Making Waves

by Lorna Seilstad

  “That’s called luffing,” Trip said from behind her.

  She jumped.

  He chuckled. “But we use the word luff for other situations too.”

  “Like?” Marguerite stared at the sailors moving about the Top Dog, each with obvious responsibilities.

  “For one thing, the front edge of the sail is called the luff.”

  “What are they doing now?” Mark asked.

  Trip propped his foot on one of the posts lining the deck. “Tacking. They have to zigzag their way across the lake, because they’re going against the wind.”

  Mark’s eyes widened. “When do I get to try?”

  “Soon.” Trip ruffled the boy’s hair and handed him a pair of leather gloves. “Come on, Mark, let’s get that mast finished.”

  Marguerite found a stool in the corner, settled on it, and picked up a neatly folded copy of the Council Bluffs Daily Nonpareil lying nearby on a barrel. A pencil line encircled an article about Captain Joshua Slocum embarking on a voyage, determined to be the first man to sail around the world alone. Slocum left Boston on April 24 in a sloop named Spray.

  Sailing around the world. The adventure sounded marvelous. But who had circled the article? Trip? Harry?

  Slocum, she read on, navigated without a chronometer. He simply planned to use a tin clock and the noon sun. It certainly didn’t sound like a safe way to travel. He plotted a course using special lunar tables and tedious computations.

  Marguerite tingled just thinking about it. She loved the challenge behind that kind of math. Her male teachers, however, had discouraged her, saying that the female mind wasn’t designed to grasp the complexities of math or science. The memory still chafed.

  Perhaps she and Trip could try celestial navigation one night.

  Her face flushed hot. What was she thinking? There would be no nighttime excursions, even in the name of science, with Trip Andrews.

  Raucous laughter drew her attention. Trip and Lloyd were ribbing Harry about taking more than his share of dances with Emily Graham at the ball the other night. She hadn’t noticed, but then again, she’d been a bit preoccupied.

  Trip tossed two more logs beneath the long steel troughs only a few feet from her perch on the stool. He turned to her. “You’re dying to ask about the troughs, aren’t you?”

  “I admit I have an insatiable curiosity.”

  “We keep water in this lower trough. It steams the red cedar timbers in the trough above that we use for planking the hulls. The steam keeps them pliable.”

  He crossed the room into the office and returned bearing a large sheet of rolled paper under his arm. Moving to an empty table, he untied the string holding the sheet together and spread out the elaborate plans. He glanced at Marguerite. She knew immediately she’d been caught watching him. Warmth rose from her neck.

  Trip motioned her over. “Might as well take care of some of that curiosity.”

  Marguerite grinned and hurried over. “What is this?”

  “Plans for a round bilge sailboat hull.” His hand swept over the complicated drawings where angles and lines crisscrossed the sheet.

  “Which one is it for?”

  “None of these. We haven’t built it yet.” His eyes sparkled mischievously. “But there’s one here like it. Want to guess which one it is?”

  Marguerite studied the plans, then shifted her eyes to the boats in the workshop area. “Is it the one Harry is working on?”

  He grinned. “You’ve got a good eye. We haven’t even put the sides on the hull yet.”

  “Where did these plans come from?”

  “Dad drew the designs. I’m the loftsman.”

  Having not seen a loft anywhere, she glanced upward.

  “The loftsman transfers the lines plan to a full-sized plan.” He chuckled. “I’ll transfer these plans first onto the floor and then onto the wood.”

  “You draw on wood?”

  “Sure. I’ll use a small nail and a batten to fair the boat lines too.”

  “You know, you sound like you’re speaking Greek. Can you explain it to me? What’s fairing?”

  “Technically, it’s joining the surfaces so they blend smoothly. Artistically, it’s seeing a boat in your mind while it’s still lines on the paper.” He pointed to the drawing. “See here? These are three views of the same hull – the side view, the plan view, and the body plan.”

  “And you have to turn those three views into a boat.” Her finger traced the intricate curves on the drawing. The math involved in the arcs had to be staggering. “Can you draw plans too?”

  He nodded.

  “Can I help you with the lofting? Numbers, lines, plot points – they all fascinate me.”

  After considering her request for a minute, he tapped the plans. “It’s complex.”

  “And you don’t think a woman can handle that?”

  “No.” He gave her a cockeyed grin. “I think you can handle just about anything. But it takes a good teacher, and I’m not sure I’m patient enough.”

  Before he’d given a firm answer, Trip’s father strode into the building. Within a fraction of a second, he’d sucked all the joy from the room. Mouths clamped shut, and the once jovial men cast glances at one another.

  Captain Andrews scanned the room until his gaze settled on Trip and Marguerite. A deep scowl scrunched his weathered face. “Trip, why haven’t you banked that fire?”

  She flinched. Flames now licked at the long steel trough, making the water bubble. It was her fault. She’d distracted him with her questions. Not wanting the captain’s wrath to turn on her, she hurried to join Mark on the other side of the workshop.

  Trip crossed the area and shoveled ashes over the flames. “Harry, can you put some more water in the trough? I think I about boiled it dry.”

  “Phillip Sutton Andrews the Third,” his father bellowed, “do you honestly think that at the rate you’re going, you’ll have the Lancasters’ sailboat ready before the regatta?”

  “Yes, Dad, I do.” He accepted a canteen of water from Harry and took a long swig. “By the way, you know the doctor said you shouldn’t be out here.”

  “He said I shouldn’t be working. He didn’t say a word about supervising.”

  Cocking an eyebrow, Trip crossed his arms over his chest. “Is that what you call it, Dad?”

  “Don’t get sassy with me. I was building boats when you were in diapers.”

  Shaking his head, Trip returned to working on the upside-down skeleton of a boat. When half of the boat’s hull had been planked, Trip excused himself to check on his student’s work. “Looks good, Mark. Smooth as a baby’s bottom.” He ran his hand over the surface. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  Marguerite’s eyebrows lifted. “Go?”

  “Do you always ask so many questions?”

  “I don’t know, Phillip Sutton Andrews.”

  “The Third,” he finished with a frown. “You were eavesdropping?”

  “I wasn’t trying.” Her cheeks warmed as the truth registered. “Your father’s voice carries.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “So your dad is Deuce because he’s the second, and you’re Trip because you’re the third, the triple one.”

  “And Harry didn’t think you had a brain under that pretty hat.” He tapped the brim.

  “Trip, you ready? The water’s perfect.” Lloyd stuck his head inside the boat shop.

  “Are you taking us sailing?” Mark bounced beside him. “Am I going to start my lessons?”

  “Sailing, yes. Lessons, no. My crew needs to practice for the regatta, and I decided we’re going to let you tag along.”

  “Both of us?” Mark’s eyes darted to Marguerite.

  “That’s the plan.”

  If it wasn’t considered totally unacceptable, she’d have kissed Phillip Sutton Andrews the Third right then and there – on the cheek, of course.

  Despite the light breeze, Trip and his crew hoisted the sails and got the Endeavor to move along
at a good clip. Marguerite sighed with contentment. Being on the swiftly moving sailboat felt so perfect.

  The crew worked together like the insides of a clock, occasionally calling out to one another but mostly doing each task without a word. With her face to the wind, she didn’t attempt to cover the excitement bubbling within her.

  “Mark, isn’t this amazing?”

  He nodded. “I’ve never gone so fast.”

  Trip kept his hand on the tiller, glanced at Marguerite, and grinned. Her stomach flip-flopped. Did he have any idea how lethal that smile was? She looked away and out over the expanse of blue water. Across the lake, seas of white tents seemed to have sprung up overnight.

  “Mark,” Trip called, “sailing is a sport of perfection. A regatta is won by not making mistakes.”

  “And a good wind helps too.” Harry chuckled. “Come here, boy. You can help me adjust the mainsail.”

  The crew laughed at Mark’s wobbly attempt to cross the deck.

  “You’ll find your sea legs soon,” Trip assured him.

  Marguerite decided that this time she’d remain seated rather than follow her brother.

  The boat tilted to the right, and Lloyd and Mel compensated by leaning farther out on the opposite side of the boat. Mark’s face suddenly turned a sickly shade. He bolted for the rail of the ship, bent over it, and lost what little lunch he’d eaten.

  “Mark!” Marguerite lurched in his direction, but Trip held up his hand to halt her.

  Still holding the rail with one hand, Mark dropped to the deck. He accepted a canteen from Harry and sipped at its contents. “Some sailor I am.”

  “Oh, it’ll get better, lad.” Harry ruffled his hair. “The water is pretty choppy today.”

  Marguerite glanced at the barely rippling waves and smiled at Harry, touched by his thoughtfulness.

  Mark lifted anguished eyes toward Marguerite. “Why is she fine?”

  “Seasickness doesn’t affect everyone the same.” Trip pushed up the sleeves on his tan shirt.

  “Figures.”

  Harry hoisted him up and returned him to his seat beside Marguerite. “Just take it easy. We’ll be back on shore in no time.”

  “I think I’m going to hate sailing,” he mumbled. “No one gets seasick exploring caves.”

  Marguerite patted his arm. “But you don’t get to feel the wind on your face inside a musty old cave. Besides, you heard Harry. The seasickness will pass.”

  “It’d better, ’cause I ain’t doing this every day.”

  “You aren’t doing this every day,” she corrected.

  “You got that right.”

  She laughed, and then a bolt of fear shot through her. What if his condition didn’t improve and he wanted to quit? Her sailing days would be over before they even started. She glanced at his pasty face and sighed.

  Please, God, please let this pass. I’m so close.

  Exhausted, Marguerite managed to kick off her boots before crawling into bed for a well-deserved nap. She didn’t mind the stuffy tent today. Even the stifling afternoon heat didn’t keep her body from relaxing into the tick of the feather bed. She moaned and shifted positions. The muscles in her arms knotted from working on the mast, but her pulse still pounded with wild abandon at each thought of the sailing excursion.

  The lack of a good night’s sleep began to overtake her. As her eyes drifted shut, she jolted. This morning her mother had told her that Roger would be joining them at their camp for dinner. Nothing like a little piece of nightmare to take the joy out of a good nap. She should get up and get ready, and she would if her eyes weren’t so incredibly heavy.

  Maybe a quick nap wouldn’t hurt.

  Just a little tiny one …

  “Marguerite! What are you doing abed this late in the afternoon?”

  Her mother’s shrill voice sent her bolt upright. “I must have drifted off, but I only lay down for a minute.”

  “Are you ill?”

  She covered her mouth and yawned. “If I say yes, can I be excused from dinner with Roger?”

  “Marguerite. Please don’t start.” Her mother touched her forehead with a cool hand. “He’s a fine, wealthy young man. You should be honored that he is so fond of you.”

  “But Mother, last night – ”

  “Did he bring up his uncle’s carbuncle again? Sometimes, dear, you just have to tolerate a man’s boorish behaviors. They simply aren’t as refined as we are.”

  “No. It wasn’t like that.” Her stomach knotted in a familiar way. Her mother didn’t understand and never would. She yawned again.

  “Are you certain you aren’t ill?”

  “I just didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “It’s this heat. Your father should never have brought us out here to camp all summer. What was that man thinking? We are delicate women.”

  Marguerite swallowed a giggle. She could think of any number of words to describe her mother, but delicate was not one of them.

  “Remember how your sister was overcome by the heat at the county fair a few years ago? You know, ever since then she couldn’t tolerate the heat.”

  And it got her out of going to the fair every year.

  Her mother began to rifle through Marguerite’s trunks. “You’d best hurry, dear. Roger will be here within the hour, and where is Lilly? I tell you, that girl is never around when you need her.”

  Whatever you pick, I’m not wearing it. I could almost guarantee you it was that horrid pink dress that made Roger act so strangely last night.

  “Lilly is helping Alice with tonight’s dinner.” Marguerite swung her feet over the side of the bed and spotted the discarded boots on the floor. If her mother saw them, there would be no end to her questions. Jumping up, she deftly kicked them under the bed.

  Camille straightened and held out a lavender dress that made Marguerite cringe. “This one will do nicely.”

  She started to protest, but stopped. She didn’t want to impress Roger, and maybe if she wore the lavender dress, which made her appear pale and sickly, he’d be a gentleman and make it an early evening.

  “That one will be perfect, Mother.”

  Her mother stared at her, eyebrows drawn together. “Marguerite, are you sure you aren’t ill?”

  Back to his tediously dull self, Roger kept the dinner conversation fixated on the stock market while Marguerite struggled to stay awake. Certain the rattan furniture had left a waffle imprint on her behind by now, she shifted in her chair as she pushed the corn around on her plate, creating a tunnel for the gravy to escape its mashed potato crater.

  “According to the New York Times, stock prices have more than doubled since the same time period last year.” Roger forked a piece of fish.

  Edward patted his mouth with his napkin and set it beside his plate. “And securities have reached a new high this month. Things are looking quite good for all of us.”

  Roger leaned back in his chair. “Marguerite, what is your opinion of the recent rise in stock prices?”

  Her head jerked up. Did she hear the question correctly?

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Roger.” Her mother sipped from her water goblet. “Marguerite doesn’t have opinions in such matters.”

  “On the contrary. I believe your daughter has a great many secrets.” He pinned her with his gaze.

  She stiffened. What was he trying to prove? Did he know about the sailing? How could he?

  Trying to remember the initial question, she took a deep breath. Stock prices. She had read about them. “I believe the Vanderbilts and the Grangers lead the improving market.”

  Roger shook his fork at her. “But what about prior losses in the market?” The dark eyes beneath his spectacles held no warmth. Was he toying with her?

  “The recovery more than wiped out those losses,” she said. “Foreign buyers have been active, and the forecast of good crops seems to indicate a bull market is at hand.”

  Roger threw his head back and let out a loud guffaw. “Who would have k
nown our Marguerite had a mind for investments? You see, she is good at keeping secrets.”

  “Apparently not as good as you.” Breaking a piece off her roll, Marguerite met his eyes.

  Her mother let out a slight gasp. “Wall Street is hardly an appropriate dinner topic. Perhaps we could talk of more pleasant things. I saw there is to be a regatta soon.”

  Marguerite choked on her roll.

  “Sweetheart, are you all right?” Her father patted her back.

  She gulped down a glass of water. “Yes, please pardon me. I must have swallowed wrong.”

  “Certainly.” Roger dropped his arm around the back of her chair. “You seem in fine health now. Truly a vision.”

  The hollow compliment further confused her. She turned to him. “Thank you.”

  “As I said yesterday, you are like a painting – to be treasured.”

  And hung on a wall in your private museum?

  “Marguerite, isn’t that a lovely sentiment?” Her mother patted his arm.

  “Yes, thank you.” Marguerite pushed back from the table. “I’m afraid I’m developing quite a headache. Roger, if you’ll forgive me, I believe I’ll turn in for the night.”

  “I understand.” He stood and held her chair. “You probably have a big day planned tomorrow. I’ll walk you to your tent.”

  She avoided his accusing gaze and accepted his arm. “Indeed I do. Mark and I are going cycling.”

  “By the way, how did you injure your hand? I noticed you favoring it.” He lifted her palm and examined the reddened marks with his finger.

  She yanked her hand away. “Too much cycling, I guess.”

  “Then perhaps you should curtail your morning activities. On second thought, maybe I’ll join you one day soon.”

  Swallowing hard, she forced a smile. “That would be a surprise.”

  Roger’s mustache twitched. “Indeed it would.”

  Back in her tent, Marguerite tossed the lavender dress on the humpback trunk and slipped a lightweight nightgown over her head. She sank onto the edge of the bed. “Roger knows something, Lilly. I can feel it.”

  Lilly stopped brushing her chestnut tresses and gathered the discarded gown. “How could he? You think he was following you?”