Making Waves
Authors: Lorna Seilstad
LAKE MANAWA SUMMERS, BOOK 1
Making
Waves
A NOVEL
L
ORNA
S
EILSTAD
© 2010 by Lorna Seilstad
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
E-book edition created 2010
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – for example, electronic, photocopy, recording – without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-1375-4
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
Scripture is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Published in association with the literary agency Books & Such, 52 Mission Circle #122 PMB 170, Santa Rosa, California 95409.
To my mother
And all those who loved her
My little children, let us not love in
word, neither in tongue; but in deed
and in truth.
1 John 3:18
Contents
Council Bluffs, Iowa, 1895
If forced to endure Roger Gordon for five more minutes, Marguerite Westing would die. Dead. Gone. Buried. Six feet under Greenlawn Cemetery.
Her parents would need to purchase a large headstone to fit all the words of the epitaph, but they could do it. Money wasn’t an issue, and after bearing this unbelievable torture, she deserved an enormous marble marker complete with a plethora of flowery engravings. She could see the words now:
Here lies Marguerite Westing.
Only nineteen, but now she’s resting.
Strolling through the park with Roger Gordon,
Once full of life, she died of boredom.
Marguerite giggled.
Roger stopped on the cobblestone path of the park and frowned at her. “I don’t see anything funny about my uncle Myron’s carbuncle, Marguerite.”
“I’m sorry. My mind wandered for a minute.”
“You do seem prone to that. Perhaps you should work on your self-control.” He patted her hand, lodged in the crook of his arm, like a parent would an errant child.
And perhaps you should work on making yourself more
interesting than milk toast.
She bit her lip hard to keep the words from escaping. Good grief. What did he expect when he was talking to her about a boil?
“Now, as I was saying, Uncle Myron . . .” He droned on, his dark mustache twitching like a wriggling fuzzy caterpillar on his upper lip. “Marguerite, are you listening?”
She forced a smile. “Of course I am. How terrible for your dear uncle.”
This whole ordeal was her mother’s fault. If her mother hadn’t insisted she accept Roger’s attentions, she could be home enjoying her newest book about the stars.
After the tedious monotony killed her this afternoon, she hoped her parents would make sure her final resting place would have a view of the Iowa bluffs, and that they wouldn’t let Roger know where they’d buried her. After all, he’d insist on bringing flowers to her grave and would probably stay for a long, carbuncle-filled visit. No. They mustn’t tell him where she was. She couldn’t spend all of eternity listening to him. This afternoon was long enough.
Around the park, crab-apple trees exploded with crimson blossoms and lilacs perfumed the air. How could one man ruin such a spectacular summer day?
The clang of the streetcar’s bell drew her attention, and she turned to see it clickety-clack past the two-story brick-and-frame storefronts. Horse-drawn carriages and busy patrons bustled out of the car’s way. It snaked its way down Main Street and made an easy turn onto Broadway, disappearing into the business district. Marguerite sighed. If only she could go with it.
Then she spotted the striped awning of the ice cream parlor on the corner directly across from the park. Salvation.
She squeezed her escort’s arm. “Roger, let’s get a soda.”
He gaped at her, his spectacles sliding down his nose. “But it’s still morning!”
“Oh, fiddle-faddle. For the life of me, I can’t see what harm there is to drink a soda before lunch.”
“Marguerite.”
She wanted to swat the caterpillar off his scowling face. “Can’t we at least get that new ice cream with the syrup on top? The sundae?”
“Very well. I suppose you are used to being indulged.” He drew his hand over his mustache, smoothing the sides, and pushed up his spectacles.
His flippant words stung.
And what about you, Roger
Gordon, son of one of the wealthiest men in the state? “Indulged”
should be your middle name
.
She clamped down on her lip so hard she tasted blood. Glancing heavenward, she sent up a silent message.
If You
want the world to end right now, God, it’s fine with me
.
Upon entering the ice cream parlor, Marguerite disentangled her hand from Roger’s arm. She selected a wood-topped round table out in the open before he could lead her to one of the darkened booths where the courting fellows often took their girls. Roger ordered two bowls of vanilla ice cream – no syrup, no nuts, no berries – without consulting her tastes.
Bland. Plain. Boring. Just like him.
He carried the scalloped bowls to the table and presented hers as if it were pure ambrosia.
After waiting until he sat in the heart-shaped iron dining chair, she picked up her spoon and dove into the treat. She scooped a spoonful into her mouth, and the creamy sweetness melted on her tongue, almost making up for the agony of the late morning stroll.
“For what these cost, we could have purchased a chair for our first home.”
She dropped her spoon and it clattered against the bowl, the blissful taste replaced by a bitter one. Coughing, she waved her hand in front of her face. “Roger, please don’t jest like that.”
“I wasn’t jesting.”
Marguerite cringed as he covered her hand with his own.
Please, Lord, strike him with muteness. Strike him with lightning.
Strike him with anything. I don’t care what. You choose
the pestilence. Have fun. Be creative. Enjoy Yourself. Just
don’t let him say another word
.
With a tug, she tried to pull her hand away, but he held fast.
“Surely, Marguerite, you’ve been able to see where our courting has been leading.”
She could almost hear God’s laughter. He must take great enjoyment in watching her squirm. It was punishment for the ungodly thoughts that ran rampant through her mind. Right now, for instance, she was seriously contemplating a murder – that of her mother.
Seeking the solace of the piano, Marguerite stomped into the parlor only to find her mother already in the room. Ignoring her, she sat on the bench and began to play an angry aria, pouring her frustration into the polished ivory keys.
“That’s enough of that,” her mother snapped minutes later, closing her leather-bound volume with a thud. “I take it things did not go well with Roger.”
“I simply cannot endure one more outing with that man.”
Her mother set the book on the marble-topped table beside her. “Theatrics are not becoming, Marguerite, and it can’t be that bad. Roger Gordon is from an excellent family.”
“But he’s a miserable man to be with. He bores me to tears.”
“Then you must engage him in more interesting topics. Please tell me that you did not let your lack of enthusiasm show.”
“He talked about his uncle Myron’s carbuncle for fifteen minutes!”
Her mother appeared to stifle a smile. “Still, he’s a good catch. You’d be well taken care of.”
“Taken care of? It’s 1895, and more and more women are taking care of themselves. Besides, I could never love him.”
“Love is highly overrated.” She waved her hand in the air, pausing as one of the household servants delivered a tea tray. Waiting while the young woman poured a steaming cup, she kept her gaze on Marguerite. “Why can’t you be like your older sister? She is well matched.”
Marguerite rolled her eyes. “Being well matched is highly overrated.”
Her mother shot her a stern look and touched her coiffed chignon to make sure all her golden hairs remained in place. Of course they were. They wouldn’t dare defy Camille Westing and come loose.
War was imminent. Marguerite had thrown down the gauntlet. Steeling herself, she met her mother’s hard blue eyes. “I don’t want him to call again.”
“What you want isn’t the issue here. We’re your parents, and we must see to your future – a future that should consist of you being cared for in the manner to which you’re accustomed. If you are lucky, Roger will ask for your hand soon.”
“If I’m lucky,” Marguerite murmured, “Roger Gordon will be attacked by a pack of wolves on his way home.”
“Marguerite! That’s incorrigible. You should be ashamed.”
“You didn’t suffer through hours of boredom. I have to speak to Daddy about this. He won’t give my hand to a man whose idea of adventure is choosing a patterned vest over a solid. I’d wither and die in a matter of months if I married him.”
“Don’t exaggerate.” Her mother poured a second cup of tea and nodded toward the empty seat beside her. “Do come have tea with me and calm yourself. I have an additional item to discuss with you.”
Discuss? Marguerite’s stomach cinched. Whenever her mother began a talk in that way, it meant she intended to address something Marguerite would dislike, and there would be no
discussion
whatsoever. Marguerite’s fingers clutched the lid of the piano to keep her from bolting from the room. This whole day had felt like one prison after another, and now her mother’s worrisome comment slammed the jail door shut with an ominous clang.
“What is it?” she asked, refusing to join her mother on the settee.
Her mother set the teapot down on the tray. “I’m going to dismiss Lilly.”
The news robbed Marguerite of her breath. Dropping the piano lid with a clunk, she jumped to her feet. “Mother, you can’t send her away just like that! I won’t let you!”
“You’d better control your tongue, young lady. And I will do as I wish with those in our employ.” She reached for her needlework.