Making Waves

by Lorna Seilstad

  “Actually, I believe it was Artemis who killed him – the goddess of the hunt.”

  “Oh, how could I have forgotten?”

  Was this stab-Marguerite-to-death-slowly day? She sighed. “What can I do for you, Trip? I have work to do.”

  “Correction. We have work to do.” He pulled his chair up to the desk. “I’m taking over for my dad.”

  “I … I can handle this. You need to tend to his health.”

  “You’d deny his dying request?”

  “Trip, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize he – ”

  Trip laughed. “No, he’s alive. In fact, Doc says he’s much better today, but he did make me promise to take his place working on this brouhaha.”

  “It’s the Water Carnival, and if that’s his wish, I’ll gather my things.” She stood up and collected her papers. “I’m sure you don’t want me around.”

  “I don’t, but he does. He says you’re part of the deal. I won’t say I’m happy about it, but I’ll do it for him. The last thing I want to do right now is upset him. This is business, not personal. Can we be civil to one another for a few weeks?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. Sit back down and show me what needs to be done.”

  Summer at Lake Manawa was always balmy, even with the breeze off the water, but in the last few days, Trip had found that being in the same room with Marguerite raised the humid summer temperatures to an unbearable degree. Everywhere he turned in the small office, she was there. Did she have any idea what the brush of her shoulder or accidental touch of their hands did to him? Didn’t she feel the undercurrent that still surged between them?

  And if her physical presence wasn’t enough, wherever she moved, she left a rose-scented path in her wake. His irritation grew each time his nerves tingled, and the fact that his empty stomach now growled at the late afternoon hour didn’t help.

  He rubbed the crick in the back of his neck. “Are we about done?”

  Marguerite waved a paper fan in front of her face. “Almost, but I still have a few things on my list.”

  “Like?”

  She held up a sheet of paper. “How did the work on the floating fort go yesterday?”

  “Well, it sure isn’t floating yet.”

  “That isn’t what I asked and you know it.”

  He leaned back in his chair and chuckled. “It’s as hot as a piece of coal in a tinder box in here. Why don’t we go for a walk and you can take a look for yourself?”

  “I’d better not.”

  The light extinguished from her eyes, and he felt a twinge of concern. “Why?”

  “It’s just best if Roger doesn’t see us together.”

  An uneasy feeling took root that Trip couldn’t shake. His memory shot back to the dance when Roger Gordon had appeared less than gentlemanly. “He’s not giving you any trouble, is he?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle.” Forcing a smile, she stood from the desk and began to gather her things. “Did you look at the time? If I don’t hurry, I’ll be late for my own birthday dinner.”

  “It’s your birthday?”

  She covered her lips with her hand. “I didn’t mean to let that slip.”

  “Is Roger taking you to Louie’s?”

  “No, I don’t think he even knows it’s a special day.”

  “Your fiancé doesn’t know your birthday? Why not?”

  She shrugged. “He never asked.”

  If he hadn’t already loathed the man, he did now. What kind of suitor didn’t find out important things like that?

  Trip studied Marguerite for a minute. Beneath the silk roses adorning her straw hat, a vulnerable, pale-faced woman stared back at him. Good. She should be miserable.

  His heart pinched. He couldn’t think about her that way no matter how hard he tried. He rose to his feet and offered her a lopsided grin. “We could go get some ice cream in honor of the special occasion. I know how much you like it.”

  The corners of her mouth lifted slightly, and for a moment he saw a familiar twinkle in her cornflower blue eyes. Then she blinked and it was gone. She tucked her lower lip between her teeth. “Thank you, Trip. Truly. But I’d better go.”

  Then, before he could stop himself, he brushed her creamy cheek with a kiss. “Happy birthday, Marguerite.”

  Touching her cheek with her hand, Marguerite fought the powerful sadness building inside. With Camp Andromeda only a few yards away, she prayed she could make it to her tent before any tears fell from her misty eyes. Coming in the back way, she was sure to avoid her mother’s questions about her tardiness. Today of all days she should be allowed to be a tad sneaky.

  Why did it have to be so hard? She was trying to do the right thing, and she was doing this for her family. Why had God put Trip back in her life to face every day? A tear escaped and she batted it away. Happy birthday to me.

  She shook her head. She mustn’t dwell on the emptiness in her heart. Maybe if she thought of something besides how right Trip’s kiss had felt, she could silence the deafening sadness. But what?

  Almond cake. Alice always made it for her birthday, and it was her favorite as well as her father’s. Another thing the two of them shared.

  Presents? Since her father had gambled the family’s money away, she didn’t expect any of those.

  A special evening? Not if Roger was involved.

  She neared her parents’ tent and heard voices coming from within. Immediately she recognized Roger’s deep intonation.

  “I don’t like her working on that Water Carnival, and I want to make something clear to you, Edward.” Roger’s voice held a hint of a threat. “If Marguerite changes her mind about our engagement, then the business deal is off. It’s your responsibility to see that this marriage occurs.”

  Now was her father’s chance. He could end this whole charade. He could set her free.

  Edward cleared his throat. “She won’t change her mind. I’ll make sure of that.”

  Stomach wadding into a ball, Marguerite fought the lump in her throat. I won’t scream. I won’t cry.

  She had to escape. Scurrying back down the path, she ran in the direction of the gambling den – the place that had ruined everything, poisoned her father, corrupted his heart, and made him a slave to cards. He’d sell anything for the money now. Even her.

  Sinking onto a log, she shook with sobs. All those times he’d been her hero … When awful Laura Thompson had locked her in the icehouse, he’d come to the rescue. After her mother had told her that science was for men, her father gave her books about the stars and told her she should dream big. He’d even saved Lilly’s position when her mother wanted to send her away.

  Memories flooded her thoughts, one after another. Things aren’t always what they seem to be. Roger’s words haunted her. Had Roger known the truth about her father all along?

  “Miss Marguerite.” Alice lowered her ample body onto the log beside her. “I thought I saw you running off.” She draped a heavy arm around Marguerite’s shaking shoulders, pulled her against her, and held her while she sobbed.

  After a minute, Marguerite raised her head, and Alice dried her tears with the hem of her apron.

  “D-d-did you hear Daddy and Roger?”

  “Hard not to.”

  “Daddy had his chance. All he had to do was tell Roger no. He could have saved me.”

  Alice passed her a hanky from the pocket of her apron. “He isn’t your savior, child.”

  “Well, it doesn’t look like my heavenly Father is any more reliable in getting me out of this than my earthly father has been.” She sniffled and blew into the handkerchief.

  Alice sighed. “Miss Marguerite, I love you like my own, but you are one stubborn girl. You know, you could’ve gotten yourself out of this a long time ago. You just didn’t want to tell Mr. Gordon the truth.”

  “So you think this is my fault because I didn’t turn Roger down in the beginning?” She felt another stab of betrayal, and she couldn’t keep the edge from creeping i
nto her tone. “I didn’t ask to be forced to marry Roger Gordon to save our family.”

  “Now, don’t get yourself in a dither. Hear me out. When you said yes to Mr. Gordon’s proposal, it was because you felt trapped. You were doing what you thought you had to do. But deep down, you didn’t intend to go through with it. In a way, I think you’ve been countin’ on your daddy coming to your rescue all along.” The wind blew and a shadow drifted across Alice’s face.

  “No, I haven’t,” Marguerite snapped. Alice didn’t flinch. After a few moments, Marguerite released a long breath. “I don’t know, maybe you’re right. I just thought he’d find another way. I didn’t think he’d sell me.” A pain the size of a comet shot through her heart, and fresh tears moistened her lashes. “I thought he loved me more than he did his money.”

  Alice took her hand and squeezed it. “Child, I think he does. He just doesn’t remember that right now. Satan’s got a foothold.”

  “And I still have to go through with this … this marriage.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I love my family, Alice. I can’t see them penniless. And what would happen to you and Lilly?”

  “God took care of us when I lost my Peter, and He brought us to your family. He’ll do it again if need be.” Alice laughed. “Besides, my Lilly says she could always work for you and Mr. Boring.”

  Marguerite moaned. “I’m trapped. Totally and completely hemmed in. What am I going to do?”

  Standing, Alice shook out her skirt. “I don’t know the answer, but I know Who does, and you do too. Why don’t you go back to your tent and pray about it? Besides, it’s your birthday, and Lilly’s got a present for you.”

  “She made me a gift?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “She bought one?”

  “No, didn’t say that either.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll just have to go ask her.”

  Marguerite found Lilly inside their tent. After sharing with her friend what she’d heard, the two of them prayed for answers. When Marguerite could hold her tongue no longer, she mentioned what Alice had said about a gift.

  Lilly laughed. “I reckon you’re dying to know what it is, aren’t you? My present is that I’m going to teach you to swim. I found us a nice, quiet place where we can practice in the afternoons.”

  “Oh, Lilly, how can I thank you?”

  Lilly grinned, revealing her stunning smile. “By being a good student and doing what I tell you.”

  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 shif
ted 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.”