Blanche blinked her eyes. The thought of acting as hostess alarmed her. Mrs. Davenport had once shared her secret to making visitors to Christ the King church feel welcome. People like it when you remember their names. Blanche had memorized the passenger list and only had to associate the right faces with the names. Be polite, complimentary even. Above all, make the greetings unique to the individual.
The problem was she didn’t know a thing about baseball. Maybe that’s what she should say—men sometimes liked to show off their superior knowledge. In terms of looks, Mr. Ventura was short where Ike was tall, rotund instead of muscular, with a shock of thick black hair, bushy eyebrows, and a wide smile that invited the world to laugh along with him. Open my eyes, Lord, to see what You see in this man.
Before she had time to check her hair or adjust her shirtwaist, Mr. Ventura was in front of her, pumping Ike’s hand. “Buenas noches, Señor Gallagher. Dónde está el capitan?”
Blanche held her breath. Where was the captain, indeed?
“No está aquí.” Ike’s answer repeated the obvious: he isn’t here. Switching to English, Ike said, “But this is the captain’s daughter, Miss Blanche Lamar. Blanche, this is Bart Ventura, baseball owner and one of Brownsville’s leading businessmen.”
Mr. Ventura shook Blanche’s hand, just the right firmness, leaving an impression of strength, before he released it. “Mucho gusto encontrarle, Señorita Lamar.”
Heat tinged her cheeks. “I’m afraid I don’t speak much Spanish, Señor Ventura.”
“I was only saying I am very pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise. Have you traveled aboard the Cordelia before?”
“Once or twice.” Ventura slid a sideways glance at Ike. “Mr. Gallagher and I have some interests in common. But you and I, we may have some business to discuss?”
Did everyone in the Rio Grande Valley expect her to conduct business in her father’s absence? Before she had even heard the terms of—she dreaded the thought—the will?
But Ike said Ventura’s goodwill was important to the continued success of Lamar Industries. So she would do her best.
“That may be so. We can discuss our business as we tour the boat.” Make it personal. “And I look forward to learning about your Bats. I have never had the privilege of attending a game.”
Ventura’s chuckle sent a breath across her hand that tingled her fingers. “So I am to sell you on the idea of the Bats traveling aboard the Cordelia? That is a unique sales tactic, I must say. I look forward to spending more time with you, Miss Lamar.”
A reedy man dressed in what she supposed must be a tuxedo—fancier than a Sunday suit, although still in black and white. Smith, Smithson, no—Smithers—that was it, the head waiter, came forward. “Glad to have you back aboard, sir. Please follow me to your seat.”
After that, a constant stream of passengers promenaded by Blanche. A mother with two children was traveling downriver to visit family. Those two were the only children aboard. A dozen businessmen, a half-dozen couples, a few men who looked like what Mama called “dandies,” and men who lived on family money and dressed in the latest fashions, rounded out the passengers.
Blanche felt her lips curl and forced the sneer into a pleasant smile. Why, Ike himself dressed like a dandy but so far, apart from an unfortunate flare for the dramatic, had acted like a complete gentleman. Mrs. Davenport’s second rule came to mind. Be polite; maybe they would surprise her.
Thanks to an insatiable appetite for the written word, Blanche was conversant with current news events and books, so she could carry on an intelligent conversation. All the while she smiled and made small talk, she listened to Effie playing the piano. She slipped effortlessly from one song into another. Blanche didn’t recognize a single tune, but they ranged from sentimental to lively. All had her wanting to hum along.
Instead of judging, Blanche focused on associating names with faces. In the fleeting seconds between introductions, she reviewed the names of the people already seated. Of all the guests, the young men were the hardest to tell apart. Back in Roma, any one of them would have stood out. Here, they blended together in the similarity of their attire.
The ladies differed in dress and in manner. Roly-poly Mrs. Potter arrived with her thin-faced husband. The pair looked like Jack Sprat and his wife of nursery rhyme fame. They seemed like ordinary, God-fearing folk. At the opposite end of the spectrum, Mrs. Ralston was dressed in a peacock blue gown that looked as if it sported every feather and lacy frill available to the dressmaker’s art. The color of her hair rivaled Blanche’s, but she suspected that had more to do with a bottle than birth’s generosity.
At length, Smithers rang a bell. The piano music stopped. Ike slipped his arm into the crook of Blanche’s elbow. “Shall we?”
Blanche wanted to slide into an inconspicuous seat by the kitchen, perhaps, or in a corner. But Ike steered her toward the captain’s table, where Mr. Ventura and the Ralstons waited. She lifted her chin and let him lead her to the table. Effie was already at her chair. All the women were seated, but the men stood behind their chairs.
“They’re waiting on you to take your seat,” Ike offered her whispered instructions.
“Does anyone say grace?” she whispered back, keenly aware of all eyes on her.
“Not ordinarily.” Ike seemed taken aback. “Not unless we happen to have a clergyman among the passengers.”
Blanche reviewed the names on the list. Not a reverend among them. “Then I will set an example.” She called Smithers over. “Please hold off serving the food until I give you the signal.”
Ike stood behind her chair and held it as she seated herself, then pushed her closer to the table. She tucked the glistening white napkin into her lap and spoke in her speech-class voice. “Let us take a moment to return silent thanks to the Almighty for the meal we are about to receive.” Her bowed head reinforced her meaning. Thankful thoughts warred with worries that she had overstepped her position as captain’s daughter at the first opportunity. She didn’t know if anyone had time to return a word of thanks before she raised her head and nodded at Smithers.
Mr. and Mrs. Potter gave her an appreciative smile, Ventura was chuckling, but Ike—Ike stared at her as if he had never encountered anyone quite like her before.
“I never thought to see the like. She kept the whole salon waiting for a good three minutes while she bowed her head in a silent prayer, as pretty as you please.” Ike chuckled.
Old Obie glanced at the young man, enjoying his discomfort. Although he kept his eyes fixed on the river, his ears captured every detail of Blanche’s first interaction with the passengers. A smile flickered about his mouth. “How did the passengers react?”
“She’s a novelty. They were all interested in her.”
Old Obie peered through the window at the gathering clouds. “If the sky doesn’t clear soon, we may need to shut down for the night. The weather’s been dry; we run the risk of going aground when we can’t see the water.”
“That won’t impress Mr. Ventura.”
“I know. But an accident would be even worse for business.” Old Obie squinted into the fading daylight. If his eyesight ever weakened, his days as a pilot were over. “So far, so good. But tell me, apart from the opening prayer, how did She handle herself?”
The S was a capital letter as clearly as if he had held a placard with it written down.
“Well, on the way out, she made a point of greeting everyone by name. That was a pleasant surprise. Smiles and genuine interest in everyone—she’s a natural hostess. After the night in her company, Ventura was ready to sign the agreement already.” He flipped a coin that rattled on the floor. “Almost.”
“So she has some spunk. From what I saw, I was afraid Cordelia had driven it out of her.” Old Obie took his pipe from his desk and began puffing. “Did Effie get her out of the widow weeds she arrived in?”
“She was wearing one of Effie’s least favorite dresses. Dark blue, with mauve blue gores in the skirt.”
“That’d look better on her than on Effie, with her coloring.”
“It did.” A deep sigh escaped Ike’s lips.
Old Obie snapped his head around, pulling the pipe from his mouth. “Oh no. Don’t repeat my mistake. If you’ve heard the story once, you’ve heard it a hundred times. Test that girl and see if she’s river people before you get sweet on her. She might turn out to be a heartbreaker like her mother.”
Ike didn’t move. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Good.” The sky darkened into night but the clouds dissipated—clear sailing ahead. Old Obie rested during the day so he could work the night hours. He didn’t trust any of the other pilots to do the job. Belowdecks, the clock ticked toward nine o’clock at high summer.
Ike headed for the stairs. “I’d better warn you. She’s already asking about the pilothouse. She wants to watch and learn. In fact, she seems more excited by that than most of the other functions on board.”
Old Obie tamped his pipe and set it back in the bowl. “I’m ready. Let her come.”
After a good night’s rest, Blanche woke early in the morning. Breakfast would start in an hour. In the bed opposite her, Effie slept peacefully. Blanche stretched her arms and snuggled under the sheet again. If today turned out anything like yesterday, she might not have any more time to herself until she retired to bed tonight, too tired to do anything but fall asleep.
With that in mind, she slipped out of bed with her Bible. With only one day behind her, she already felt the strains and temptations that would come her way on this journey. In her deliberations, she hadn’t factored in the absence of a spiritual mentor. She had never traveled more than a few miles away from the advice of Reverend Davenport. Now it would be her and the Lord alone. Oh Lord, let me hear Your voice in the middle of the noise of this boat. Let me represent You well. Blanche read familiar words of admonition from Colossians. “But now ye also put off all these; anger, wrath, malice, blasphemy, filthy communication out of your mouth… Put on therefore, as the elect of God, holy and beloved, bowels of mercies, kindness, humbleness of mind, meekness, longsuffering.” Help me to dress myself in the things that matter.
Effie turned over in her bed. Reluctantly, Blanche put away her Bible and considered her wardrobe. Effie and Ike might insist on different clothing for the evening, but she would wear what made her comfortable in the daytime—her clean and familiar black traveling suit.
She had finished fastening her buttons when Effie yawned. “You’re up early.”
“Good morning. I thought I would take a turn on deck before breakfast.” Blanche turned her boater over in her hands. Should she wear it? Yes, she decided. It provided some protection of her face from the sun. Without it, her skin might burn so red that it wouldn’t matter if she blushed.
“Do you want company?” Effie pushed her legs over the side of the bed and reached into her chiffarobe for a dress. “I think I’ll wear rose today.” She felt the collars of two or three dresses before she pulled out a rose dress.
“How do you do it?”
Effie laughed. “Oh, I have my tricks. For one thing, my buttons have different shapes and textures. The buttons on this dress are round and smooth, like a pearl.”
Blanche shook her head in amazement. “I have a hundred questions to ask, but I wanted to take a walk before the day gets started.”
“I’ll see you at breakfast then.”
Should she stay and help? Effie lived on her own and dressed without assistance all the time. Blanche headed out the door.
The room was belowdecks. Effie had apologized. “Why should I have a room with a view? I can’t enjoy it.”
Blanche reassured her that she didn’t mind. She had free run of the ship. Outside the door, the darkened interior of the hallway left her disoriented. She closed her eyes. Their room was on the left side—the port side, she reminded herself. She had to learn shipboard terminology. The stairs should be to her left, past a couple of rooms. Opening her eyes, she headed in that direction.
The plush carpet underneath her feet invited her to remove her shoes. Her toes wiggled, begging to be set free. She tilted her head, imagining it in different colors. Thick tapestries lined the walls. Perhaps they were intended to insulate the hall from the engine noise, but oak paneling or a beige tapestry would be better. Her imagination was running wild; instead of enjoying more luxury than she had ever seen before, she wanted to change it. Was it just the possibility that all this might be hers?
If she didn’t stop staring, she wouldn’t get in her stroll before breakfast. Spotting the stairs, she climbed to the deck. A cool breeze brushed her cheek. From one end men’s voices raised in song, men sounding happy in their work. She looked toward the prow of the boat, where the wheel churned through the water. If she went that way, the spray would tickle her face.
Ahead of her the stairway led to the pilothouse. It was time she made Old Obie’s acquaintance.