Making Waves (8 page)

Trip righted her bicycle and propped it against the park bench located only yards from the front door of the boat shop. “Miss Westing, I don’t think I understood a word of that after ‘We came for sailing lessons.’”

“Me.” Mark dismounted and stood beside her with his bike still in hand. He jabbed a thumb into his chest. “I came for lessons, but my dad won’t let me take them unless she gets to be on the boat too.”

“This is your brother?” he asked Marguerite.

“Yes, this is Mark. Mark, say hello to Mr. Andrews.”

Mark stuck out his hand and Trip shook it.

“And why won’t your father let him take lessons alone?” Trip eyed the boy suspiciously.

Marguerite straightened Mark’s collar. “He’s a bit impetuous.” “I can watch out for that. No need for you to come along.”

“That’s what I said.” Mark looked up at her. “I don’t need a nursemaid.”

“Mark.” Her voice dropped in warning, and she tucked an errant strand of wispy hair behind her ear. “My father forbids him from taking lessons unless I’m on board as well to oversee his instruction.”

“In that case, the answer’s no.” Trip turned on his heel and started inside.

“Wait!” Marguerite called. “My father will pay double.”

Trip stopped and frowned. “My decisions can’t be bought.”

“I apologize. I didn’t mean to imply differently. Can you at least give us a reason?”

“First of all,” he said, stepping closer and holding up his hand to tick off the count, “I don’t teach ladies how to sail.”

“But she’s not the student, I am,” Mark insisted.

He turned toward Mark. “Okay, second, if you’re that much of a troublemaker, I don’t want any part of it. A boat is no place for a kid to play.”

“He’ll take his lessons seriously. I’ll see to that.” She laid her hand on her brother’s shoulder.

“And third, can you swim?”

Mark tried to shrug off her hand, to no avail. “Sure, I can swim like a fish.”

“Not you – her. And before you answer, remember, I’ve seen your abilities firsthand.” He crossed his arms over his chest, revealing solid muscles beneath rolled-up shirtsleeves.

Mouth suddenly dry, Marguerite licked her lips. What difference would one more white lie make? God understood. Besides, he didn’t ask how well she could swim. She could dog-paddle with the best of breeds.

A long time ago, she’d learned that when lying, it was best to stick as close to the facts as possible. That way she could state the facts convincingly.

She forced a smile. “Yes, Mr. Andrews, I can take care of myself. The other day I was caught off guard and my skirt wrapped around my legs.”

Mark opened his mouth to protest, but Marguerite dug her fingers into his shoulder, and he clamped it shut.

“Are you sure?” Trip’s eyes bore into her. “’Cause I don’t let anyone on my boat who can’t swim. It’s just too dangerous.”

Was he softening? Marguerite pressed on. “Mr. Andrews, we’ve already assured you that we can. What else do you need to know?”

“How does your mother feel about this?” Trip kept his gaze nailed to her face.

Great. In for a penny
. . . Marguerite took a deep breath. This one she could handle. “Suffice it to say that my mother fully supports any of Mark’s endeavors.”

Mark elbowed her side. “Please, Mr. Andrews. Don’t let my dad’s dumb ideas keep me from learning to sail.”

One side of Trip’s mouth lifted. “Fathers usually have a reason for doing what they do.”

“He has a point, Mark.”

“But, Mr. Andrews, can’t I learn even if she has to tag along?”

“I am not tagging along. I am supervising your lessons.”

“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.”

“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.”