. . 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.
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.
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