popular a sport there as it is everywhere else in the country.” Edward lifted his water goblet. “There’s even a Manawa Cycling Club. Do you ride, Roger?”
Roger’s mother twittered. “Roger? Heavens no. He says those machines are dangerous.”
“I think they’ve proved quite beneficial to one’s health, and women certainly seem to be enjoying the freedom they provide.”
“That isn’t necessarily a good thing,” Roger mumbled.
Edward met Roger’s eyes and held his gaze. “My daughter isn’t one to be chained.”
“So she’s a forward thinker? That’s delightful.” Roger’s mother passed Edward the plate of sandwiches. “I take it she and her brother are close. What else can you tell me about her? Is she quiet? Shy? I always pictured Roger with someone like that.”
“Mother . . .”
“I don’t think anyone would describe my daughter as either of those, Mrs. Gordon.” Edward smiled. “She’s quite . . . vivacious.”
“Is that so? Now, that is a pleasant surprise.” She called for dessert, and they were soon enjoying plates of cinnamonlaced fresh apple cake topped with a heaping mound of whipped cream. “Mr. Westing, you, your wife, and your lovely daughter must be our dinner guests soon.”
“We’d be honored.”
“Roger will speak with Mrs. Westing and Marguerite and arrange a date.” She set her napkin beside her plate. “Now, if you men will excuse me, I have a copy of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein that simply begs to be read. Are you familiar with it, Mr. Westing?”
“I am. I hope it doesn’t offend your sensibilities.”
A light extinguished in her eyes. “Life has made me much stronger than I appear.”
Roger shifted uncomfortably, stood, and pulled out her chair. “Enjoy the book, Mother.”
“Be sure to get my son to show you his art collection, Mr. Westing. It is quite spectacular. If someone tells him it’s impossible to acquire a certain piece, he always seems to find a way to obtain it.”
As soon as she’d gone, Edward pushed back from the table. “Before we get down to business, I’d be interested in seeing that collection.”
“It’s just artwork I’ve gathered.”
Edward stood. “I can use a little culture. Lead the way.”
Marguerite stepped into the outer office, and Trip indicated two chairs. She settled and Mark sat beside her. The whole scene – the looming massive oak desk, the ramshackle piles of files and papers, and even the barren gray walls – reminded her of the headmaster’s office from grade school.
Crossing the room, Trip perched on the corner of the desk, obviously prepared to mete out his unmitigated verdict. He set a canister on the desk. “Okay, who’s first?”
Her eyes widened, and she scooted back in the chair. “For what?”
He held up the tin, which read Hoods Olive Ointment. “It’s for your hands. Mark, stand up here like a man and show me the blisters your sister said you got.”
Mark glanced at Marguerite and she nodded. He stood before Trip and held out his shaking right hand.
Wasting no time, Trip slathered liniment on it. When Mark winced, Trip apologized for hurting him, and before the boy could protest, he wrapped a fresh white bandage around Mark’s blisters. He then repeated the process with Mark’s other hand.
Marguerite marveled at his tender, efficient care. Gone was the anger she’d witnessed minutes before. The calm before another storm? She sighed. At least he was taking care of Mark before sending them away.
“Now, Mark, why don’t you take a break before you start working again?” He squeezed his shoulder. “You deserve it. You did good work in there.” He glanced at her. “You both did.”
A little thrill took root in her heart at his compliment, and she couldn’t keep a smile from bowing her lips. She dared not let hope take seed in her heart. Maybe he wasn’t going to stop the lessons after all.
His dimples deepened. “Mark, you can go take a look at the boats while I
Roger’s mother twittered. “Roger? Heavens no. He says those machines are dangerous.”
“I think they’ve proved quite beneficial to one’s health, and women certainly seem to be enjoying the freedom they provide.”
“That isn’t necessarily a good thing,” Roger mumbled.
Edward met Roger’s eyes and held his gaze. “My daughter isn’t one to be chained.”
“So she’s a forward thinker? That’s delightful.” Roger’s mother passed Edward the plate of sandwiches. “I take it she and her brother are close. What else can you tell me about her? Is she quiet? Shy? I always pictured Roger with someone like that.”
“Mother . . .”
“I don’t think anyone would describe my daughter as either of those, Mrs. Gordon.” Edward smiled. “She’s quite . . . vivacious.”
“Is that so? Now, that is a pleasant surprise.” She called for dessert, and they were soon enjoying plates of cinnamonlaced fresh apple cake topped with a heaping mound of whipped cream. “Mr. Westing, you, your wife, and your lovely daughter must be our dinner guests soon.”
“We’d be honored.”
“Roger will speak with Mrs. Westing and Marguerite and arrange a date.” She set her napkin beside her plate. “Now, if you men will excuse me, I have a copy of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein that simply begs to be read. Are you familiar with it, Mr. Westing?”
“I am. I hope it doesn’t offend your sensibilities.”
A light extinguished in her eyes. “Life has made me much stronger than I appear.”
Roger shifted uncomfortably, stood, and pulled out her chair. “Enjoy the book, Mother.”
“Be sure to get my son to show you his art collection, Mr. Westing. It is quite spectacular. If someone tells him it’s impossible to acquire a certain piece, he always seems to find a way to obtain it.”
As soon as she’d gone, Edward pushed back from the table. “Before we get down to business, I’d be interested in seeing that collection.”
“It’s just artwork I’ve gathered.”
Edward stood. “I can use a little culture. Lead the way.”
Marguerite stepped into the outer office, and Trip indicated two chairs. She settled and Mark sat beside her. The whole scene – the looming massive oak desk, the ramshackle piles of files and papers, and even the barren gray walls – reminded her of the headmaster’s office from grade school.
Crossing the room, Trip perched on the corner of the desk, obviously prepared to mete out his unmitigated verdict. He set a canister on the desk. “Okay, who’s first?”
Her eyes widened, and she scooted back in the chair. “For what?”
He held up the tin, which read Hoods Olive Ointment. “It’s for your hands. Mark, stand up here like a man and show me the blisters your sister said you got.”
Mark glanced at Marguerite and she nodded. He stood before Trip and held out his shaking right hand.
Wasting no time, Trip slathered liniment on it. When Mark winced, Trip apologized for hurting him, and before the boy could protest, he wrapped a fresh white bandage around Mark’s blisters. He then repeated the process with Mark’s other hand.
Marguerite marveled at his tender, efficient care. Gone was the anger she’d witnessed minutes before. The calm before another storm? She sighed. At least he was taking care of Mark before sending them away.
“Now, Mark, why don’t you take a break before you start working again?” He squeezed his shoulder. “You deserve it. You did good work in there.” He glanced at her. “You both did.”
A little thrill took root in her heart at his compliment, and she couldn’t keep a smile from bowing her lips. She dared not let hope take seed in her heart. Maybe he wasn’t going to stop the lessons after all.
His dimples deepened. “Mark, you can go take a look at the boats while I
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