Making Waves (12 page)

“I . . . I . . . just do.”

“Is that a fact? All right, here’s a fact for you. If I catch you interfering with my lessons again, both of you will be out of here so fast it’ll make the
Endeavor
look like a rowboat.”

“Is this display because you think I undermined your authority as his teacher?”

Trip’s silence answered her.

“Well, Mr. Teacher, your student’s hands are covered in blisters. I was simply trying to help him out.”

His brow furled in concern and his stern face softened. “They are?”

“He’s never used a plane before. Actually, he’s done very little manual labor. His hands aren’t callused like yours. They’re soft as a baby’s.”

Unconsciously she clenched her own fists and shoved them in the pockets of her pants. Her hands stung from the time she’d spent using the plane. He lowered his gaze to her pockets, eyes narrowed. “Let me see your hands. Hold them out.”

“Ladies don’t show their hands in public.”

“You didn’t seem worried about that in there.” He took hold of her forearm and tugged her hand free. Lifting her wrist, he studied the angry red welts that had formed on her palms.

He dropped her hand. “Get your brother and meet me in the office.”

His stony tone made her stomach quake. She watched him tramp away. She followed, her feet feeling like anchors.

In a few minutes, her dream would be shattered.

8

Roger loved it when each column in his ledger lined up perfectly and all the figures balanced to the penny. Unfortunately, that wasn’t happening today. Glancing at his pocket watch, he noted the time and shoved the leather volume aside. As much as he longed to delve into the discrepancy, being tardy for lunch with Edward Westing simply wouldn’t do. He needed Marguerite’s father on his side.

But if he wasn’t, Roger had that covered as well.

After descending the staircase of his three-story Queen Anne Victorian home, Roger stopped at the parlor’s double doors when he spotted his mother. “What are you still doing here? I thought today was your day for charity work.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed.” She tucked a rose in an amber-colored vase on the mantel. Its brilliant red exploded against the other paler blossoms. She turned to him. “I postponed that when Mrs. Baxter said you’d invited Edward Westing for lunch. It simply wouldn’t do for me to be absent when someone so important to you visited our home.”

His heart softened. He’d considered that it might be easier to direct the conversation without her attendance, but of course, she was right. Edward Westing should have the opportunity to visit with his dear mother. “I’m sorry. I was merely surprised.”

She drew him down onto the sofa and straightened his tie. “Tell me, is Marguerite ‘the one’?”

“Mother, Edward is coming to discuss business.”

“I see. But that isn’t all, is it?”

“You know me so well.”

She patted his leg. “So, what about this young lady has captured your heart?”

“Marguerite is stunning.” He stood and walked to the fireplace mantel. “You know how when you saw this John Walsh vase at the department store, you just had to have it? That’s how she makes me feel.”

The wrinkles around her mouth curved downward. “And how does she feel about you?”

“I’m not completely certain.” That wasn’t true. He didn’t believe Marguerite shared his feelings, but the fact that he hadn’t won her over made her all the more alluring.

“She must care a great deal for you if she has allowed your courtship to continue for so long. Three months is quite awhile.”

The bell rang, and she rose from her seat. “I do believe our guest has arrived.”

A minute later, the butler showed Edward Westing into the parlor.

“Mr. Westing, so nice of you to come.” His mother nodded to the man. “I know you two men are having a business lunch, but I do hope you won’t mind my presence for a wee bit. I’m anxious to learn more about this young lady with whom my son is so enamored.”

Edward chuckled. “I’m not sure what I can tell you about Marguerite that Roger hasn’t already shared.”

She hooked her arm in Edward’s, pulling him from the room. “Nonsense. Roger hasn’t told me a thing.”

Once they settled in the dining room, the cook served a light lunch of onion soup, cold pork sandwiches, pickles, and cucumber salad. Roger’s mother and Edward Westing embarked on a discussion as if they’d been close friends rather than acquaintances for years.

Roger folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. Irritating idle chitchat. Talk of weather and news from the lake did little for his agenda.

Finally a lull in the conversation allowed him to slip in his foremost question. “So, what is my dear Marguerite doing this morning?”

Edward set down his fork. “I believe she and her brother went cycling. I tell you, buying the two of them bicycles for their birthdays was the best decision I’ve made in a long time. Pricey, but worth it.”

Roger speared a cucumber. “They seem to be doing a lot of cycling at the lake.”

“It does seem to be as popular a sport there as it is everywhere else in the country.” Edward lifted his water goblet. “There’s even a Manawa Cycling Club. Do you ride, Roger?”

Roger’s mother twittered. “Roger? Heavens no. He says those machines are dangerous.”

“I think they’ve proved quite beneficial to one’s health, and women certainly seem to be enjoying the freedom they provide.”

“That isn’t necessarily a good thing,” Roger mumbled.

Edward met Roger’s eyes and held his gaze. “My daughter isn’t one to be chained.”

“So she’s a forward thinker? That’s delightful.” Roger’s mother passed Edward the plate of sandwiches. “I take it she and her brother are close. What else can you tell me about her? Is she quiet? Shy? I always pictured Roger with someone like that.”

“Mother . . .”

“I don’t think anyone would describe my daughter as either of those, Mrs. Gordon.” Edward smiled. “She’s quite . . . vivacious.”

“Is that so? Now, that is a pleasant surprise.” She called for dessert, and they were soon enjoying plates of cinnamonlaced fresh apple cake topped with a heaping mound of whipped cream. “Mr. Westing, you, your wife, and your lovely daughter must be our dinner guests soon.”

“We’d be honored.”

“Roger will speak with Mrs. Westing and Marguerite and arrange a date.” She set her napkin beside her plate. “Now, if you men will excuse me, I have a copy of Mary Shelley’s
Frankenstein
that simply begs to be read. Are you familiar with it, Mr. Westing?”

“I am. I hope it doesn’t offend your sensibilities.”

A light extinguished in her eyes. “Life has made me much stronger than I appear.”

Roger shifted uncomfortably, stood, and pulled out her chair. “Enjoy the book, Mother.”

“Be sure to get my son to show you his art collection, Mr. Westing. It is quite spectacular. If someone tells him it’s impossible to acquire a certain piece, he always seems to find a way to obtain it.”

As soon as she’d gone, Edward pushed back from the table. “Before we get down to business, I’d be interested in seeing that collection.”

“It’s just artwork I’ve gathered.”

Edward stood. “I can use a little culture. Lead the way.”

Marguerite stepped into the outer office, and Trip indicated two chairs. She settled and Mark sat beside her. The whole scene – the looming massive oak desk, the ramshackle piles of files and papers, and even the barren gray walls – reminded her of the headmaster’s office from grade school.

Crossing the room, Trip perched on the corner of the desk, obviously prepared to mete out his unmitigated verdict. He set a canister on the desk. “Okay, who’s first?”

Her eyes widened, and she scooted back in the chair. “For what?”

He held up the tin, which read Hoods Olive Ointment. “It’s for your hands. Mark, stand up here like a man and show me the blisters your sister said you got.”

Mark glanced at Marguerite and she nodded. He stood before Trip and held out his shaking right hand.

Wasting no time, Trip slathered liniment on it. When Mark winced, Trip apologized for hurting him, and before the boy could protest, he wrapped a fresh white bandage around Mark’s blisters. He then repeated the process with Mark’s other hand.

Marguerite marveled at his tender, efficient care. Gone was the anger she’d witnessed minutes before. The calm before another storm? She sighed. At least he was taking care of Mark before sending them away.

“Now, Mark, why don’t you take a break before you start working again?” He squeezed his shoulder. “You deserve it. You did good work in there.” He glanced at her. “You both did.”

A little thrill took root in her heart at his compliment, and she couldn’t keep a smile from bowing her lips. She dared not let hope take seed in her heart. Maybe he wasn’t going to stop the lessons after all.

His dimples deepened. “Mark, you can go take a look at the boats while I tend to your sister’s hands.” As soon as Mark scampered from the room, Trip eyed her. “Okay, your turn.”

“Really, that isn’t necessary.” She clasped her now gloved hands together. “But thank you for your considerate treatment of Mark.”

“Marguerite, I’m the teacher, remember. I run the show.” He raised one eyebrow ever so slightly as he tossed the canister back and forth in his hands.

So here it was. The moment she’d been dreading. Either she yielded to his direction or they’d be ousted. Her face warmed. He’d bested her, and what was worse, he was certain of it. Did he somehow see how much she wanted to learn to sail?

“As you wish.” She tugged off one glove. “But I must insist on applying the liniment myself.”

He shook his head and wrinkled his nose. “Too messy.” Setting down the canister, he spun Mark’s chair around and straddled it. He dipped a finger in the paste and held a dollop in front of her. “Ready?”

She held out her hand, mortified when it trembled.

Sliding his hand beneath hers, he clasped it, his touch warm and unyielding. “Relax. I won’t hurt you.” Using a feather-soft touch, he spread the oily medication over her tender palm.

With every circle of his thumb, the temperature of her face climbed. She shifted in her chair and licked her lips. Soon, to Marguerite’s relief, he finished his ministrations. Before he could suggest bandaging it, she dropped her hand to her lap and tugged her glove back on.

Grinning, he motioned to the other one.

“Honestly, Mr. Andrews. That one is fine.”

“Let me see it.”

Rolling her eyes, she removed the cotton glove and held it out. “See?”

He slid his hand beneath hers and ran his thumb over the reddened area. His touch sent a ripple from her stomach to her toes and back again. She yanked her hand away. “As you can see, my left hand doesn’t require your attention.”

“So you say.” He stood and stepped away, distancing himself from her.

She blinked. Had he been as unnerved by the contact as she had?

He cleared his throat. “Why don’t you go see what kind of mischief your brother has gotten himself into? I need to go upstairs to the apartment and put this back. I’ll be along in a minute.”

Once outside the shop, Marguerite found Mark watching the other boaters.

“There you are.” She placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Is he making us quit?”

She shook her head. “No. I think he feels bad about your hands.”

“This isn’t what I thought it would be.” Mark leaned on the white railing with his sportsman’s cap in his hands.

Marguerite stepped beside him. “I know, but hang in there. I think it will get better.”

Sailboats with their sails lowered dotted the shore, waiting for their turn on the lake. Crewmen on the
Top Dog
, all dressed in matching jackets, prepared to take their boat out. They waited until the boat drifted free of the dock before they began to hoist the mainsail, and once raised, it instantly billowed but did not completely fill. The wind whipped the edge, making it flap.

“That’s called luffing,” Trip said from behind her.

She jumped.

He chuckled. “But we use the word luff for other situations too.”

“Like?” Marguerite stared at the sailors moving about the
Top Dog
, each with obvious responsibilities.

“For one thing, the front edge of the sail is called the luff.”

“What are they doing now?” Mark asked.

Trip propped his foot on one of the posts lining the deck. “Tacking. They have to zigzag their way across the lake, because they’re going against the wind.”

Mark’s eyes widened. “When do I get to try?”

“Soon.” Trip ruffled the boy’s hair and handed him a pair of leather gloves. “Come on, Mark, let’s get that mast finished.”

Marguerite found a stool in the corner, settled on it, and picked up a neatly folded copy of the
Council Bluffs Daily
Nonpareil
lying nearby on a barrel. A pencil line encircled an article about Captain Joshua Slocum embarking on a voyage, determined to be the first man to sail around the world alone. Slocum left Boston on April 24 in a sloop named
Spray
.

Sailing around the world. The adventure sounded marvelous. But who had circled the article? Trip? Harry?