Blanche inched the door to her cabin open, in case Effie was asleep. She needn’t have bothered. Her roommate was buttoning up a pretty apricot-colored dress, with square buttons. “Good morning, Blanche. Thank you for the breakfast.”
“Elaine fixed a feast, with more to come.” Pleasant aromas promised chili and corn bread for the noon meal.
“When Elaine is upset, she cooks. The captain said he always knew when something was on her mind.” Tears filled Effie’s eyes. “I promised myself I wasn’t going to cry again.”
“Oh Effie.” Blanche threw her arms around her friend’s shoulders. “I’ve cried enough tears to make the Rio Grande flood its banks, if they had fallen in the river. No one expects you to have a smile on your face.”
“Maybe not.” She poured water into the bowl on her dressing table and dampened a washcloth. She dabbed it at her face, neck, hands, and then added a small amount of lotion below each ear. Blanche imitated her actions. Amazing how such a small gesture could offer so much refreshment.
“Are you ready?” Blanche gently encouraged her.
Effie nodded. Blanche laid down the account book and handed Effie her white cane. Arm in arm, they headed to the dining salon. Blanche explained about plans she had made with Ike to visit with Captain Pettigrew that afternoon.
“Captain Pettigrew.” Effie smiled. “I remember him. He was funny. I loved listening to him exchange stories with Old Obie while I played with his cats.”
“Would you like to come with us? I bet he still has cats.”
Effie stopped midstep. “No. I feel close to the captain as long as I’m aboard the Cordelia.”
“I understand.” And Blanche did. She had never seen her father any place other than on board the Cordelia. She had a hard time imagining him in any other setting.
“You don’t think I’m being silly?”
“Not at all.” Whatever time Effie needed to grieve, Blanche would allow. She didn’t want her friend’s life turned upside down the way her own had been since her mother’s death. Her first nineteen years in Roma, even the fellowship at Christ the King Community Church, seemed like they happened to another girl.
The earlier chill continued to cling to Blanche, and she would have welcomed a brisk walk, but Ike had arranged for a carriage. As they trundled past the wharves and the downtown district, toward the residential district, she recognized the wisdom. “Is he expecting us?”
“I sent a messenger to arrange the meeting.”
“Thank you.” Ike did so many things so efficiently.
Blanche studied the streets as they rode, noting the presence of more palm trees than she had seen upriver, with an occasional seagull diving for a morsel of food as they rode by. “Is the ocean close by?”
“Not far.”
An impulse seized Blanche. “I want to see it. Can we go, after we meet with Captain Pettigrew?”
Ike twisted in his seat to face her more directly. “You’ve never been to the ocean? Of course not. I should have taken you before.”
Her face turned downward, hoping to hide the heat in her cheeks. “As long as I am this close, I ought to see it. Don’t you think so?”
“Absolutely. And here we are.”
The house had to belong to someone who had spent his life on the water. Maybe she formed that impression from the narrow walk that circled the roof. What had she heard it called, a widow’s walk? For the whalers’ wives who waited at home? “Have you ever read Moby Dick?”
“That’s the story about the crazy man who went after the whale, right? Great stuff. I’m surprised you read it, though. Didn’t your mother think it was too harsh for your delicate mind?”
Laughter bubbled out of Blanche. “She didn’t know everything I read. My reward for finishing my schoolwork early was to read, and my teacher kept me supplied in books. I fell in love with the idea of steamboats when I read Mark Twain’s books.”
“He got a lot of it right. Things have changed since his time, though.” Ike helped her out of the carriage and opened the gate in the white picket fence. Flowers edged the length of the walkway, and rosebushes hugged the house. If her father was a different kind of man… if her mother were a different sort of woman… she might have grown up in a house like this. Blanche shook away the thought. Wishing couldn’t change the past.
A man with a blue sailor’s cap on his head and dressed in white came out on the front porch. She thought she had seen him at the funeral, but she wasn’t sure. He waved them forward.
“Mr. Gallagher, Miss Lamar. I am honored that you would call on me in your time of grief.” He came forward with an affable smile on his face.
“We appreciate you seeing us on such short notice.” Blanche’s nod felt stiff.
“I can guess what you came here to see me about.” He flashed white teeth at her. “But first let me introduce you to my wife.”
A kindly looking woman, a little plump, with a happy expression on her face, appeared at the front door at that moment, bearing a tray. “Do you mind if we take our refreshment on the porch?”
“That sounds lovely.”
No one mentioned business as they made introductions and shared in sweet tea and pinwheel cookies. Blanche made an effort to finish the cookies Mrs. Pettigrew pressed on her. The affection between husband and wife was evident, a man comfortable in his retirement. She wondered if any inducement could convince him to leave the comforts of home to return to life on the river.
After they emptied the pitcher of tea and Mrs. Pettigrew disappeared inside, Captain Pettigrew grew serious. “As I said, I can guess why you’re here. You need a pilot.”
Beside her, Ike stirred but stayed silent. Perhaps he wanted her to approach Captain Pettigrew about the position. “From what I’ve heard, you’re the best man for the job.” She looked at him directly, refusing to drop her gaze.
“You’re Obie’s daughter, all right.” Captain Pettigrew wiped at his eyes. “My wife stood by me all the years I spent on the river. I promised her before God that I would spend the last years of our lives at home.”
“Are you a Christian?” Blanche couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice.
“Amen, sister.” He winked at Ike. “Not all river men are heathen.”
That statement sent heat rushing to Blanche’s cheeks. She sipped her tea to give herself a moment to regain her composure. For once, Ike remained silent. He seemed to be enjoying her disquiet.
“We are not asking you to come out of retirement—not permanently.” Blanche took a deep breath. “In fact, I am interested in securing a pilot’s license for myself. My father”—she still stumbled over the word—“felt I had an aptitude for it. And I have to confess, the idea intrigues me.”
“But a woman pilot?” Captain Pettigrew left the question dangling.
Ike cleared his throat. “A woman on the Mississippi recently qualified as a riverboat pilot. Our Blanche plans to follow in her steps.”
“Obie was a good judge of talent.” Captain Pettigrew looked across the expanse of lawn. Standing, he went to the open door to the house and called for his wife. They conferred briefly in low voices then came out hand in hand.
“Is there room on your boat for my wife to travel with us?”
“Of course.” Blanche smiled in relief.
“We have about an hour before the carriage will return.” Ike held the gate open for Blanche to pass through. “You can see the ocean from here. We can spend a few minutes on the beach.”
Blanche stood on tiptoe. “I can’t see it.”
“You can smell it, though.” He took a deep breath. “All that salty air.”
“Is that what it is?” Her nose wrinkled. “It reminded me of fish.”
“That, too.”
Palm fronds reached out to brush against them as they walked down the street, narrowing to a footpath about a hundred yards from the Pettigrews’ house. Seagulls flew an elaborate dance overhead, demanding a tribute from the two intruders.
“Is that the ocean I hear?”
Ike stopped to listen. Ripple and swish. Not the roar of water tripping over rocks, such as he had experienced on a memorable trip to the headwaters of the Rio Grande, but the gentle wash of waves on sand. “Yes.”
The boardwalk stopped about thirty yards shy of the high-water mark. Blanche dipped a tentative toe into the sand, and her shoe sunk in the soft surface. Giggling, she pulled back. “Do I dare walk forward?”
“If you do, sand will cover your shoes. Anytime we went to the beach, we came home with sand in every possible crevice. Dame Agatha complained she couldn’t get the sand out for two washings.” The memory brought a smile to his face. “If you want to skirt the grass here, it shouldn’t be bad. There’s another boardwalk in that direction.”
Blanche glanced at the sand, then at Ike. “I’d like that.” She kept turning to look at the ocean, mesmerized by the undulating waves. “I don’t think I would ever get tired of watching the water. Each time the waves wash over the beach, they draw pictures in the sand.”
The rather fanciful description suited the beach. “It’s peaceful.” Ahead of them, a family had spread out a blanket where gulls squatted, begging for leftovers. The father held a pair of binoculars to his eyes, and the mother glanced at a book between admonitions to their children. The young ones were busy filling a pail with sand. Pail-shaped mounds defined the outline of a sand castle. Ike pointed it out.
“Oh, that looks like fun.”
“Another time, perhaps.”
“If I come back.”
They needed to return to the Pettigrews’ house to meet the carriage on time, but Ike hated for Blanche’s time at the beach to end. The wave came up and washed away part of the castle.
“Oh dear.” Blanche laughed. “That must be what the Lord meant when He talked about a house built on sand and a house built on rock. The house built on sand would be washed away.”
“Temporary as sand, as eternal as the waves.” Ike stood behind Blanche, and she leaned ever so briefly against his chest. He resisted the urge to put his arms around her and pull her closer.
Sighing, she said, “It’s time to go back, isn’t it?”
He nodded, and they turned in the direction of town.
The driver held a slip of paper in his hand and offered it to Ike after he assisted Blanche into the carriage. Ike read the message and nodded. Good. Today was turning into a lucky day, after the difficult times last week.
“What’s that?” Faint pink appeared on Blanche’s face. Ike hoped she wouldn’t suffer from sunburn after their short time on the beach.
“Business.” He smiled and patted her hand. “Nothing you need to worry your pretty head about.”
She opened her mouth as if to protest then closed it without speaking. “Thank you for this lovely afternoon. I’ve been able to forget, for a few minutes, that I have lost both father and mother. God’s reminder that life goes on and I won’t be sad forever.” Leaning back against the seat, she closed her eyes. When her head fell against his shoulder, he adjusted her wrap and let her rest. He sought to nap but stayed locked awake.
As soon as they finished supper, Blanche and Effie excused themselves. Blanche took the account book with her. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“I regret anything that takes you away from me.” Eventually he would have to list the day’s business in the books, but it could wait. “Until tomorrow then?”
She smiled, and the two women left.
Ike retired to his cabin and set up things, setting out the bottle of whiskey he had managed to purchase before Old Obie’s death and opening a packet of cards. After full dark fell, he returned to the main deck and greeted Bart Ventura as he came down the wharf with a couple of business associates whom Ike had met.
“I’ve told my friends this is the best game in town. I’m glad you could accommodate us.”
“Glad to oblige.” He didn’t host games in port very often—if he wanted a game, he sought one out on land—but he wouldn’t refuse Ventura’s request. They would discuss some business tonight, now that Ike had final details about the return trip to Roma.
The evening passed the midnight hour, with Ike stone-cold sober but his guests feeling the effects of multiple shots of whiskey, when a sharp knock rapped at the door. Ventura swept the cards off the table in a practiced gesture, and the men removed their markers. Only whiskey glasses remained as telltale signs of the night’s activities.
“Who is it?” Ike spoke through the closed door.
“Police. Open the door or we’ll break it down.”
A swift glance at the table confirmed all signs of the game had disappeared. Half a dozen officers stood at the entrance, pistols in hand. With one hand pulling the door closed, he stood inches in front of the first officer.
“What can I do for the officers of the law?” Ike turned on his most convincing smile, the one smile that made women swoon and men agree to harebrained schemes. More than once, Old Obie had remarked that he was glad Ike was a reasonably honest man.
“Open that door.” The officer—a captain, Ike guessed by his uniform—shoved a piece of paper in his face. “Here’s the warrant.”
“Certainly.” Ike tried the door, pretending it was locked. “Silly me.” He took his time fishing his key out of his pocket. Heavy breathing and the smell of sweat identified the cops as men on the hunt.
The door opened to three men sitting around the table, cigars burning in ashtrays, which helped to mask the scent of whiskey. The drink, and the glasses, had disappeared, and all money had been put away. Ike allowed himself to relax. “How may I assist you this evening, Captain? As you can see, some friends of mine have gathered to offer their advice in this time of transition. You must have heard that our captain, J.O. Lamar, died last week.”
“The police have an exhaustive history of this boat, Mr. Gallagher.” He speared Ike with his glance while the officers pawed through his belongings. Ike bit his tongue to keep from asking what they were searching for.
“Here it is.” One of the officers, a black-haired man who sounded like a Cajun from nearby Louisiana held up a decanter.
The police captain—Ike had determined his name was Mason—opened the decanter and sniffed. He tipped it and let a drop drip on his finger, which he licked. “You have been serving whiskey.”
“What’s going on?” A feminine voice pierced through the crowd of men. Wrapped in a dressing gown that covered her from neck to toe, Blanche appeared in the doorway like an avenging angel.