Free Beach Colors by Shelley Noble

ridiculous. He couldn’t just ignore her. First of all, he was the chief of police. Secondly, he’d just dripped all over her at the cove the day before. Had held her close enough to feel her breath on his skin. He’d seen her cry. Surely that called for some kind of acknowledgment.
    He turned around. Smiled, at least he meant to smile. It felt more like a grimace.
    A quick half smile in return and she looked away to scan the menu board.
    Connor tugged at his pants leg.
    “What, sport?”
    “Why is that lady wearing black? Did her daddy die?”
    Nick cringed. Even though he whispered, Margaux had to have heard him. She had. Her cheeks turned pink. It hadn’t been sunburn yesterday. She was blushing.
    Margaux looked down at Connor. “Guess I’m not dressed for the beach, huh?”
    Connor shook his head.
    “That’s because I’m from the city. We wear black there.”
    “Why?” he breathed.
    Margaux moved closer to hear him. She was practically kneeling at Nick’s feet. Not that she noticed. Her attention was focused on Connor. All Nick got was the top of her head, those bright wild curls corkscrewing in the sunlight.
    “Hey, buddy, I bet our ice cream is ready.” He turned Connor toward the counter. “Sorry he bothered you.”
    She stood. “He didn’t bother me. I guess I better get out my beach clothes, though.”
    “No. You look fine. I mean you look . . . you look good.”
    “Thanks.” She dipped her chin. He stared at her. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes away. “Um, I think your ice cream . . .” She dipped her chin again.
    “What? Oh.” He turned toward the service window, glanced back at her. “Nice to see you.”
    He pulled out a ten-dollar bill and shoved it through the window. Took the ice cream, handed one of the cones to Connor and hustled him to a picnic table at the side of the building. He should probably have asked her to join them. No, that would be stupid. Why would she want to have ice cream with him and a kid?
    A couple of minutes later, Margaux Sullivan picked her way across the gravel toward her car, licking a double pistachio ice cream. As he watched, she backed out of the parking place and slowly drove off toward Little Crescent Beach. And Nick was hit by a feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time. Regret.
    T his was getting weird, Margaux thought as she drove away. She was prepared to see him in town occasionally. But three for three was too much. She couldn’t even go for ice cream without running into the man. And his kid, she added. The same kid she’d seen at Mass. Connor Prescott. Nick Prescott.
    Now she knew what the chief of police’s hair would look like if he let it grow. Like his son’s, you dolt. Her face heated all over again. She’d been having thoughts about a married man . . . with children. At least one.
    Ice cream began to drip down her wrist. She licked it off and a smile crept to her lips. She’d never have figured him for a chocolate-with-sprinkles kind of guy.
    The smile disappeared. The kid thought she was in mourning. A kid that young shouldn’t know about mourning. But he was right.
    She was mourning. Not for a father or a brother, not anymore, not even for her marriage, but over her life. And that had to stop.
    The sun scudded behind a cloud, seconds later the sky turned dark. The first raindrop fell as she turned onto Salt Marsh Lane. By the time she reached home, it was coming down in sheets. Nobody had said anything about rain.
    Head tucked, she raced to the back door, dumped her ice cream in the trash, then stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, soaked to the skin. She slipped out of her espadrilles and headed for the stairs and a change of clothes.
    She opened her closet door. Her city clothes were lined up neatly across the rack. She was looking at black, black slacks, black shirts, black dresses, black. She pulled out the top two drawers of her dresser but she already knew what she would find there. Black—lingerie, camisoles,