Chapter 28 #2
“University? That is not the place for a lady.” Mr. Tavernish stabs his cane. “Frankly, Dakon did you no favor, leaving you to run things here. I wish I had a grandson who might see you settled, but Temperance only gave me one grandchild.”
Temperance sighs at the sky, but Prosper bats at her grandfather’s arm. “And I am worth two boys, aren’t I, dear Papaw? Now let the girl speak.”
“I am doing fine,” I manage. “I have competent staff, and I am confident—”
“Confidence is not very ladylike,” says Temperance, touching a slender hand to the chignon at the base of her neck. “How will you find a husband?”
I can’t help wondering if my own mother would’ve expressed such matrimonial concerns. Was she a cultured lady like Temperance? Or a working woman like Cookie? “I am more interested in seeing that Mr. Sanders’s legacy is—”
“Who runs this place for you?” asks Miles Cooper loudly, clearly used to talking whenever he wants. “A property like this needs discipline. A military mind.” He points to the short blond mighty-fine haircut on his square head. “I myself attended the Naval Academy in Maryland.”
“You don’t play that clangorous Aeolian organ, do you?” booms Mr. Tavernish, interrupting.
“Papaw”—Prosper leans close, brown eyes sparkling—“if we don’t hear how she came by all this, I will absotively die.”
I pull at my hair, trying to decide whom first to answer. “I’m afraid I don’t know—”
“Where is your president, Nash Sanders-Byre?” A new voice barrels in, accompanied by emphatic footfalls. A stocky man with heavy eyebrows to match a luxurious mustachio fills my vision. “Tell him Mr. Zephyr is here. I have spent the last two hours with ocean dyspepsia, and I expect answers.”
My jaw locks. This is the man who holds Nowhere’s future in his hands. Where is Eva? Still finding brochures. I begin to sweat under the demanding gazes of the parties on either side of me. “I am happy to answer any questions. Nash—”
“—is right here, my dear.”
The sound of Nash’s warm voice skips a stone across my heart.
There he stands, tall and polished in a crisp navy suit, a dotted tie, and a rounded-collar shirt.
I catch my breath, relief flooding me. His dark blond locks are combed neatly, the only evidence of his dustup with Koa a faded purpling under his eye.
Every time this polished version of the city rat shows up, I lose the power of speech.
I nearly fall over when he ignores the Tavernishes and, with one hand behind his back, presses his lips to my fingers.
“Oh,” murmurs Temperance.
“I am so sorry to have been delayed.” His touch conjures a secret cove smelling of brine, and my annoyance at him fades. His gaze lingers on me a fraction too long, then he bows to the ladies present.
Prosper gapes at Nash, her narrow brush with death clearly forgotten. Her mother’s fan picks up speed, as if trying to waft flames between her daughter and the newcomer.
Gripping Mr. Zephyr’s hand, Nash says smoothly, “Your boat is shaping up to be a fine craft. Here is Sveyn now to show you our labors thus far.”
Sveyn barrels up, eye patch raised, and then leads Mr. Zephyr toward the man’s half-finished Specialty in the dry dock.
Prosper has taken out a handkerchief from a small purse. Twisting around, she drops it behind her, smiling invitingly at Nash.
Is that what they learn at finishing school?
Nash snatches it in midair. He could probably make a sail out of the number of hankies dropped for him. “Ladies, you must be parched. May I show you to the punch bowl?”
Catching my eye, he ticks his head toward the elder Mr. Tavernish.
Then he offers his arms to Prosper and Temperance.
At least that is a few dragons slain for now.
While he engages the women in a lively discussion about the Nowhere hankies for auction, I show Mr. Tavernish and his pompous son-in-law to a nearby high table.
The band strikes up a waltz, and the Quebedeaux sisters trill “In the Good Old Summer Time.” The stage transforms the pair from wet hens to charming songbirds, though they don’t move Mrs. Bonefat, who is standing straight as the rock of Gibraltar while others whirl past. I’m surprised to see Boots gesturing for her to join him at the punch bowl.
Is that a smile cracking her facade? Does Boots whisper something in her ear?
Perhaps this is the “housekeeper situation” Mr. Sanders feared.
Mr. Sanders forbade fraternization and would never have tolerated an entanglement between his head of labor and his housekeeper.
Did Boots kill him over it, with or without Mrs. Bonefat’s help?
I grip my stool and try to focus.
As Mr. Cooper drones on about the rigor and excellence of his university training, Mr. Tavernish sizes me up, eyes blinking out a Morse code.
Eventually, Mr. Cooper draws a breath and Mr. Tavernish cuts in, “Lucy, I hope you will consider me a trusted advisor. As you might know, Dakon, Gottfried Gotze, and I were close,” he says—clearly a lie. “Where is Gotty, anyway?”
“Unable to attend,” I inform him. “But I am curious—how did you meet Mr. Sanders?”
“My girls went to school with him in Eastsound. Thought he’d marry one of them, but that wasn’t to be.
” His gaze drifts to Temperance, across the dance floor at the punch bowl, lifting her glass with pinky held out.
“Anyway, he went to work for Gotty for a spell before he became wildly successful. Shame it all came to this.”
I squeeze the hobnails of my glass, wondering if the man’s pity is genuine, given Mr. Sanders’s rebuke of him. “I recall Mr. Sanders speaking about his cannery days. He mentioned he had a close friend by the name of Harry Tang.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.” Mr. Tavernish rubs at a wet ring his cup has left on the teak. “Dakon had many friends among those heathen clackety-clackers.”
My face burns, the remarks generating a heat I’ve never felt before. Mr. Cooper’s mouth spreads as if preparing to fire another volley of boasts.
“This friend was probably more memorable than most. People later knew him as the Can Man,” I say.
“Ah, yes, even I’ve heard of the Can Man,” Mr. Cooper jumps in. “Didn’t you hire him for the Rooster Cove project?”
Mr. Tavernish gives his son-in-law a thin smile, and his blinking increases speed. “I hired him briefly for a translation before the Rooster Cove project.”
So he does remember my father.
“Rooster Cove just up the sound?” I press. I’ve passed the deep nook countless times on the way to Eastsound.
“Yes. We own a kiln there, where his head turned up,” Mr. Cooper says in a conspiratorial hush.
I lick my lips, feeling a net somewhere tighten. “Harry Tang died on your property?”
I never knew where my father’s remains had been found, but to hear it was so close by makes my perch suddenly unstable. I grip the edge of the table and set a heel on the tile.
“Washed ashore,” Mr. Tavernish testily corrects him. “I didn’t build the kiln until several years after the head showed up.”
“It’s been a good investment,” says Mr. Cooper, oblivious to his father-in-law’s discomfort. “Once the trees grow back, you’ll have a swank piece of property with a view of Mount Baker, as close to a sandy beach as they come here. You can sell it for ten times what you paid.”
“It sounds scenic,” I say. “I would love a tour.”
“Absolutely not.” Mr. Tavernish claps the table. “It’s dangerous for a young lady like you.”
“Why’s that?”
Mr. Tavernish brushes at his striped vest, maybe stalling for time.
“Why, kilns are dangerous business. The terrain’s rocky.
Easy to twist an ankle. Not to mention all the smoke and fire and heavy equipment moving about.
If you’d like to visit my humble estate, I’m happy to show you our prized roses,” says Mr. Tavernish.
“It’s the lime that keeps the plants healthy. ”
I pretend to be delighted. A high laugh catches my attention—Prosper touches Nash’s arm playfully as he pins her handkerchief up for the auction.
If Mr. Tavernish won’t show us the kiln, maybe she will.