this.”
She was standing on the other side of the table, hands on her hips, giving him her cheeky grin.
“I mean it.”
The grin just broadened.
“I’ll never forgive you.”
“Never?”
“No. Never.” He stood up. “I’ve got to get to the station. Thanks for the coffee.” He left by the back door. As he walked down the drive to the street, she threw open the window and sang at the top of her lungs, “Can’t get no . . .”
Margaux parked across from Le Coif and checked to make sure the police chief was nowhere in sight before she got out of the car. Which was stupid, because she really wanted to see him again. And at the same time she didn’t—and shouldn’t.
She hurried across the street and went inside. Linda poked her head out. “Hell’s bells, it’s eight o’clock. You sleep in or something?”
“Or something. You’re open early.”
“Yeah. I had to mainline the chief with some joe this morning.”
“Your tenant almost shot me last night.”
“I heard. You sure have that man rattled.”
“He thinks I’m an idiot and he warned me to stay away from Connor.”
“He didn’t.”
“Well, he did, though to give the devil his due, he did apologize later and said it was because he doesn’t want Connor to get attached and then have me leave.”
“And are you leaving?”
Margaux frowned at her. “No. Not right away, but as soon as I get a line to show, I’ll have to.”
“Uh-huh. Is that my phone ringing?” Linda popped back into the salon.
Margaux unlocked the door to her studio and stepped inside. What had been an empty space days ago was now filled with bundles of fabric, both dyed and waiting to be dyed. Fabric hung from coat hangers, was draped across tables, was folded and stacked on the bookshelves. Her work had eaten up the second room and threatened to need more.
And she still didn’t have one design constructed. She could draft her own patterns, but she was not a seamstress. She needed a staff. And she had no way to pay them.
She sat down at her drafting table and called her lawyer while she looked out the window at the marina. There had been no progress in the money search, nothing about the whereabouts of her erstwhile husband, even though it seemed he was a person of interest in a hedge fund scheme.
“If they do find him, can you make him sign a divorce agreement? I don’t relish being married another year to the creep while I wait for the abandonment limitations to run out.”
“I’ll talk to some people; in the meantime, go out and have some fun. There is no way that jackass can touch anything you have, not if you paraded a hundred lovers before the court. He’s in deep, Margaux. I’ll make sure you get a divorce before he becomes a felon.”
“I can’t pay you right now.”
“But you will. I can wait.”
But how long? Margaux wondered as she hung up. Even if she gave up and got a normal job with a salary or hit the streets of New York and begged for any position in a studio, she would barely make enough to live on, much less pay her expensive lawyer.
As much as the idea of running her own business appealed to her, the only way she could get back on her feet was to come up with a production line. Either way, she had to start work. She called Jude.
“Of course I’ll help. I already offered. I’ll be your silent partner.”
“No, Mom, I need to be totally responsible for this, but I could use some advice. I’ll need someone to construct the clothes. I don’t even know if I can find someone locally who can do that kind of work.”
“Well, I do. Adelaide Prescott.”
“Nick’s mother?”
“She used to work in the garment district before she married Cyril and moved here. She’s an excellent seamstress.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“I know what you’re thinking, but she told me the other day she was going back to work when Connor was in school. Between you and me, they need the extra money and this would be perfect.”
“But what about Connor?”
“She can bring him with her. He won’t be in the way. He sat at a three-hour meeting the other night so quietly that I forgot he was there. Any more arguments?”
“No.”
“Then shall I call her?”
“Would you mind? It might be better coming from you. I’m not sure Nick would want his mother working for me. He seems kind of sensitive that way.”
“I’ll call and bring her by this afternoon if she’s amenable.”
“Maybe we should wait to make sure the loan goes through.”
“Nonsense. The loan will go through. Now don’t worry. I’ll call Adelaide, you make an appointment at the bank, and we’ll ask Roger to come and advise us.”
“We don’t need a man to do this for us,” Margaux said.
“No, we don’t. But it makes things easier. Trust me. Besides, he worked on the state planning board for years. He knows about costs and accounting and returns and that kind of stuff. I confess I don’t.”
“Neither do I,” Margaux admitted reluctantly. Until a few months ago, she’d had an accountant to do those things.
“He’s just going to advise. Not dictate, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“All right, ask him. And Mom. Thanks.”
She hung up, opened her notebook and studied her ever-lengthening list. She had temporary space. She had the fabric and the designs. She was about to hire a seamstress. She’d need additional staff, more equipment, which meant more space, and models. She’d present an invited runway showing, which meant she would need to find an appropriate venue, and a videographer to make a decent demo tape.
A giant money pit with no guarantees.
That afternoon, Jude brought Mrs. Prescott to Le Coif with Connor. Her hair was twisted neatly at the nape of her neck. She was wearing a summer suit, beautifully made, but a few years out of date. Chanel maybe, thought Margaux.
Connor stood quietly at her side, but he smiled at Margaux.
Mrs. Prescott held her purse aside while she bent over the worktable. “This shantung is exquisite.” She glanced at the design board. “For the pantsuit?”
“Yes,” said Margaux. “How did you guess?”
“It’s perfect for it.”
“You’re hired,” said Linda, coming into the room, frosting brush in her hand.
“Well, I . . .” Mrs. Prescott looked doubtfully at Margaux. There was a faint pink to her cheeks that hadn’t been there before.
“Don’t you have a head to dye?” Margaux asked.
Linda looked down at the brush in her hand. “Oh yeah, but don’t close the door. I want to hear everything.”
“Sorry about that,” Margaux said. “Linda isn’t the most patient soul in the world.”
Margaux took Mrs. Prescott around the room, showing her fabric and the designs and explained what she envisioned. Jude stood out of the way, but Connor wedged himself in between his grandmother and Margaux.
“Would you be interested? I’m not quite ready to set up. I have no machinery yet and . . . And it would only be for a few weeks until I can get enough designs to hold a show.”
“Wouldn’t you like to see samples of my work?”
“Like the suit you’re wearing?” Jude asked.
Adelaide blushed rosily. “I copied it years ago from a Chanel suit I saw in Vogue.”
“It’s beatifully made,” Margaux said.
“We’d be in your debt, Adelaide,” Jude said. “I can’t think of anyone we could trust more to manage the workshop. We really need your help, if you think you could find the time.”
“Well . . .” Mrs. Prescott hesitated, then looked at Margaux. “You’ll need space to begin with. I don’t have enough room at my house for cutting, sewing, and fitting. I do have an industrial Pfaff. It isn’t new. It’s in good working order, but we’ll need a serger. Silk thread. Are you going to use premade binding?” She wrinkled her nose. “I’d advise against it. Using the original material as binding is time-consuming and not cost-effective, but gives a much nicer look.”
“I agree,” Margaux said, imagining her expenditures soaring into the stratosphere. Cost-effective? She’d be lucky if she didn’t go bankrupt. Again.
“Would you like to think about it and let me know?” asked Mrs. Prescott.
“No-o-o,” came Linda’s voice from the salon. “You’re hired. Give me a minute and I’ll come over.”
They continued to talk about fabrics and construction until Linda popped her head in. “Last one’s cooking. I’ve got twenty-five minutes. Walk this way.”
She led them upstairs. “Wal-lah.”
“What do you mean, Voilà?” Margaux asked. “This is your apartment.”
“Yeah, but I still have two empty bedrooms. She opened a door on her right, reached in and turned on a switch. “Wow, look at that. Looks like a sewing room to me.”
It was empty except for a pile of cardboard boxes.
“I’ll just move those . . . somewhere and it’s yours.”
“Linda you can’t—”
“Of course I can.”
Mrs. Prescott stepped inside. “Good. There’s room for at least three sewing machines, a steamer. We could put a cutting table in that corner. Cramped but workable.”
The woman knew her stuff.
Linda went back to finish with her client, and Jude, Margaux, and Mrs. Prescott sat down to organize. Feeling sorry for Connor, who hadn’t spoken a word since his initial whispered “Hi,” Margaux found a scrap of rejected chiffon and tied it around his neck like a cape. She tied a narrower piece around his forehead.
“Now you’re a bona fide pirate,” she said.
Mrs. Prescott looked on, her expression so wistful that Margaux was afraid she’d done something wrong.
“If your grandmother says it’s okay.”
“You look mighty fierce,” Mrs. Prescott said, and Connor grinned and brandished an imaginary sword.
They were going full steam when a cell phone rang. Mrs. Prescott reached for her purse. “Sorry, Nicky insisted I get this.” She opened it. “Hello?”
“Because Connor and I aren’t at home,” she said to the phone. “We’re both at Margaux Sullivan’s design studio. It’s across the hall from Linda’s.” She smiled at Margaux and Jude and looked at the ceiling. “We’re talking about the possibility of me working for her.” She moved her ear away from the phone. “Yes. We’ll be here when you get here.”
She hung up. “Just like his father. Has to take care of everything and everybody all the time.”
Margaux didn’t need to ask who she was talking about. “Will he object to you working here?” The last thing Margaux wanted was to cause a rift in the Prescott family.
“He’ll come around. Now about that cambric. It will have to be hand-finished if you want it to look seamless.”
Nick walked in five minutes later. He looked hot, flustered, and spoiling for a fight.
Just what Margaux didn’t need.
“Hi, honey, come look at the fabric Margaux’s designed.”
“I’ve seen it. Could I talk to you for a minute?”
Mrs. Prescott’s lips twitched, much as her son’s did when he was trying not to smile. “Nicky, where are your manners. You didn’t say hello to Jude or Margaux.”
“Hello.” Nick looked from one woman to the other. “Where’s Connor?”
They all looked around. Margaux had forgotten all about him.
“Here I am, Uncle Nick.” Connor crawled out from under the table wearing the chiffon cape and bandanna Margaux had made him.
Nick blinked and Margaux realized that Connor had spoken in a normal voice. “Nana’s going to work for Margaux making clothes.”
Emotion flickered across Nick’s face, but Margaux couldn’t tell if it was surprise or anger.
They all stared at Connor, who suddenly looked frightened.
“Isn’t he a great pirate?” Margaux said, thinking, Please don’t scare him.
“The best,” Nick said, sounding bemused.
Connor didn’t move, he seemed to barely breathe.
“A great pirate,” Nick repeated, and knelt down to take a better look at the chiffon costume.
“Actually,” Jude said, “we’ve been begging your mother to run the construction department for us.”
“What?” Nick stood up.
“Margaux is designing a new line and she needs someone who can construct them for her.”
“What about Connor?”
“I’m going to help,” Connor said, back to his whisper voice.
“Do you have any objection?” Mrs. Prescott asked, the balance of power somehow shifting from her son to her.
Nick shook his head slightly as if it were all too much for him. “No. If that’s what you want.”
“It is. When would you like me to start?”
“I was going to start cutting patterns on Saturday. Is that too soon?”
“Not at all. Ten o’clock?”
“That would be great. Thank you so much, Mrs. Prescott. This really relieves my mind.”
“My pleasure and please call me Adelaide.”
They left soon after that. “Well,” Margaux said to Jude, “now all I need is a way to pay her.”
Nick walked into the studio around five that afternoon. Margaux braced herself for a tirade about hiring his mother and thinking she was better than they were. The man had issues, which was too bad because other than his streak of stubborn, my-way-or-the-highway attitude, he was just the kind of man she respected. And any woman would be glad to have at her side.
Or in any other position. Margaux blushed hot. She was not here to have those kinds of thoughts about the police chief. It was bad enough that her heart gave a little lurch every time she saw him. Not good at all.
“Hi,” she said. “If you’re upset about your mother coming to work—”
“I’m not. It’s her choice.”
Somehow that didn’t relieve Margaux’s wariness. “Then—”
“I’m here to . . . ask if you wanted to go to dinner. Sometime.”
Margaux’s mouth opened, but if she had meant to say something, it flew right out of her head.
“I’m off Friday night. If you’re not busy.”
“She’s not busy,” echoed from the beauty salon.
Nick shut the door.
“I’m not busy,” Margaux said. He was asking her out? On a date? She hadn’t been on a date for thirteen years. And from his hesitant invitation, he sounded like he hadn’t either.
“Do you have a place you’d like to go?”
Margaux shook her head. “I’m kind of out of the loop.”
“Okay I’ll—”
The door opened. Linda stuck her head in. “You’re killing me here. I got a date tonight and you’re making me late. Take her to the Cove Inn, they have great ambi-ants. Steak ain’t bad, either.” She grinned at them. “He’ll pick you up at seven-thirty. Wear something sexy. Whew, that’s settled. I gotta run.”
She shut the door, Margaux looked at the floor, feeling like a gawky teenager. She listened to Linda bound up the stairs; when she heard a door closing on the floor above her, she looked up at Nick.
There was a slash of color across his cheekbones, accentuating their contour and making him look sexy and adorable at the same time.
Wrong, she admonished herself. Adorable isn’t a word in your vocabulary. And it was something she was pretty sure Nick Prescott had never been, even as a baby.
He laughed uncomfortably. “Well, I guess I was making a hash of this. I’m a little out of practice.”
“Me, too.”
“So would you like to have dinner on Friday?”
“I’d love to.”
Jude opened the sliding glass doors to her balcony and stepped outside. Margaux was up and running and she felt at loose ends. And lonely. Roger had been gone for less than twenty-four hours and her apartment felt empty without him.
She looked out at the vista as she did every morning and every night. Below her, the water of the sound sparkled with sunlight. The beach was alive with sunbathers and romping children.
Once, it had been her down there, reading in her beach chair, waiting for Henry to come home from his commute to Hartford while Danny and Margaux played at the water’s edge.
Life had been good then, their future spreading before them like the water below her. Henry would come straight from the train station to the beach with his suit jacket thrown over his shoulder. Danny and Margaux always saw him first, and as soon as they began to run toward the house, she knew that when she turned around, she would see Henry smiling at her as they pulled him to the chair next to hers.
Emotion welled up inside her—threatened to spill out. Her children had grown into beautiful young adults. Then Danny was gone.
Henry was never the same after that. They still came to the beach in summer and returned home to Hartford in the fall. He went through the motions and he still loved her and Margaux as he always had. But he aged rapidly. His hair turned grayer and his shoulders stooped. Then Margaux married Louis. Jude still sat at the beach every afternoon, but it was she who saw Henry first—and last.
And then Henry was gone, too. It seemed as if the longer she lived, the more was taken from her. Not gradually, as old age fell into the inevitable, but lobbed off in great chunks, the healthy branches sacrificed along with the frail.
Life was about loss. One minute standing on the promise of your dreams, then free-falling backward into nothingness. Is this what it meant to grow old? To gradually be stripped of all you cared about. And then what? Were you supposed to spend the rest of your life, dreaming about the past while you waited to die?
Or did you start a new life, set the cycle in motion once again. Take the chance of losing that, too. And if you did, what happened to the old life? Did it die away from lack of attention?
Her love for Henry was like a rock in her gut. Growing heavier and larger each day. It only hurt sometimes—set off by a smell or a color or the unfurled wings of an osprey. But it was always there.
She had lost Henry and Danny, and she was afraid of losing Margaux, too. Not to death—she quickly crossed herself—but to bitterness.
What shall I do, Henry? Tears dropped onto the backs of her hands where they grasped the railing. I know I can’t go back, but I’m afraid to go forward. What should I do?