Making Waves (35 page)

Marguerite hugged her friend. What would she do without dear, constant, devoted, and honest Lilly?

I’d be no better than my father if I let something happen
to her. To any of them. Marrying Roger isn’t about me
.

It seemed God had given her an answer.

24

All the committee members and volunteers loved Marguerite. Over the next couple of weeks, Trip noticed how they responded to her, listened to her suggestions, respected her ideas, and followed her directions. Generously bestowing compliments on all of the volunteers, she fostered an esprit de corps among them.

Every carefree giggle, tender touch, or kind word had hammered his pain deeper. How had she broken down his walls and wormed her way back inside his heart?

The birthday kiss had been a foolish move on his part. Ever since then, the tension between them had been taut as a bowstring. He’d come today with the sole intention of making sure Marguerite knew even though he could be civil to her, he refused to give in to the feelings that kept drawing them together.

He pulled himself from his reverie when he heard John Nelson, a former schoolmate, speak to her.

“Miss Westing, how do you want me to decorate my
Windy
Sue
?”

Trip scowled. Nelson stood much too close to Marguerite for his liking.

Marguerite pulled a sheet from the stack and smiled at the boat owner. “Why, Mr. Nelson, I happened to just be thinking of you.”

“I like the sound of that.”

What was Nelson doing flirting with Marguerite? He knew she was an engaged woman.

Jealousy poked Trip solidly in the chest. Engaged, yes, and not to him. Still, Nelson didn’t need to fawn over her like a lovesick dandy.

She laughed and handed Nelson the sheet of paper. “Think you can make your sweet
Windy Sue
look like this warship?”

“You planning to help me?”

“Sorry, Mr. Nelson. I have too much to do to decorate boats, but I’m sure I could get a few of the other girls to help. How about Emily Graham and Sally Voght? They’ve volunteered, and I think they’d make excellent assistants for someone such as yourself.”

He grinned. “Sure. That’d be great.”

Trip waited until Nelson left before he approached Marguerite. “What’s on the agenda for the rest of our day?”

“I thought we could spend the afternoon working on the
Endeavor
’s decorations.”

“My boat? But I just heard you tell John – ”

A smile bloomed across her face. “You were eavesdropping on my conversation. Shame on you. Now, about your boat . . .”

“I wasn’t sure I was going to enter her yet.”

“Trip, you have to. You’re in charge, and I planned to make yours the most spectacular ship in the armada. I even drew up plans. Look.” She flipped through her stack of papers and handed him an elaborate drawing of the
Endeavor
decorated to look like an ironclad warship. “See the powder guns and smokestacks? There’s even a howitzer on the bow.”

“And how exactly are we going to change my thirty-two-foot sailboat into a warship?”

“Come on. I’ll show you.” She jumped up from the desk, grabbed her rubber bag and tablet, and headed for the door. She reached it before she realized he wasn’t following. “Come on, Mr. Andrews. We don’t have all day.”

Too bad. Suddenly he wished they did.

To Trip’s surprise, Marguerite had already arranged the supplies needed to decorate the
Endeavor
to be delivered to the boat shop. He scanned the roll of chicken wire, sacks of flour, and bolt of gauzy cheesecloth as she proclaimed the boat would make an excellent battleship.

“We need the flour first.” She reached for a large bag and struggled to drag it.

He nudged her out of the way and hefted it onto his shoulder. “Where do you want this?”

“On the dock.” She pulled an apron from her bag and slipped it over her head, then scooped up two tin buckets. He followed her out with the flour.

After dropping the flour sack onto the pier with a thud, he turned to see her precariously leaning over the edge of the dock, filling one of the buckets with water. One slip and he’d be pulling her out of the lake once again. Quickly he dropped beside her and took the bucket, brushing her hand in the process. She met his eyes. Clearly she’d felt it too. The tiny current that had passed between them.

He cleared his throat. “Okay. Before we go any further, you have to tell me what you’re planning to do, because I highly doubt you’re making bread with lake water, flour, and a stick.”

“How about pancakes?” she teased. “I like mine with a lot of maple syrup.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. Fine, you get the first bite.”

She giggled. “Actually, we’re making papier-mâché.”

Had he heard her right? “You aren’t putting flour and water on my boat.”

“Of course not.” She yanked on the string sealing the burlap flour sack and it gave way. “At least not until it dries.” She glanced at the water crock just inside the doorway. “Can you hand me that tin cup?”

“For what?”

“Making the paste.” Dipping the cup into the flour, she began to fill the empty bucket.

“It would work faster if you had a milk pitcher.”

She added some water to the flour, picked up a scrap piece of board, and stirred the mixture until it made a watery paste. She lifted the board and let it drizzle from the end. “Too thin.”

Trip cleared his throat and shifted uneasily. “Now, about what you’re doing with this paste . . .”

Alternately adding water and flour, she continued, “We make a frame for the ship out of the chicken wire, and then we cut the gauze into strips, dip it in this, and put it on the frame. It will take a few layers, but when it dries, we’ll paint it and mount the frame on the
Endeavor
.”

“It’ll never work.” He shook his head in disbelief.

She rolled her eyes at him. “They’ve been making Mardi Gras masks like this for years. Floats too. Even some of the floats at the Independence Day parade in town were made of papier-mâché. Remember the giant rooster?”

He nodded. Who could forget the cock mounted on the hayrack with a sign proudly advertising Red Rooster Coffee? “Then I’m guessing I get to make the frame.”

“And Emily Graham didn’t think you had a brain inside that handsome head of yours.”

When she tilted her face and giggled, the sunlight kissed her honey-colored hair bound in a bun on top of her head. He ached to see it free, touch it, feel its silkiness slip between his fingers.

He took a step back. “Uh, I’ll just go get started inside.”

“The plan’s in my satchel. I’ll bring this in when it’s ready.”

“Marguerite, don’t you dare try to lift that. I’ll come get it.” He flashed a smile. “Just try not to fall in the lake while I’m gone.”

Today was a mistake and Marguerite knew it. But try as she might, she couldn’t bring herself to feel guilty about relishing her time in Trip’s company. He’d even started calling her Marguerite again instead of the formal-sounding Miss Westing. Surely it wouldn’t hurt if they remained friends. Couldn’t they at least be that?

As soon as Trip went back inside, she removed her celluloid cuffs, stuffed them in the pocket of her apron, and rolled up her sleeves. If she got paste on her clothes, she’d receive a lecture from Alice.

She finished mixing a second bucket of paste just as Trip appeared. Straightening, she pressed her hands to the small of her back, which ached from being hunched over. “You’re finished already?”

“With one section, but I just didn’t want you trying to haul those pails in.” A dimpled grin erupted on his face. He stepped forward and brushed his callused fingertips across her cheek. “Flour.”

“Oh.”

Taking one pail in each of his large hands, he carried them inside and deposited them near the chicken-wire frame he’d created. Like his boats, he’d created a piece of art.

“What do you think?”

“Trip, it’s perfect.”

He beamed. “It’s chicken wire.”

“It won’t be for much longer.” She crossed the workshop and brought the bolt of cloth over. “We need to cut this into two-foot lengths. Do you have a knife?”

Trip produced one from his pocket, and together they commenced making a pile of cheesecloth rags.

“Now for the fun part.” Marguerite sank the first strip of cheesecloth into the paste, withdrew it, and ran her hand along its slippery sides to remove part of the glue. “Do you want to do the honors and put the first one on?”

Bending at the waist, he swept his arm in front of his body. “I believe it’s customary for a woman to do the christening honors.”

She grinned and draped the soggy piece over the chicken-wire stern. “I christen you the battleship . . .” She glanced at him to fill in the blank.

“
Marguerite
.”

“You want to name a battleship after me?”

He chuckled. “Seems appropriate.”

She rolled her eyes. “I christen you the
USS Marguerite
. May she fight as well as I do.”

“I should’ve expected that.” A teasing glint sparked in his hazel eyes. “Do I get to help too?”

“Absolutely.” She took a strip and lowered it into the mixture.

“Now what?”

“Just watch again. First you take your hand and run it down the strip to take some of the paste off. Like this.” She demonstrated, and the slurry oozed between her fingers. She laid the cloth across the wire frame. “Then you have to smooth it out.”

He ran his hands along the slippery surface beside hers. When their hands touched, he cleared his throat. “I think I’ve got it now.”

She swallowed hard and pulled her hands away, willing her frantic heart to still. Her eyes darted to Trip. Only the pulse ticking beneath his eye gave notice that the encounter had jarred him.

We can do this. We can at least be friends
.

Marguerite cautioned Trip that they shouldn’t make the first layer too thick or it wouldn’t dry. When they finished with the frame an hour later, Marguerite attempted to wipe the paste from her caked arms with a piece of wood. “Look at me. I’m a mess.”

She glanced at Trip. With his face dotted and his well-defined arms coated, he resembled some sort of specter.

He wiped the worst of it off his hands with a rag. “This is useless. Let’s go for a swim.”

“Excuse me?”

“I saw you carrying your swim bag. Isn’t your suit inside?”

“Yes, Lilly and I are going for a dip later, but – ”

“Good, you can show me how well you’re doing on learning to swim.” He didn’t let her protest. Instead he snagged her bag from the workbench and thrust it into her hand. “You can change upstairs in my room. I believe you know where it is.”

“But Trip, what will people say if they see us?”

“We’ll swim here – out back. No one is around this time of the day besides Dad and me. If it’ll make you feel better, it’s time for him to come down for some fresh air. He can come out and sit on the dock while we swim.”

Marguerite hesitated. That should be fine. No one would question Captain Deuce Andrews as a chaperone, and with his father watching, Trip would do nothing that might get either of them in trouble. Besides, she did need to wash up, and a dip in the lake would feel divine.

Before she could change her mind, she hurried up the stairs.

By the time Trip emerged with his father, Marguerite was sitting on the dock, her black-stocking-clad feet dangling in the water. Immediately Trip’s eyes traveled to her shapely calves and ankles. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

“She looks good in a bathing suit, huh?” his father whispered as Trip settled him in a deck chair.

“Dad, she’s engaged.”

“Haven’t you fixed that yet?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Whatever you say, son.”

Marguerite turned and waved to them. “Hello, Captain. You’re looking much better.”

“Thanks, Miss Westing. You look pretty good yourself.”

“Dad!” Trip whispered.

“Oh, go on and enjoy yourselves. See if you can change her mind about you-know-who.”

“I don’t know if I can. She thinks she has to marry Roger Gordon or her family will go broke. Her dad has a gambling problem and lost everything.”