Making Waves (11 page)

Where did that come from? Smooth, Trip. She’s likely to
make a beeline for the door after an offer like that
.

But to his surprise, her face bloomed and she rose. “I believe I’ll take both, if I may.”

Up until five minutes ago, Marguerite had thought Trip Andrews was the most arrogant man at the ball.

Things could change a lot in five minutes.

As they waltzed to the strains of Muller’s “Evening Star,” he asked her if she had enjoyed her sailing adventure on the
Argo
. She sensed something she’d never felt around a man before – a genuine interest in her. An unexpected tingle of joy shot through her. Was this the spark that was missing with Roger?

She couldn’t keep a smile from curling her lips. “Sailing was an invigorating experience.”

“Your brother Mark seems bright.” He swung her in a wide circle. “But I’m not sure he’s ready for all of the work involved.”

“He really wants to learn.”

“If so, then he will. You must care about him a great deal in order to help him achieve his dreams. Few sisters would go to such lengths,” Trip said. “You know, you two look a lot alike. Same blue eyes. Same golden hair. Same bright smile.”

She laughed, and her face warmed at his words. “Promise me you won’t tell him that. Mark would die if he thought he resembled me.”

“But I bet he’ll be taller than you in no time.” Trip twirled her again.

“You’re a wonderful dancer, Mr. Andrews.”

“Please, call me Trip.”

“Given how we met, perhaps that should be my nickname.” He grinned, and she longed to touch one of the deep dimples adorning his cheeks.
Good grief. What am I thinking?
She tightened her grip on his hand, and her cheeks flamed.

“Calling any lady Trip would be a shame. Calling
you
Trip would be a crime.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble with the law, so I suppose you’ll just have to call me by my given name – Marguerite.”

“French for ‘daisy.’”

“You speak French?”

“No. I had an aunt named Marguerite. You’re lucky I liked her.”

Marguerite caught sight of Roger glaring at her through his wire-rimmed spectacles. She stiffened and clamped her lips together.

Trip’s gaze swept her face. “I realize it’s none of my business, but is there a problem?”

“You’re right. It’s none of your business.”

Trip’s eyebrows shot up two notches, but he didn’t stop dancing. To her surprise, he pulled her a bit closer and spoke softly. “Remember, you said you needed a friend.”

“You’re right again. I apologize. My escort is a man I’ve been seeing socially for a while now, but tonight he’s acting like a total stranger.”

The last strains of the waltz came to a close, and Marguerite felt a tug of disappointment as Trip’s hands slipped away.

“Maybe you never knew him at all.” He glanced toward the glowering man. “Sometimes people aren’t who we think they are.”

Guilt stabbed at her heart. She thanked Trip for the dance, telling him she’d see him tomorrow.

“Miss Westing – Marguerite – if you need anything . . .” He tipped his head toward Roger, who was approaching.

“Thank you, but I’ll be fine.”

He nodded. “I won’t be far.”

She turned to Roger, only a few yards away, his wooly eyebrows pressed together in a deep frown.

Lord, boring I can handle, but this . . . what am I supposed
to do?

Roger’s face creased with a forced smile. He kissed her cheek and handed her the lemonade. “So did you enjoy your dance? I believe I will forgo my option of last dance and take you home.”

“So soon?”

“Life isn’t all fun and games, Marguerite. I have matters I wish to discuss with you.”

Pressing his hand to the small of her back, he deftly moved her through the dancers and toward the exit. Once outside, he hooked her hand in the crook of his arm. “Now, as I was saying, my business venture with your father is quite complicated.”

She sighed. Boring Roger was back.

This time, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

Thirty minutes of pillow punching left Marguerite’s down-filled headrest lumpy and her thoughts reeling. Lilly’s soft snores filled the tent, and every time Marguerite closed her eyes, Trip’s words haunted her. “Sometimes people aren’t who we think they are.”

Why did he have to say that? She didn’t want to deceive him, and she wasn’t actually doing so. She did care about Mark’s dreams, and she truly intended to see to it that her rambunctious brother stayed out of trouble when they got on the water.

Was it her fault if she accidentally learned his lessons alongside him? Besides, having to tell half-truths in order to learn to sail was Trip’s fault – his and all the other men who thought women didn’t belong in their sailing world.

He’d left her no alternative.

She flopped onto her back. The oppressive heat inside the tent made the sheets stick to her skin. Tossing them aside, Marguerite climbed out of bed, slid her feet into her shoes, and padded to the tent’s opening. She untied the strings holding the canvas flaps closed and peeled one side back.

The cool evening air swept in, and the stars dotting the night sky beckoned her. Slipping out of the tent, she walked to the center of their camp and sat down on the wicker settee. She wrapped her arms around her knees and leaned her head back to view the open sky above. Orienting her position, she found the Big Dipper in Ursa Major. She moved on to identify the other constellations: Taurus, Leo, Virgo.

She knew each constellation like a botanist knows each plant, from the name of the brightest star to what season each star should be visible in Iowa. Calm soaked through her like a gentle rain. No matter how much the world closed in on her, the open expanse of the Milky Way made her feel free.

A rustling of canvas drew her attention. She spun toward her parents’ tent in time to see her father slip out of the opening, slink around the tent, and head down the path leading to the lake.

What was he doing at this hour? Their privy was the other way, and she’d never known her father to take late-night strolls. She blinked at his disappearing figure. He appeared to be wearing street clothes rather than bed clothes. Twice he stopped and looked back as if to see if anyone followed him. Why was he sneaking around like a common thief?

Marguerite’s pulse climbed as she sat outside for fifteen minutes, waiting for his return. When he didn’t reappear, her concern mounted. Perhaps she should go after him.

No. He could take care of himself. He was probably just going to work early. She could ask him about it in the morning.

No, she couldn’t.

At least not without revealing why she was awake.

Finally, deciding she needed to at least attempt getting some rest, she returned to her tent. Lilly mumbled something in her sleep and shifted. Marguerite kicked off her shoes and eased beneath the sheets. She stared at the pole holding the center of the tent and willed sleep to claim her.

Thoughts of Trip Andrews, Roger Gordon, and now her own father paraded through her mind like soldiers. She expelled a long sigh. Men made poor substitutes for sheep.

No noxious glue or varnish fumes greeted Marguerite when she and her brother stepped inside the boat shop, but she thought she recognized the scent of fresh paint. They crossed through the office to the workshop.

Harry, paintbrush in hand, looked up. “Morning, Mark. Morning, Miss Westing.” He pointed to Mark with his hammer and glanced toward Trip, who stood studying a half-completed vessel. “Trip, you planning on working the boy to death today?”

“Not to death. Just close to it.”

A teasing grin didn’t curl Trip’s lips like it would have last night. What was he up to? Was he deliberately trying to make Mark nervous to scare his new pupil away?
Well, it won’t
work, Mr. Andrews. You’re stuck with me. I mean us
.

Trip moved toward the mast they’d assembled yesterday. “I’ll cut off the straps while you get the plane from the workbench.”

She scanned the instruments hanging above the bench: hammers, saws, awls, and the like lined up like cornstalks along the back. Mark picked a plane and joined his instructor.

After cutting the leather bindings, Trip folded his pocket knife and ran his hand along the timber. “The mast has to be tapered on this end. Not too much, but enough. Like a candle.”

“What if he makes a mistake?” Marguerite asked.

Mark glared at her. “I won’t.”

“You’re right, because I won’t let you. Go ahead. Make your first shaving.”

Hands shaking, Mark laid the plane against the wood, grabbed the handle, and bore down while pushing it upward toward the top of the mast. The curled wood shaving fell to the floor.

“Good. Now do that about a hundred more times.”

Thirty minutes later, after much grumbling, Mark wanted to give up, but Marguerite urged him on. After another thirty minutes, he stood up and showed her his blistered hands. “See, I can’t do any more. It’s stupid, and it’s not teaching me to sail.”

Glancing across the workshop, Marguerite found Trip absorbed in helping Harry on a different upturned boat. “Give me the plane.”

“You?”

“Yes, hurry.”

Mark handed it to her.

“Now stand so he can’t see me.”

Mark shifted positions. With a long stroke, she shaved off a thin wedge of the pine. Its woodsy scent filled the air. Over and over she drew the plane over the hard wood.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Trip yanked the tool from her hands.

She jerked back. “Mark was getting tired. I gave him a break.”

“I didn’t tell you to give him a break.”

“No, you wanted him to get exhausted, but that’s no way to encourage a boy.”

Trip pinned her with fiery eyes. “Mark, the sandpaper is on the workbench.”

Mark paused. “But – ”

“You heard me. Get busy.” Trip pointed a finger at Marguerite. “You, come with me.” He marched toward the massive doors in the back of the boat shop.

Marguerite didn’t move. She swallowed hard and her stomach flip-flopped.

“I’m sorry, Marguerite,” Mark said. “This is my fault.”

“It’s okay. I’ll be fine.” She patted the mast. “See how much you can get done before I get back.”

Trip stood at the door, arms crossed over his chest, face stormy.

Lord, Trip Andrews could use a little attitude adjustment
right now. Would You mind helping me out? Please?

Now her own anger grew. How dare he treat Mark so poorly? And she’d just been trying to help. If he wasn’t so stuck on his almighty teaching abilities, he might have seen what was actually happening.

Determined to set Trip straight, she marched across the sawdust-covered floor of the workshop. Trip stepped outside as she approached, and she followed.

“Let’s get one thing clear – ” he began.

“Yes, let’s.” She squared her shoulders, refusing to shrink beneath his glare. “Mark is twelve. He’s intelligent and he can do this, but he is still a boy. Working him like a man won’t make him into one.”

“And you would know this how? Last time I looked, you were a lady – at least I thought you were until I caught you using a man’s tools to do a man’s work. So exactly how do you know this won’t make Mark into a man?”