Beach Colors (35 page)

“Grace Holcombe, there’s hope for you yet,” Brianna said, taking one of the delicate tissue sheets from the box.

“It’s beautiful,” said Margaux.

“Made from mulberry fibers or something. Anyway, I talked to the manager at EcoPapier. I helped her with a zoning problem once. She has enough of the paper in stock to get us started. She can order more.” She opened one of the shopping bags. “They also had these nifty little gift boxes, made of something natural, I forget what. Anyway, these are brown and green but they come in different colors.”

“Yowza,” said Linda. “Those are expensive. I hope she gave you the saved-my-ass lawyer discount.”

“She did.”

“Perfect,” said Margaux. “I’ll call her tomorrow and place an order.”

Grace puffed up. “See, Ms. Bri, I do have an artistic bone in my body.” She exhaled. “Though I think I just used it up.”

They moved bookshelves, unpacked bags, and considered where to put things. It was after midnight when Grace lifted an unwieldy bundle from one of the bags. “What’s this?”

“A fishing net.” Margaux shrugged. “I might have gotten carried away on that one.”

“Not to worry,” Bri said. “You can always open a branch of
Margaux
in Palm Beach. Add a few seashells and they’ll eat it up. And pay a fortune. Hmm. Let me crunch a few figures.” She wandered away muttering to herself.

T
he next day, Nick brought his friend Jake McGuire, a master carpenter and woodworker, to build dressing rooms. Margaux had seen his work. It was exquisitely detailed and expensive.

When she tried to ask him about his fees, he shrugged. “Nick and I have been friends since forever. He’s happy. I owe you.”

As pieces were finished, they were brought downstairs. Margaux marveled at how much had gotten done as the shelves and racks filled with her designs. It seemed that each remnant had been transformed into a camisole or a scarf and without looking like they were anything but carefully conceived.

Margaux sometimes just sat in the center of the room, amazed at herself and her friends and the staff of seamstresses she hadn’t even met until a few weeks before. She was grateful, but also a little stultified when she overheard them talking about the fall and how they would soon need a larger workspace.

“You’re really making this work,” Nick said as he looked around the finished boutique.

“Yeah.” It was happening and Margaux suffered new moments of terror. Not the gut-wrenching disappointment and fear she’d brought home, but the exhilarating butterflies that attacked right before you stepped into the unknown.

He kissed her. “Gotta go. Don’t worry.” He passed Bri on her way into the shop.

“I’m here for my fitting.” Bri’s voice held less attitude than usual and Margaux wondered if she was having second thoughts about emceeing. She wasn’t about to ask. “Come with me.”

They went up the stairs. Adelaide took her into the last unused bedroom and shut the door. After what seemed like an eon, Adelaide came out. “She’s taking a moment.”

Margaux frowned. “Is she—”

“She’s beautiful.”

A few minutes later, Bri stepped out into the hallway wearing Margaux’s specially designed “Storm.” Silver iridescent harem paints, overpainted with mauve, deep purple, and eggplant. The pants buttoned at the ankle and were cinched at the waist by a flowing double scarf encrusted with crushed prism stones. It was topped by a sheer clinging camisole in heliotrope and an open jacket of the same fabric as the pants. She looked incredible.

Margaux burst into tears. “You’re beautiful.”

Bri nodded and she started to cry.

“Come get out of that outfit before you get it all wet,” Adelaide said, and sniffed as she trundled Bri away.

That afternoon, Margaux locked herself away with Adelaide. She had come in early to dye one more length of fabric, one she intended to make into a dress for herself.

“A simple sheath,” she told Adelaide. “Do you think you’ll have the time?”

“Of course. It’s beautiful and so simple, but what is that?” She pointed to a place on the fabric.

“Something special for Connor. It goes front left near the hemline.”

An hour later they had the fabric draped.

“It’s perfect,” Adelaide said. “Perfect.”

T
hree days before the opening, the models arrived. Bri brought them by the store to introduce them and schedule fittings for the next day.

“Annalise is a genius. I described what kind of girls I wanted and she nailed it.”

An African-American with close-cropped hair, a blonde, straight and long, a brunette, short and curly, and a redhead, wavy and silky. Pretty girls, not too harsh but not too wholesome.

Margaux and Bri sat over coffee in Linda’s kitchen and scripted out the descriptions of the clothes that would be modeled.

“I’ll do hair and makeup,” Linda offered. Her coal black hair was spiked more than usual that day. She was wearing purple eye shadow and false lashes and carrying her ever-present cup of tea.

Bri’s eyes widened in horror.

Linda sprayed a mouthful of tea. “You should see your face.” She pulled the lashes off and dropped them on the kitchen table. “I really had you going. Don’t worry. I can do
sub-tile
.”

Margaux nodded. “Hard to believe sometimes, but she can.”

T
he show was scheduled for a Thursday night. On Tuesday Margaux and Bri oversaw a professional photo shoot with the models at the inn. There would be other photographers at the show but Margaux didn’t want to take a chance of not getting any usable stills.

Wednesday morning, Margaux woke up to storm clouds. “No,” she pleaded.

Nick stirred beside her, then jolted upright. “What?”

“Look.” She pointed to her bedroom window.

“Oh. It won’t rain.” He pulled her down and captured her arms and legs.

“How do you know?”

“I just know.”

“How?”

He groaned, propped himself up on his elbow, and looked down at her. “AccuWeather. Now let me show you how to relax before you go to work.”

That afternoon they carted everything to the inn. Joe Mangioli, the manager, showed them to a banquet room where they could dress and leave their supplies. While Bri and the models tested the runway the hotel had constructed, Margaux went over the hors d’oeuvres list with the kitchen. Catering was part of the package. And it wasn’t cheap
.

The dress rehearsal was held the afternoon of the show. Not in the dark and not in time to fix anything major, but it was all Margaux could afford. It was a disaster, but as Margaux knew, a bad dress rehearsal was supposed to mean a good show. She just hoped that was what it meant this time.

When they returned to the workshop, Linda whisked a protesting Adelaide into Le Coif and shut the door. The other seamstresses went home, but would be at the inn that night in case of any last-minute snafus.

Margaux was left alone in the boutique. She had to admit it was impressive, especially considering the way it started out. But she was shaking with nerves. What if no one came. What if no one bought. What if she was making a huge mistake.

“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.

A
n 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.