Making Waves by Lorna Seilstad Read Free Book Online

Marguerite scooped up her overdress and slipped her arms into the sleeves. “It was Mark. He needs someone to watch him, and you know she can’t tell him no. I, on the other hand . . .”
    Lilly snickered. “So are you going to talk to him about your plan? What if he doesn’t want to learn?”
    “What twelve-year-old boy would turn down the chance to learn to sail?”
    Lilly handed her the wrapped bundle of items she’d secured in town. “Better give him this stuff to stow. I still can’t believe you made me part of this.”
    “It’s the only way.” Marguerite accepted the parcel filled with new boots for each of them and a new sailing cap for Mark.
    “That’s what you keep saying. Now, when you get to that lake, you need to work on your stroke, ’cause I doubt it would do for a sailor to not know how to swim.”
    Marguerite’s nerves tingled. If a sailor had to know how to swim, she was in trouble, and even if she did practice today, one day at the lake couldn’t remedy her inability. Maybe she should reconsider.
    I need to stop fretting. If I fall in the water, surely I know enough to stay afloat. After all, how hard can it be if I’m not wearing all those petticoats?

    The lacy fan in her manicured hand did little to disperse the humid Midwest air, but Camille Westing refused to look bothered by it. Instead she sipped the lemonade Alice had prepared for her, keeping her eye trained on the path leading to their camp.
    Their camp. She recalled the day of their arrival when Mark announced he wanted to call it “Camp Dew Drop Inn.” Sweet Mark didn’t grasp why a name like that would appear to be an open invitation to every ne’er-do-well on the lake. No, she’d explained, if they had to summer amid the bugs, they should at least have a proper-sounding name. Always the most creative of her children, Marguerite suggested “Camp Andromeda,” and Camille admitted it sounded quite regal. By the next day, Marguerite had arranged for Isaiah to carve a sign for them, and it was now mounted on a post at their camp’s entrance.
    Camille glanced at her surroundings and sighed. Besides the four tents, only the new set of Heywood Brothers rattan furniture she’d insisted on bringing spoke of any culture. Two chaise lounges, a settee, and four chairs with a matching table were arranged in the center of their camp on which to dine, relax, and of course entertain. All the serpentine, rolled-back pieces sported beadwork and curlicues. She’d ordered the pricey rattan months ago for their sunporch back home. The fortuitous purchase made life here bearable. If the wicker furniture suffered because of the elements, then so be it. When the time came for Roger Gordon’s mother to join them one evening, all would be in perfect order.
    Camille ran her hand along the solid surface of the rolltop travel desk sitting on the wicker table before her. The desk, perfect for use on her train trips to visit her sister, had been a gift from Edward last Christmas. Now, as she sat waiting for her husband to return home, she rolled the top of the desk up, revealing the stoppered inkwells. She unlocked the hidden storage drawer beneath the angled writing surface and withdrew the letter she’d placed there.
    The handwriting on the envelope, full of lovely flourishes, echoed the fine breeding of the author – Mrs. Richard Gordon, Roger’s mother. Camille traced the lettering with her finger. No one would ever question her parenting skills once Marguerite wedded Roger. No one.
    With careful precision, she set the envelope in the upper left corner. Reaching into the drawer again, she withdrew a piece of fine linen stationery. Then, after checking the nib, she dipped her Warren quill pen in the inkwell, ready to write an overdue thank-you for last month’s ladies’ tea to the woman who would become Marguerite’s mother-in-law. At least, she would if Camille had anything to do with it.
    The corners of Camille’s lips lifted. If the