Read Online Making Waves by Lorna Seilstad - Free Book Online Page A

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