Making Waves (22 page)

“You might say that.”

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t pry.

She stopped in the road and turned her head toward the sky. “Do you know where Andromeda is?”

“The constellation?”

“Yes. It’s visible only in the fall and winter. Do you know any constellations?”

“The Big Dipper.”

She smiled, her face bathed in moonlight. “That really isn’t a constellation. It’s an asterism.”

“A what?”

“A pattern in the sky that isn’t an official constellation.” She lifted her hand and pointed at a cluster of stars. “Tonight you can see Hercules and Scorpius quite well.”

“You’re a stargazer.” He couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice.

“Amateur astronomer.” She tucked her hand back into the bend in his arm. “I know. It’s a strange hobby for a girl.”

He chuckled, patting her hand. “Maybe for some young ladies, but not for you. It fits.”

They walked in silence the rest of the way, listening to the wind in the cottonwoods, frogs croaking by the water, the chorus of chirping insects, and the occasional wail of a coyote in the distance.

Marguerite’s concern for her father was palpable. Who was this woman on his arm? Would-be sailor, protector of her family, and now an astronomer? What other secrets did she hold? The desire to discover each of them threatened to surface, but he pushed it back down.
Don’t even go there.
You can’t trust her
. He shook his head. Even if she hadn’t lied to him, he didn’t need the distraction. Too much was at stake, and he had his own family to protect.

She stopped beneath a sign with “Camp Andromeda” neatly carved in arching letters across its surface. “Thank you for checking my father’s situation out for me.”

“You aren’t going to follow me, are you?”

She bit her lip. “I thought about it, but I decided you’re right. Unfortunately, you’ll have a better chance of finding out what’s going on there than I ever would.”

He nodded and flashed an encouraging smile. “Try to get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Knots of men gathered around the gaming tables in the gambling hall, intent, absorbed, obsessed. Rows of polished glasses and glistening bottles beckoned thirsty gamblers, while scantily clad scarlet women slipped between the men, offering their own form of entertainment. Trip stole to the corner to take in the action.

A wide mirror behind the bar provided a better look at the patrons of Clyde Stone’s Gambling Den. Trip saw many familiar faces. These frock-coated men, a far cry from what one would expect at such an establishment, represented bank presidents, company owners, railroad executives, and other men of significant means.

Trip casually leaned against the wall, a sick feeling pooling in his stomach. How well he remembered coming to this gambling den, attempting to haul Harry away. Between the liquor and the lure of Lady Luck, his best friend since childhood had quickly become someone he barely recognized. But even then he couldn’t abandon him.

Night after night he’d followed Harry to this very spot and watched him toss his inheritance down on the tables. Then, on the one night Trip hadn’t followed, Harry’s debts surpassed his abilities to pay them. The club’s goons hauled him from the gambling hall, beat him senseless, and tossed him in the ditch.

Later, Harry described it as the longest night of his life. Too weak to move, he’d lain in the mud, thinking about how he’d gone from being a wealthy dandy to a penniless gambler. After that night, Harry insisted he’d changed and rededicated his life to the Lord, but Trip still found it difficult to trust him completely. The brazen lure of this place, with its glitzy gas lamps, brass trimmings, and party atmosphere, had a strong pull. Even the mightiest fell under its spell.

And tonight the mightiest appeared to be Edward Westing.

Trip shifted so he could see and hear Marguerite’s father eagerly exchanging a wad of bills at the faro bank for a stack of blue twenty-dollar double eagle chips. A portrait of a fierce tiger hung above the table, a common marker for those who enjoyed “twisting the tiger’s tail” at the faro table. From his vantage point, Trip could see the table with its cards, from ace to king, printed in red and black on the cards’ faces.

Clyde Stone, the finely dressed club owner, greeted Mr. Westing by name, slapping him on the back in welcome. He then nodded toward the dealer.

“Punters, place your bets.” The dealer pinched his handlebar mustache between his fingers and waited for the crowd of drink-sodden men to set down their colored chips.

Mr. Westing placed three blue chips on the queen.

The man next to him removed his bowler and ran his hand over his bald head. “Edward, you sure you want to back the queen?”

Leaning forward, Mr. Westing also set chips between the five and six and the ace and king. “What do you think if I split those too?”

The acquaintance nodded, placing his own bets on the table. Other patrons laid various-colored chips on the table as well.

Finally the dealer seemed satisfied that all bets had been placed. “Discarding the soda card.” He withdrew the top card from the dealing box and set it aside.

Moans went out as the losing card of an ace was revealed. The dealer quickly scooped up all bets placed on the ace. Then the dealer displayed the winning card – a king. Only one man bet that, and the dealer quickly paid him.

Shaking his head, Trip studied Mr. Westing’s reaction. He’d lost close to two hundred dollars, but his wild eyes focused only on the next hand. Before a half hour passed, Trip had watched Edward Westing lose close to a thousand dollars and win less than a hundred.

Trip clenched his fists as Mr. Westing placed another large bet. Even when the man he was with suggested they head home for the night, Marguerite’s father insisted on laying down a pile of chips on a queen.

“Hello, sugar.”

Trip turned to find one of the painted ladies standing next to him with a tray bearing a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

“Buy a lady a drink?”

“No thanks. I’m about to leave.”

“What’s your hurry?” she purred. “You been watching that faro table all evening. Are you interested in the game or in someone at it?”

Trying to focus only on her face and not her scanty costume, Trip glanced from the raven-haired lady to Mr. Westing but didn’t say anything.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked, sugar. I make my living reading men. Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you all about him.”

“I don’t drink.”

“But I do.” She moved to the table nearest them, beckoning him to follow.

Against his better judgment, Trip took a seat across from her.

She popped the crystal stopper on the bottle and filled one of the shot glasses with amber liquid. “Sure you don’t want some?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You don’t have to look like it’s painful to be here with me. I don’t bite, sugar.”

“Sorry, ma’am. I don’t mean any disrespect.”

She laughed. “Ma’am? I haven’t heard that in a while. My name is Rosey. What’s yours?”

“Trip. Now, about him.” He inclined his head toward Mr. Westing. “How often is he here?”

“Ed? Guess he’s at that faro table most nights, plunking down his money like there’s no tomorrow.” She downed the glass of whiskey.

“Just this week?”

She raised an eyebrow. “For at least a month. I heard he likes to bet the foot and horse races too.”

Trip frowned. Things were worse than he thought.

“Why are you interested? Does he owe you money?”

He cleared his throat. “No. Someone is concerned about him.”

“And you fancy that someone.”

Trip stiffened. How could she see something that even he wasn’t sure about?

“I told you I’m good at reading men,” she said. “If you get tired of her, sugar, you know where I am.”

Pushing back from the table, Trip stood and reached into his pocket. He withdrew a couple of coins and dropped them on the table. “If you ever want out of here, I’ll help – ”

She held up her hand. “No preaching. I’ve heard it all before. Who knows? Maybe someday.”

He tipped his head toward her and smiled. “Thanks for the information, Rosey.”

Slipping out of the establishment, Trip drew in a lungful of night air. Though the breath helped clear the stench of tobacco smoke from his nostrils, it did little to clear the dread from his heart. It wasn’t fair. How dare Edward Westing do this to his family. Anger flaring, Trip picked up a stone on the path and hurled it into the trees
.

Lord, help me find the words to tell Marguerite that the
father she worships has fallen from his pedestal
.

15

The lake glimmered in the morning sun like a beaded sapphire ball gown. From her window seat in the pavilion’s restaurant, Marguerite studied the sailboats, large and small, dotting the lake, all training for the upcoming regatta. The
Endeavor
wasn’t among them, so she prayed that meant Trip was already on his way to the restaurant to meet her.

She tapped her fingers on the table and eyed the door for any sign of the tardy sailing instructor. Where was he? What if he didn’t show? This could be his way of getting back at her. Maybe he thought he’d give her a taste of her own medicine. Tell the fibber you’ll meet her for breakfast and let her feel what it’s like to be lied to.

“Miss, are you sure you don’t want to place an order?” the waiter asked, his white jacket buttoned smartly up to the collar.

“Thank you, but I’ll give him a few more minutes.”

“Yes, miss.” He nodded, filling her coffee cup. “I’ll be back when he arrives.”

After pouring a generous amount of cream and adding two sugars, Marguerite took a sip of the brew and glanced out over the water. The cloudless sky promised another hot day. Already the humid temperature had her blotting her upper lip. An ache formed in her chest when she thought about how much cooler it would be on the water. But there would be no sailing today.

“I’m sorry I’m late.”

She startled, jostling coffee from her cup. “Trip, you scared me!” She blotted the spill while he sat across from her. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming. You did say 9:00, right?”

“Unlike you, I prefer not to run when I’m late.” He flashed a dimpled grin. “Oh, wait, you don’t run – you step lively.”

The corners of her mouth lifted. At least he didn’t appear to still be angry with her.

“Besides, the guys and I had to make a practice run early this morning. With the regatta only two days away, we can’t miss even one.” He spoke casually, but a bitter edge seemed to find its way back into his voice.

“Like yesterday’s?” Marguerite glared. “Trip, I’ve apologized. I can’t undo what I did, but I also don’t intend to be reminded of it day and night. So if you’ll kindly tell me what you found out, I’ll be on my way.”

He touched her arm. “I’m the one who should apologize. That was uncalled for. Have you ordered?”

She shook her head and he signaled the waiter. They placed their orders, and Trip skillfully skirted around the subject at hand. He questioned her about what things she had seen and done since her arrival at the lake. Reluctantly, Marguerite admitted that her experiences so far had mostly been limited to his boat shop and the Yacht Club beside it.

Trip frowned. “But there are so many more approp – so many more things for a young lady to do.”

“You were going to say ‘appropriate’ things.” She wrinkled her nose.

“That doesn’t make them automatically distasteful.”

“Would you like to sit in a sewing circle all morning?”

He laughed. “You don’t fancy that kind of excitement?”

The waiter arrived and deposited a plate of biscuits and gravy in front of each of them. Without a second thought, Trip offered grace for the food.

Warmth ignited inside Marguerite like a kindled fire. In all the times she’d been with Roger, he’d never offered any kind of thanks to the Lord.

“What are you thinking?” Trip asked between bites.

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Lying comes easy to you, doesn’t it?”

Her temper flared a bit, but then she realized he was attempting to rile her. “I wasn’t completely lying. What I should have said was, I wasn’t thinking anything that I cared to share with you. Do you like that better?”

“Not really.” He lifted his hazel eyes to hers. “I’d rather know what put that sweet smile on your face.”

Her cheeks burned and she reached for her glass of water. “I know you’ve been avoiding the subject, but what did you find out about my father? Is he going there under duress?”

“Let’s talk about it after breakfast.”

“Don’t you dare coddle me, Trip Andrews.”

He scowled. “I was simply hoping to put off that part of the conversation until you’d finished eating.”

A chill coursed through her, and she gripped her fork, her knuckles whitening. “Just tell me.”

“Marguerite, I can’t know anything for certain – ”

“What did you find?”

He drew in a long breath. “It looks like he’s gambling heavily and he has been for some time.”

Tears pooled in her eyes, and she tried in vain to blink them away. “Are you certain?”