“Oh there is.” She took another sip of her drink. “Did you bring any work to show me? Or would you rather keep on dissecting me?”
“Not dissecting. Observing.” He slid his portfolio toward her, his cologne wafting.
Her intent for a carb overdose was temporarily forgotten. If his samples were half as amazing as he smelled, she could see herself stupidly agreeing to his business terms, signing a contract, and maybe adding a misshaped heart to her name.
She blinked away her juvenile mental lapse. Gucci cologne always had a trancing effect. She opened the sleek black binder, and with a critical gaze, perused his designs of music covers, flyers, invitations, and photographs. He had somewhat of a classic flair. Nothing flamboyant. Or flowery. Clear-cut lines, lots of use of black-and-white. There weren’t many pieces though, making her curious as to how long he’d been in business. Either that or he’d chosen his best work to feature.
“Very nice,” she finally conceded. “Though I noticed the dates on these are from last year. Have you got anything recent?”
“Afraid not. Something came up that stole a lot of my attention.” He folded his pizza in half and ate it like a sandwich.
She waited for him to finish chewing. “What kind of something?”
“Sorry, personal.”
Hmm. She wasn’t about to press. If she knew anything, she knew the value in respecting privacy. But what if the something was a toxic behavior? Like alcohol or drug addiction? “Will this personal business stand in the way of your work for the Belle?”
He draped his arm along the top of the bench. “No.”
“Do you work freelance, or do you belong to a design agency?”
“Just me.”
“Do you have a website?” She scanned the front of the portfolio for any contact information. “Any place I can check reviews of your service?”
He reached over and pointed to a pocket. “There’s a business card tucked right there.”
“Oh.” She slid her hand into the pouch and retrieved it. “I need these designs soon. Like in ten days. Are you able to promise to have the work done and to my satisfaction?”
“I promise to satisfy you any way I can.” With one flip of his full lips, the man could deceive any girl that his smile was solely meant for her.
But she wasn’t naive anymore. “That needs to stop.”
“What?” And now his tone was innocent.
“Your outrageous flirting.”
“I can’t help it. I have a weakness for beautiful women.”
Beautiful? In a worn hat and T-shirt? Now she knew he was being over the top. “This contest is huge for me. Like ridiculously huge. I need you to take it seriously for this to work.”
“Why’s it mean so much?” The mischief in his eyes waned to something else. He really seemed interested in her answer.
“Once Upon a Wedding is big time.” Not Space Station big time, but important to the wedding industry. Her industry. “Everyone wants featured in that magazine. It’s an honor to be recognized by such an elite organization. Winning this award would bring a lot of traffic to the Belle.”
“But what does it mean to you?”
So much. To prove she could be successful without Travis. That she could dream again. “Let’s just say I had some major things flop over this past year.” She held his gaze. “It feels like God’s giving me a second chance.” To do things the right way. His way. “I don’t want to mess it up.”
Those dark gray eyes so playful a moment ago were now arrested on her. She almost startled at their intensity. She may have said more than she’d intended, but nothing she hadn’t meant. If her mentioning God freaked him out, then so be it.
Whatever lure held him was broken by the tilting of his lips into an enticing smile. “So what do you say? Does my work fit what you’re looking for? Do we have a deal?”
Devyn stared at her napkin-wrapped cutlery. Using his services for all the design needs would definitely help the budget. She could use that money elsewhere—securing the entertainment, beefing up the menu, purchasing décor. “We need to cooperate. As in, if I want more fluff, you need to be able to adjust your tastes to suit mine. Agreed?”
He hesitated a second, then held her with a look. “Agreed.”
“Okay. Good.” She swallowed. “Also, if we’re going to work together on your project, I need all the info you have on Hattie. What have you got?”
“Not much.” He leaned back, a dark curl falling over his forehead. The man really had nice hair. Travis’s style was somewhat of a phenomenon, the way it could defy gravity, withstand hurricane winds, all the while holding a glossy shine as if he’d stuffed sunlight into each follicle. It was also untouchable. Not so with Chase’s. His hair leaned on the flirty side, purposely overgrown, curling at the tips, daring a woman’s fingers to course through it.
She blinked. Her train of thought wasn’t only derailed but charging off a cliff into forbidden waters. “Where’d you find that photo?”
“In an old trunk at my great-grandfather’s house.” He idly toyed with the edges of his napkin. “I was about eight when he died. The last few years of his life, Pap suffered from Alzheimer’s.”
“I’m sorry.”
He accepted her condolences with a nod. “I only found the picture recently, but I knew right away it was her.”
“What do you mean?”
“Pap would fall into a dark mood, a place no one could reach him. I was young, but I remember the pain in his voice. He’d get this haunted look in his eyes when he said her name.”
“Hattie’s?”
“Yeah. He’d say it over and over. Sometimes there was an apology with it. ‘I’m sorry, Hattie. It’s my fault.’” His gaze dipped to his fingers. “When I saw her name on the back and the sign Idlewild behind her, I thought it was worth exploring.”
He spoke as if he was the one who needed closure. As if his great-grandfather’s secrets had become his own.
The photo was intriguing. And something about Hattie called to Devyn. Perhaps it was the same reason as Chase’s. To discover her story. Her secrets. But sometimes secrets, when exposed, only served heartbreak. “Do you know what connection your Pap had with this woman?”
He peered at her from beneath a fringe of dark lashes. “I think he might have been in love with her.”
Chapter 7
Hattie
The morning breeze that whispered through the cattails lining the riverbank had shifted to an all-out gale by noontime. Passengers brave enough to venture onto the decks for the picnic excursion clamped their hands to their hats lest the felt boaters or turbans be swept into the river. All others seemed satisfied to pass time in the main room.The older crowd gazed out the windows, idly chatting. Those younger loitered around the refreshment table or cut up on the dance floor.
At least my excursion tasks hadn’t changed, considering I was the only crewman who could not only play—but tolerate—the calliope on gusty days. Nothing like performing “Swanee River” while being pelted with steam mixed with cylinder oil.
The chipper melody had seemed like a dirge. How many more times would I get to press my fingers to the brass keys? Welcome patrons to their river adventure with merry tunes?
Continuing in my melancholy mood, I’d then endured piano duty in the main room. The snappy jazz music pounded my skull for two full hours, resulting in a fierce headache. Break time couldn’t arrive soon enough. I nodded to the bandleader and headed toward the refreshment tables.
Giggles, high-pitched and grating, erupted from a few yards away. I pressed a finger to my temple, squeezing my lids shut against the stab of pain. For the love of healthy eardrums, did they have to screech that way? I cast an exasperated glance toward the young ladies and discovered the source of their enamored glee—Jack Marshall.
During the course of this voyage, he’d done all things with an air of finesse. Nodding with a warm smile to the women and extending a firm handshake to the gentlemen. Yet the
re’d been something else behind his pleasantries. Something that had carried over from this morning’s double—no, triple—check of the cargo hold. As if reading my suspicion, his gaze lifted and locked on mine. The corners of his mouth climbed higher, but I held my face neutral.
Only when a fellow approached him with a hoard of young ladies—the man’s daughters and friends, I presumed—did our staring match end, and I realized I could breathe again. Still, I watched the interactions with subtle interest. The older gentleman only hung around long enough to make introductions then abandoned the first mate to the mercy of giggling females around my age.
The July temperatures and multitude of breathing bodies had made the room a few notches above stifling, but these women took their skills with their fans to an entirely different level. Almost like some art form. Fanning their coy faces to stir ringlets of hair, then pressing the silk contraptions to their hearts, drawing attention to their bosoms. The entire charade made my skin itch.
One young lady dressed in a fashionable frock—complete with lace gloves and net-cloche hat—laughed at everything Jack said and every so often gently placed a hand on his arm. She angled forward, stealing streaks of sunlight pouring in from the window to cast a golden hue to her light brown hair.
And this was the world Duffy wanted me to enter? I had no more talent in using a fan than I had in flirting with a complete stranger. Or any male for that matter. Being the only female besides the middle-aged cook aboard the steam vessel, I’d grown up alongside men. I could discuss at length the flow of pipes in the boiler room, but couldn’t for the life of me flirt.
I moved to retreat to the other side of the room, though I had to pass First Mate Charming and his host of admirers.
“Miss Louis.” Jack Marshall’s voice held an edge of authority that made me bristle. “I need to speak with you.”
Too soon, the man was at my side. With a hand to my elbow, he led me across the floor to my intended destination.
His searching gaze no doubt read the question in my eyes. “Forgive me.” He expelled a sigh. “I didn’t know how else to escape.” He inclined his head toward the group of women now giving me the devil-eye behind their laced fans.
“I see. Especially since they blocked your goal.”
“Goal?”
“You’re inspecting the passengers.” He was good, I’d give him that. But after hours of witnessing his scrutiny of the freight, I’d noticed the slight crinkling of his eyes as he’d channel his focus. With the passengers, the expression was less intense, but there nonetheless. “What for?”
He grinned. “Are you always this observant, Miss Louis?”
“Are you always this insulting?”
His lips stretched into a frown at my accusation.
“You respond to my honest question with another question. You’re purposely trying to divert my attention. And then you throw in a charming smile as if to cloud my mind like the steam out of the smokestacks.”
“You think I’m charming?”
“And you’re doing it again.” I shoved a hand on my hip and ignored the amusement dancing in his eyes. “If you refuse to answer my question, just say so. Plain talking beats word games in my book, sir.”
“Please call me Jack.” His expression sobered. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m studying the passengers, but I can’t say why. Not just yet.”
An odd mix of satisfaction and frustration flooded my gut. “Fine, Jack. But you should turn your efforts on inspecting your stateroom.”
His brows lifted, disappearing beneath his cap. “Meaning?”
I pressed my lips together. Should I? This man was my archrival, but could I leave him to the fate of menacing deckhands? “Meaning, I’d give your water pitcher a thorough glance before drinking. Face has been known to put minnows in it. And since you spoiled his chances of going into Henderson and finding a temporary romance, you could very well have a river eel under your bed.”
That got him. He pulled off his cap and ran a hand through his blond hair. “Who’s Face?”
Laughter rippled in my chest. “Don’t tell me they gave you their Christian names?” Oh brother, they must really dislike the man. “Better check beneath your sheets as well.”
Poor soul looked like he’d been shoved overboard and was floundering to stay afloat.
I decided to toss him a life ring. “What kind of riverman are you if you don’t know the ways? Face is our youngest deckhand.”
“Robert?”
I nodded. “Called Face because he thinks he’s a looker. Then there’s Ludwig. Named after Beethoven because he runs the engine room like a symphony. Has an ear for whenever something doesn’t sound right. They all have nicknames except Clem, the pilot.” Even Duffy was short for Woodruff.
He blew out a breath. “Looks like I’m going to have to win their comradery.” Then his distant gaze focused on me and my breath cinched. “So what’s your nickname?”
My fingers fidgeted the helm pendant around my neck. “I…uh… don’t have one.” But that didn’t make me any less a member of the crew. Though from an outsider’s view it must appear just that. The realization burned. Even Duffy was trying to push me out of this life as if I didn’t belong. If I didn’t fit here, then I wouldn’t fit anywhere. I caught a flash of green to my left. “We’re approaching Deadman’s Island.” My gaze lingered out the window. Somehow I identified with the small strip of land. It was stuck between two worlds. On one side lay Indiana, the other Kentucky, yet neither claimed it. It belonged to the river. And so did I. There was no world for me beyond those shores.
“Time to round to,” Jack muttered. The scuffle of his retreating footsteps followed.
Caught up in my own musing, it took me a few long seconds to comprehend what he’d said. I dashed to the pilothouse, hoping to catch him before he made a colossal error, but he was already giving Clem the command.
“Cut to port.” His order bellowed firm.
The aged pilot shot me an amused glance. Duffy stood beside Clem, arms folded over his chest, content to say nothing. Their silence was unsurprising. Seasoned sailors believed in the traditional way of teaching—by learning from mistakes. But why was Face here? During his free time, the deckhand could be found sweet-talking the prettiest girl aboard. Now here he sat, lounging on the lazy bench, hands stacked behind his head, eyes brimming with deviltry.
My gaze drifted over the three of them, and I huffed. No way the Idlewild would maneuver that way. And not a soul was going to warn Jack? Blast the softness of my heart. “Clem,” I yelled over the blustery wind. “Don’t pull left. You know what to do.”
Clem grimaced to the point his bushy mustache hid his mouth.Duffy’s eyes gleamed with mirth, and Face’s brows furrowed in disappointment.
Meanwhile, Jack blinked at me in what could only be defined as annoyed shock.
I sighed and grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him out of the pilothouse, out of hearing range of the aged rivermen.
The frosty blues of his eyes were colder than a hundred winters. “You just undermined my authority in front of the captain. Clem’s even angered by your behavior.”
“You better believe he’s miffed at me.” I matched his scowl with one of my own. “Because I wouldn’t let you make a fool of yourself.”
A muscle leapt in his cheek. “There’s no danger in making a left turn.”
“There is if she won’t make it.”
Another blink.
“You have to treat the Idlewild like you would your sweetheart. Not just ordering her about before you get to know her. You need to first understand her strengths and weaknesses. Then she’ll give you everything she’s got.”
He stared at me as if I were some river fairy, unsure whether to believe me or not.
“Since no one else seems keen to help. Here’s two things to remember. One, Clem has been piloting steamboats longer than you’ve been alive. He doesn’t need told how to steer her.”
“And two?”
“The boat’s light on fuel.” Which he would know since we were slated for a coal load at Evansville later this afternoon. But he didn’t know how it would affect the Idlewild. Every boat was different. “As the fuel’s burned, her head rises.” I gestured toward the bow. “She doesn’t have enough in her to face the wind.”
Even as I spoke Clem was backing the tail, and I watched understanding dawn on Jack’s face.
“So she needs backed into the wind rather than making her turn into it.”
“Exactly.” The breeze kept whipping my hair against my cheek, and I sighed my annoyance. My fingers gripped the wind-tousled hair, holding it captive at the base of my neck.
The first mate’s eyes followed my movement, his gaze traveling the column of my throat and catching on my necklace. The helm pendent.
I raised my chin, defiance roiling through me. If he deemed it silly or outlandish for a woman to wear jewelry fashioned after a boat’s steering wheel, then I dared him with my narrowed eyes to utter it.
“Anything else I should know, Admiral?” His crooked smile was all tease, but his eyes said something completely different. He’d given me a nickname, letting me know he saw me as part of the crew, accepted me.
And just what was this peculiar warmth swelling my chest?
So far I’d helped him along far more than I should have. Informing him about the rowdy deckhands and now saving him from making a rookie mistake. I was practically training him to be captain! “Fine saboteur I am,” I mumbled.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.” I gave him a stiff nod goodbye and trudged down the staircase. Not forgetting my role as hostess, I chatted with a few passengers in the main cabin, then cleaned up a few lemonade spills other crewmen had overlooked. With the wind subsided, I strolled back to the hurricane deck.
Face stood a few paces away, leaning over the rails and watching the water. He threw me an irritated side-glance. “You ruined all my fun. You should’ve let the mate figure it out himself.”
“And have the Idlewild drift sideways down the river?” I shook my head. “It was only fair to warn him.”
Undercurrent of Secrets Page 5
