Making Waves by Lorna Seilstad Page A

tend to your sister’s hands.” As soon as Mark scampered from the room, Trip eyed her. “Okay, your turn.”
    “Really, that isn’t necessary.” She clasped her now gloved hands together. “But thank you for your considerate treatment of Mark.”
    “Marguerite, I’m the teacher, remember. I run the show.” He raised one eyebrow ever so slightly as he tossed the canister back and forth in his hands.
    So here it was. The moment she’d been dreading. Either she yielded to his direction or they’d be ousted. Her face warmed. He’d bested her, and what was worse, he was certain of it. Did he somehow see how much she wanted to learn to sail?
    “As you wish.” She tugged off one glove. “But I must insist on applying the liniment myself.”
    He shook his head and wrinkled his nose. “Too messy.” Setting down the canister, he spun Mark’s chair around and straddled it. He dipped a finger in the paste and held a dollop in front of her. “Ready?”
    She held out her hand, mortified when it trembled.
    Sliding his hand beneath hers, he clasped it, his touch warm and unyielding. “Relax. I won’t hurt you.” Using a feather-soft touch, he spread the oily medication over her tender palm.
    With every circle of his thumb, the temperature of her face climbed. She shifted in her chair and licked her lips. Soon, to Marguerite’s relief, he finished his ministrations. Before he could suggest bandaging it, she dropped her hand to her lap and tugged her glove back on.
    Grinning, he motioned to the other one.
    “Honestly, Mr. Andrews. That one is fine.”
    “Let me see it.”
    Rolling her eyes, she removed the cotton glove and held it out. “See?”
    He slid his hand beneath hers and ran his thumb over the reddened area. His touch sent a ripple from her stomach to her toes and back again. She yanked her hand away. “As you can see, my left hand doesn’t require your attention.”
    “So you say.” He stood and stepped away, distancing himself from her.
    She blinked. Had he been as unnerved by the contact as she had?
    He cleared his throat. “Why don’t you go see what kind of mischief your brother has gotten himself into? I need to go upstairs to the apartment and put this back. I’ll be along in a minute.”
    Once outside the shop, Marguerite found Mark watching the other boaters.
    “There you are.” She placed a hand on his shoulder.
    “Is he making us quit?”
    She shook her head. “No. I think he feels bad about your hands.”
    “This isn’t what I thought it would be.” Mark leaned on the white railing with his sportsman’s cap in his hands.
    Marguerite stepped beside him. “I know, but hang in there. I think it will get better.”
    Sailboats with their sails lowered dotted the shore, waiting for their turn on the lake. Crewmen on the Top Dog , all dressed in matching jackets, prepared to take their boat out. They waited until the boat drifted free of the dock before they began to hoist the mainsail, and once raised, it instantly billowed but did not completely fill. The wind whipped the edge, making it flap.
    “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