Making Waves Page 6

  “Only if I say there’ll be any lessons.” Trip sighed. “I know I am going to regret this, but you can start Monday. We’ll give it a try.”

  Marguerite opened the chatelaine purse clipped to her belt and removed a wad of bills. “How much do we owe you for the lessons?”

  “They’ll be a dollar a day.”

  Her mouth dropped open, but she quickly snapped it shut. “But the ride the other day was only fifty cents for both my father and me, and that was double the price.”

  “Rides are cheaper than lessons. Besides, you said you’d pay double for the lessons too. If it’s too steep …”

  She peeled off a five-dollar bill. “For five lessons.”

  He reached into her hand and tugged a one-dollar bill from her stack. “One lesson. One dollar. After that, we’ll see if there will even be a second lesson.”

  Good grief, his voice hasn’t even changed.

  Trip kept the brother and sister in view until they’d ridden their bicycles out of sight. He doubted the boy would be able to do the work that sailing required, but it didn’t really matter. Mark Westing wasn’t the first boy to come knocking at his door with sailing ambitions. Long ago, Trip had worked out a system for eliminating the starry-eyed rich boys from the serious students before they even hit the water.

  Now, figuring out the Westing girl’s story might take a bit longer. She intrigued him. How many sisters would accompany their brother day after day to sailing lessons? Then again, on the boat the other day, her face had glowed almost as much as her honey gold hair. He’d never seen anyone fall in love with the water like she had. It would be a pleasure to watch her cornflower blue eyes light up like that again.

  Stop right there. I don’t need to go fancying a woman right now. Regatta. Regatta. Regatta.

  Her trim form disappeared around the bend in the path. He sighed. Maybe just a little looking wouldn’t hurt. Besides, it would be days before either of them boarded a boat – if the boy lasted that long. Monday he’d see what Mark was made of. He only hoped that Miss Westing knew how to keep out of the way.

  For some reason, he figured she didn’t.

  The portrait of his father, Richard Mason Gordon, stared accusingly at Roger. Every morning his father’s cold eyes reminded him of the hard lessons he’d learned under the man’s strict tutelage. Even in death, his father’s words haunted him. “What Darwin said in The Origin of Species goes for business and life too,” the rock-hard businessman had repeatedly told him. “Survival of the fittest. No mercy. See what you want and take it. Only the strong survive.”

  Roger pushed back from the heavy walnut desk, stood, and approached his newest framed acquisition angled against the mantel. He untied the burlap cloth wrapped around the artwork and let it slide onto the Turkish rug. As he ran his hand along the gilded frame, a slow smile spread across his face.

  He straightened and removed his father’s portrait from the wall. How weak and simpering the once strong man had become in the end. Pitiful. Lifting the new portrait of himself into place, a deep sense of satisfaction filled Roger.

  “Who’s the strongest now, Father? Who survived?”

  7

  Marguerite glanced at the watch tucked beneath her belt. She didn’t want to be late. Not on the first day of Mark’s lessons. The last thing she wanted was to give Trip Andrews a reason to cancel them.

  “Mark, don’t dawdle. We want to be early.”

  Mark propped his bicycle against a tree, then balanced on his left foot while propping his right foot over his knee. He tugged at the shoe. “These new boots hurt my feet. You should have let me wear my old ones.”

  “Those are scuffed. I want you to look your best.”

  “I don’t think Mr. Andrews cares what my boots look like.”

  When he stepped back onto the path, Marguerite adjusted his pin-striped vest and tapped on the bill of his new cap. “This is going to be fun, Mark. Don’t mess it up.”

  “What’s the big deal? It’s just something to do.”

  “It’s the adventure of your life. I won’t let you ruin this.” She smoothed a tuft of his hair sticking out near his ear. “Now, let’s go.”

  They found the boat shop door already ajar when they arrived. Marguerite eased through the door and wrinkled her nose at the acrid stench. She covered her face with a handkerchief. “What’s that smell?”

  Trip walked through the door and wiped his hands on a rag. “Varnish. The boats have to have several coats of it. Or you might be smelling the glue. It’s just as bad. Depends on which one you dislike more.” He gave Mark a once-over. “Hang your coat on that hook, Mark, and I hope those new boots don’t make it impossible for you to work.”

  “Work?”

  “Come on. Let’s get started.”

  The odor became stronger as they followed Trip through what appeared to be an office, down a hallway, and to the back workshop. “Wait here.”

  Stopping in the center of the massive room, she watched Trip go to a workbench lining the wall. From her boat excursion the other day, she recognized the man he spoke to as his father. The elder Mr. Andrews glanced at her, scowled, and grunted.

  Good morning to you too, Mr. Andrews.

  She quickly diverted her eyes to the workshop. Various tools hung on one wall. She tried to recall their names: awls, planes, chisels. As a child, she’d often snuck into her grandpa’s workshop to watch him work. With infinite patience, he’d explained each step in his deep bass voice. He had even helped her make a jewelry case once.

  If she closed her eyes, she could still sense his rough hands on top of her own, showing her how you had to “feel” the wood to see if it was smooth enough. Her mother, she recalled, had scolded her when she ran her hand along his casket at the funeral. Her grandfather would have been honored.

  Mark fidgeted from foot to foot beside her.

  She nudged him. “Hold still.”

  “Look at that.” He pointed to another area of the workshop, which held the bare bones of a new craft hanging upside down. “It looks like a giant skeleton.”

  Harry, one of the young men from the boat ride, dipped a brush in a tin can and then glided the liquid over the hull of another nearly finished upturned boat. Marguerite figured it must be the varnish. The steady swish of his hand over the bent boards mesmerized her.

  “Miss Westing!”

  She spun around to see Mark and Trip walking away. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”

  Trip strode over to her. With a good five inches of height on her, he glared down. “Don’t let it happen again. In sailing, not listening can get you knocked plumb off the boat.”

  “Yes, sir.” She cast a glance through the wide-open doors toward the docked boats. One of them, the Endeavor, caught her eye with its gold lettering on the hull. “Which boat will we be taking out?”

  “We won’t be sailing today. Mark has to learn about boats from the ground up. I decide when and if he’s ready to set sail. Understand?”

  She nodded.

  “Wait a minute,” Mark protested. “What do you mean I don’t get on a boat today?”

  “Mr. Andrews wants you to learn about how boats are constructed, Mark.”

  Trip strode across the room to two large pieces of wood atop a set of sawhorses and explained that this would be the mast of a new sailboat. “This is Sitka spruce. You’re going to make a mast from it.” He picked up a paint brush and a jar and passed them to Mark. “Brush this glue on the first piece, and then I’ll help you set the other on top of it.”

  “And this is teaching me how to sail?”

  “Nope.” He started to walk away. “It’s telling me if you know how to learn.”

  Mark turned to Marguerite and murmured, “This is your fault.”

  “Hey, you wanted to do this. Don’t blame me.”

  “Well, maybe I’m un-wanting to do it.”

  A surge of panic made her heart race. “Mark, you don’t want to quit. You’re just getting started.”
<
br />   “I’m telling you, if he tells me to mop the floor …”

  She leaned close to his ear and hissed, “Then you’ll do it with a smile on your face. You want to learn to sail, right?”

  Marguerite glanced at Trip, who had begun work on the skeleton of a vessel, and sighed. He might have tousled, sunkissed sandy hair, warm hazel eyes, and to-die-for dimples, but he didn’t know a thing about teaching a twelve-year-old boy.

  Mark dipped the brush in and slathered a thin layer of the acrid glue over the flat surface.

  “Not like that.” She took the brush and meticulously applied it to the sides of the mast, keeping the layer thick and even.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Trip marched across the room toward them. “I told your brother to do this.” He pulled the brush from her hand and gave it back to Mark. “Take about half that glue off.”

  “Off?” she squeaked.

  “When we clamp the pieces together, all that extra glue will seep out.” Ignoring her, he spoke only to Mark. “Lesson one. If you don’t know something, ask.”

  And if you want him to know something, tell him.

  Trip watched Mark remove the excess glue, then pointed to the far end of the mast. “Now, we’re going to put one half of the mast on top of the other. Whatever you do, Mark, don’t drop it. If it cracks, we can’t use it. I’ll lift my end and you lift yours, on three.”

  Trip counted aloud and the two of them lifted the heavy piece of wood. Mark strained beneath the weight.

  “Do we need to put it back down?” Trip asked.

  Mark shook his head, but as they reached the other half of the mast, his step faltered. The board slipped from his fingers and landed in place with a thud. Trip’s brow creased in a scowl.

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t hold it any longer. It was too heavy.”

  Trip laid a hand on his shoulder. “Lesson two. If you can’t do something, then say so. There are no heroes on the water.” Moving to a barrel, he reached inside, pulled out a set of wet leather straps, and tossed them in Mark’s direction. He wiped his hands on his white cotton shirt, leaving a smear of water. “Now, tie these on the mast every two feet. As they dry, they’ll clamp the wood together. And don’t let your sister help you. Tomorrow, when the mast dries, the real fun begins.”

  “And until then?” Marguerite asked.

  “You go home.”

  He had to be joking. They’d been there only an hour. What about sailing? “Home? But I thought …”

  The corners of his mouth curved. “Lesson three. Here, I do the thinking.”

  Marguerite whirled and stomped away, afraid to say another word. Outside the boat shop, raw fury burned inside her. How dare he take their money, use Mark in the shop like a hired hand, shout at her for helping him, and then send them off after only an hour with no boat instruction whatsoever.

  She climbed on her bicycle and pedaled away, vaguely aware of Mark calling to her. Maybe she’d been wrong about Trip Andrews. There had to be other instructors on the lake. Ones better suited to work with me – I mean Mark.

  Legs pumping like a freight train, Marguerite rode off into the distance. Trip chuckled from the doorway. Her brother would never catch her now. Maybe the work wasn’t what they had expected, but he figured they’d be back. At least, she would. Fierce determination shone in those crystal blue eyes, and the spark he saw in them, as she ran her hand along the mast just before she left, had said it all.

  Trip shook his head. He had to remember she wasn’t the student.

  Poor brother. Mark didn’t stand a chance with a sister like that. Although young and a bit impulsive, the boy appeared teachable so far. Trip walked back inside the boat shop and headed for the workshop area. Checking the first of the leather straps on the mast, he nodded. At least the boy hadn’t argued, even when Trip deliberately provoked him. But Mark appeared to give up easily, and that worried him.

  “Hey, Trip, what do you think of your new student? Pretty wet behind the ears, isn’t he?” Harry set down his varnish can and brush and crossed the work area.

  “Yeah, but not any younger than you or me when we first started out.”

  “Eons ago.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder. “But I think it’s the girl you gotta worry about. Did you notice how moony-eyed she got when she just looked at your Endeavor?”

  Trip checked the tightness of the rest of the leather thongs around the mast. “Can’t blame a lady for recognizing quality.”

  “Do you think the boy will be able to stick with it?” Harry took a seat on a barrel, picked up a splintered piece of wood, and chewed on it like a toothpick. “Those rich boys aren’t used to hard labor.”

  “We’ll see. If he survives tomorrow, then maybe – just maybe – I’ll take him out before the end of the week.”

  Harry laughed. “You’re getting soft. Used to be you’d wait two weeks.”

  “I don’t know. This one seems different.”

  “And you wouldn’t mind getting in good with his sister.”

  Trip feigned ignorance. “Who?”

  “You aren’t fooling me. I saw the way you looked at her, but hey, like you said, you can’t fault someone for recognizing quality. Never saw anyone take to sailing like she did the other day either. You’d have thought she was born on a boat.”

  “Harry!” Captain Andrews bellowed. “What’s this mess?”

  Harry hopped to his feet. “All I ask is that you find out if she has a sister.”

  Roger arrived at the Westing camp in search of Marguerite. His business meeting with the other investors developing Lake Manawa’s Midway ended much earlier than he’d anticipated, and one of the benefits of being a wealthy man was not having to return to the office right away. Noticing her bicycle gone, he rubbed his chin. Last night, she’d said that she and Mark would ride this morning, but since it was almost 2:00, she should have returned long ago.

  Perhaps he could hunt her down. Once they were married, these impulsive wanderings would stop. He’d watched his own father handle his mother’s assertiveness, and he knew that Marguerite’s, too, could be eliminated in time. It was almost a shame. He admired her spunk, but it wouldn’t do in a wife.

  The nursery rhyme “Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater” popped into his head. When Marguerite was secured in his pumpkin shell, he would certainly keep her very well. And all the while, he’d be free to enjoy her beauty every day.

  She might never love him, but she would learn to respect him.

  That he could guarantee.

  In asking around for the names of other sailing instructors, Marguerite learned two things. No one else would take her and her brother on as students. And Trip Andrews was considered the best.

  Marguerite also discovered that wandering around with Mark in tow did have its benefits. As long as her brother walked beside her, she could investigate the docks and no one seemed to notice. Even when she perched on one of the railings to watch Trip Andrews’s Endeavor raise its pristine sail and cross the seven-hundred-acre lake, no one said a word. Had she been alone, all sorts of sensibilities would have been ruffled.

  Two small, regal sailboats raced one another across the lake, leaning heavily to the side and skimming lightly across the surface. A few days ago on the boat, a thrill had shot through her. How long would it be before she felt it again? It wasn’t fair. Why did men keep this incredible world of beautiful vessels closed to her and all women?

  And as a woman, I’m not supposed to care.

  Mark kicked the earth and muttered words against Trip Andrews that no lady would say. She’d never felt free to express herself like that, but men were free to do it all the time. They could say anything they pleased, and they didn’t have to care how they walked or how they sat or if their hat was pinned at just the right angle.

  She made a mental note to jot down the idea in her journal. It would make a good topic at the next suffrage meeting: the unexpected joys of manhood.

  After wandering the dock, they
remounted their bicycles and pedaled along the path to their campsite. She came to a sudden stop just outside the tents.

  “What are you doing?” Mark asked.

  “Look who’s coming.” She moved off the path, behind a clump of trees. Disappointment swept over her. Roger was here again. She’d hoped summering at the lake would set her free of having to constantly see him. Why did he have to keep showing up at the most inopportune times?

  “Why do you care if Roger sees us?”

  “If he sees me in my cycling outfit, he’ll ask where we’ve been. He knew we were supposed to ride this morning, not all day long.” She dismounted. “I’m going to hide my bicycle behind the camp. You can go get it for me when the coast is clear.”

  “And what are you going to do?”

  “Figure out a way to sneak into my tent and change.”

  “What difference does it make if he knows the truth?”

  “You know Roger. He’ll probably tell Mother and ruin our fun.”

  “So far I haven’t had a lot of fun.”

  Reluctantly, Mark agreed to fetch her bicycle. She eased down the dirt road behind the campsite. Even from the back of the camp, she could see Roger sitting on the wicker rocking chair in full view of her tent. What was she going to do now?

  A fresh idea made her pulse quicken when she glanced toward the Grahams’ camp near their own, where clothes hung out to dry on lines. Emily Graham was about the same size as her. But stealing clothes? Lying about her whereabouts was bad enough, but taking something that didn’t belong to her? She just didn’t think she could do it. Then again, she wouldn’t exactly be stealing a skirt. She’d be borrowing it and would return it before its absence was noticed.

  She scanned the camp to see if anyone was watching, then darted to the clothesline before she lost her nerve. Yanking the plainest skirt free, she raced back into a grove of trees. She leaned against a large tree trunk, skirt pressed to her chest, and caught her breath.

  A dog barked, and she jumped.

  Lord, You’re enjoying yourself now, aren’t You?

  She slid the skirt on over her Turkish pants and buttoned it in place. Removing her hat, she pulled the pins free, shook out her hair, and let it fall about her shoulders. Not perfect, but it would do as long as she didn’t run into her mother.