Making Waves (37 page)

“But my family – ”

“Lord knows I understand that, but there’s got to be another way. Your father made money before, and he can find a way to do it again. God will provide.”

If he’d yelled at her, she would have been able to fight back, but when he picked up both of her hands in his own, all her resolve vanished like the fluff on a dandelion.

He searched her face. “Please, don’t marry him.”

“Trip, I . . .”

He squeezed her hands and let them go. Slowly he stood. The stool grated on the floor of the workshop. “It’s your decision, Marguerite. More than anything, I want you to be happy. I won’t push you or tell you what to do, but I also can’t do this anymore.” He looked around the workshop and sighed.

Noticing the name
USS Maggie
had been outlined on the boat, she knew exactly what he meant. This had been their secret place for the last week – a place where they could pretend no Rogers, engagements, gambling debts, or lies existed.

“If you stay with him, I can’t simply be your friend.” His voice broke when he spoke. “I love you. I hate the thought of that man holding you and calling you his. I can’t pretend this is enough anymore. Actually, Marguerite, I just won’t.”

What could she say? He was absolutely right. She pushed herself to her trembling legs and left the boat shop in silence. At the door she met Harry bearing the glass of ice water. She waved him off, tears brimming on her lashes, and pushed past him.

Her heart pounded with each step she took away from Trip. It was over. This time for good. Her fate had been sealed.

At least God had let her feel truly loved.

But would the pain of having lost that ever go away?

He wasn’t there.

Marguerite had arrived at the Yacht Club before breakfast and scanned the committee members for Trip’s presence. His absence underscored what he’d said yesterday, and the emptiness ripped through her.

She forced herself to focus on the task at hand. With the Water Carnival only a day away, the men and women present were hard at work. A group of ladies chatted and giggled as they slid red, orange, yellow, and blue Chinese lanterns onto a rope. Another group continued to craft more elaborate lanterns to hang from the trees.

The clang of metal outside led her to investigate. She followed the sound to the back of the Yacht Club, where a couple of men were constructing a small platform.

“Grab that other pipe.” Harry motioned to his fellow crewmate Mel to bring him another short length of lead pipe. He screwed it in place next to the other foot cylinders, then looked up from his work. “Mornin’, Marguerite. Feeling better?”

“Much, thank you.”

“Trip said he’d be working on the island all day, arranging the fireworks there. I’m rowing this mortarboard over as soon as we’ve finished. Want to come?”

“No, I’m afraid I have a lot to do here.”

“Don’t work too hard.” He adjusted his sailor’s cap and resumed threading the next pipe in place.

Marguerite recalled Trip explaining how the fireworks would have to be shot off from the shore. The pipes, or mortars, attached to boards would be set along the shore and inside the “forts.” She smiled, thinking about the elaborate plans he’d drawn up with his strong, angular script noting each detail. Timing, he insisted, was everything.

And that was true about more than fireworks. She swallowed the watermelon-sized lump in her throat. Why couldn’t she have met Trip before Roger Gordon entered her life? Or before her father had started gambling . . .

But she hadn’t.

And today Trip Andrews was as scarce as a snowflake in July.

The cavernous hole in her heart widened. If she could just see him, talk to him, even for a minute . . .

Emily Graham shouted her name and Marguerite acknowledged her with a limp wave.

“Do you think this flower garland is long enough?” Emily called over the din of the workers.

No time for self-pity. Marguerite took a deep, fortifying breath and hiked up her navy work skirt to cross the lawn.

Emily and her decorating committee had strewn mounds of blossoms across the picnic table and arranged them in piles – multicolored zinnias, magenta coneflowers, yellow marigolds, a mix of sweet peas, pale blue cornflowers, and a collection of roses.

Thick-waisted Rose Doughman held up the newly completed garland with a variety of flowers secured to the string of lush ivy and ferns. “So, what do you think?”

“It’s perfect. The flowers will be the crowning glory of the boats.”

“Warships with flowers still sound odd to me.” Hannah Townsend grunted. “But I suppose this is a carnival.”

Emily seemed to drink in the beehive of activity and practically glowed. “It certainly is. I can just feel the excitement in the air. Can’t you, Marguerite?”

“Yes, of course.” Marguerite forced a smile. “You ladies keep up the good work.”

Taking out her notepaper, Marguerite studied the to-do list she’d made for herself this morning. The letters blurred on the page and a tear splashed on the ink. The letter
t
magnified beneath the perfect half circle.

She shook the paper and the tear ran off the side, smearing the word. There wasn’t any time for this. What was wrong with her? She’d made her decision. Marrying Roger would assure that her parents and brother would be cared for. There wasn’t a choice. What kind of person would she be if she allowed them to become destitute because of her selfishness? And what would happen to Lilly and Alice?

A man cleared his throat behind her, and she spun, hopes soaring for a brief second. Her heart plummeted at the sight of Harry, his mop of curls wiggling in the wind.

“Marguerite, you got a minute? I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

“If there’s a problem with the mortars, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“No, the mortars are all set.” He removed his cap and held it in his hands. “This isn’t easy, so I’m just going to say it. I know something’s been going on between you and Trip and that other fellow. I can’t for the life of me figure out why you chose that other guy when there’s no finer man in the whole state than Trip Andrews.”

Her lips thinned to a tight line. Trip had told Harry about Roger.

“Trip’s my best mate, and I haven’t seen him hurt this bad since . . . well, never.”

“I don’t think it’s proper for us to be discussing this.”

“Probably not, but I don’t stand on ceremony. I have only one more thing to tell you. You’re a great girl, Marguerite, but for his sake, I hope that after tomorrow he never has to see you again.”

She stepped back as if she’d been slapped. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“Intentions rarely mean much.” He glowered. “You’re making a big mistake. Anyone who has eyes can look at the two of you and see you have something special. What does that other fellow have? Money? Prestige? Power? I know you didn’t tell us the truth about wanting to learn to sail, but I never took you for the kind of girl who’d betray Trip for all that.”

“That’s enough, Harry.”

Trip’s smooth baritone voice made her heart whirl like a windmill. She spun toward him and met his gaze. The warm golden flecks that had welcomed her yesterday had been replaced with hardened dark ones.

“Miss Westing.” He nodded. “We’re heading over to practice with the boats for tomorrow. I thought you might want to preview the show.”

“Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.”

“I wasn’t doing it to be thoughtful, just thorough.” Without so much as a goodbye, he turned on his heel and strode away.

Instantly she felt the sting of a hundred bees in her heart.

Harry shot her one more hard glare and walked off after him, muttering a string of insults referring to her as a money-grabbing, coldhearted . . .

Liar.

Wrapping her arms around her middle, she leaned against a tree and slid down its length in a sliver of shade.

Lord, give me the courage to do what I need to do
.

Half an hour later, Marguerite sufficiently gathered herself to walk north past the boat shop. She spotted the square fort erected on Coney Island for tomorrow’s show. It stood on four poles at least six feet in the air. Two more “buildings” were on the ground and a makeshift fence surrounded them. Pride swelled in her chest at how hard the men had worked to make the naval battle appear authentic.

She moved to the end of the dock. The smooth water amplified the voices on the boats, and she was surprised at how clearly she could hear.

On the lake, Trip stood in the bow of the
Endeavor
– now temporarily bearing the name
USS Maggie
– shouting orders to the smaller boats. The larger ones, like his father’s
Argo
, represented the battleships and remained anchored. Complete with freshly painted papier-mâché turrets and Dahlgren howitzers, it wasn’t hard for her to picture them engaged in the heated battle with fireworks blazing. The smaller rowboats, which acted as gunboats, wove between the larger ones under Trip’s carefully orchestrated direction.

Not once did he appear to grow flustered or weary. Not once did he bellow or become ill-tempered. He simply told the boats where to go and on what signal. How did he do it? Stepping into his father’s shoes had been easy. Filling them was something altogether different. He probably hadn’t noticed how the others accepted his leadership without question, or how much trust he garnered from both young and old.

After they’d gone through the entire program once, he made them repeat it two more times. Even then, despite a bit of grumbling, they complied. Finally he told all the ships to dock and then meet him.

Marguerite moved a few yards off as she listened to Trip’s final warnings regarding safety.

“Each of the fireworks on the floating fort and at the stationary fort are positioned so that they won’t harm anything on your own boat. However, it’s your job to make sure you don’t direct anything at anyone else’s boat either. It’ll be dark, so you’ll have to remember where you’re supposed to be and when you’re supposed to shoot off your rockets. And remember, timing is everything.”

Timing! Marguerite opened her watch pinned to her bodice – 12:30. Half an hour late for lunch with Roger. Great. Fisting her skirts, she hiked them up and darted between the strolling couples on the Grand Plaza. She raced up the stairs of the pavilion in a most unladylike fashion. Stepping inside the open-air pavilion, she scanned the area for Roger, pausing only to straighten her hat and shake out her skirt. If she was lucky, perhaps Roger had been held up as well.
Held up by a
robber with a very large gun
.

She giggled. Even Roger didn’t deserve that. She arranged the tails of the ascot-like bow at her neck, smoothed her hair, and placed her hand on the door latch leading to the restaurant.

Roger’s thick hand clamped on her wrist and yanked it back. “Where have you been?” he hissed, pulling her against his chest.

“You know where I’ve been.”

“With him.”

“Working on the carnival.” She fought to wrench her wrist free, but his fingers dug into her tender flesh. “Roger, let go of me.”

“I have no intention of ever letting you go.” He squeezed harder, pressed her against the wall, and let the threat beneath his words sink in.

Icy fear seeped into every pore of her body. “Roger, you’re making a scene.”

His mustache twitched with amusement. “No one notices a little lover’s spat, darling.”

“They will if I scream.”

“You wouldn’t.”

She cocked an eyebrow. Did he really believe she wouldn’t? His hot breath against her cheek tempted her to spit in his face. Before she could get the courage to do so, he removed his hand from her wrist, one finger at a time.

Sidestepping him, she rubbed the chafed wrist, willing her heart to settle its relentless chugging.
Relax, you’re free
. But she didn’t feel free. She felt trapped. Penned. Caged.

How had her father described Roger? That he liked the sound of his own voice far more than he could ever like anyone else? That same day, he’d also said he wanted her to marry a man who held her heart. And what Roger wanted was to possess her. To have her.

What am I supposed to do, Lord?