Lilac Spring. Ruth Morren Axtell
to what you’ve told me over the years, he has more talent in one little finger than Henry ever had—and that’s my son I’m talking about.”
“I’ve wondered that myself. I love Papa dearly, but sometimes I could just shake him the way he treats Silas. Take yesterday. Can you believe he didn’t take him along to have dinner with the Townsends? He left him to fend for himself on the docks as if he were just an ordinary deckhand.”
Aunt Phoebe stopped in her act of wiping off the table. “Is that the reason for the picnic today?” Her knowing blue eyes looked deep into Cherish’s.
Cherish could feel her cheeks warming. “Partially. It’s also a beautiful day for a picnic, and I haven’t had a chance to have a good chat with Silas since I’ve been back.”
Her aunt smiled in understanding, her face softening. “You go and have a good time. I’ll take care of your father.” She sighed. “Sometimes I’ve thought Tom resented Silas’s talent, resented the fact it’s in a stranger, come out of nowhere, and not in the son he wishes he’d had.”
Two dainty booted feet beneath a ruffled white gown sprigged with lavender flowers appeared at the edge of Silas’s vision.
He gave one last whack with the adze against the timber. Curls of wood chips went flying. Resting the metal head of the tool lightly against the plank he was forming out of a long piece of lumber, he straightened. Wiping the back of his arm against his forehead, he shoved aside the hair that kept falling forward. “Hello, there. What are you doing down here?”
“Come to fetch you.” Cherish was like a breath of cool sea breeze on the hot beach. She carried a picnic hamper in one hand and twirled a white parasol over her shoulder with the other.
“Where?” He laid down the adze on the pebbly beach and took a handkerchief from his shirt pocket to wipe his face.
“You and I are going on a picnic.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, so put away your things. I want to sail over to the meadow on Allison’s Bay.”
The idea was tempting. Then he looked at the pile of lumber still to be shaped into planks for the schooner standing over him like a giant elephant carcass, its ribs held together by scaffolding. “I don’t think I can leave right now.”
She followed his line of vision to the hull. “Nonsense. It’s almost dinnertime anyway. I’ve already told Aunt Phoebe not to expect us. Besides, you promised to spend the afternoons with me up in the workshop. We’re already a day behind.”
“I’d better tell your father,” he began, rolling down his shirtsleeves and buttoning the cuffs.
“Already taken care of.”
He eyed her, wondering what wiles she’d used on old man Winslow. The only one who could soften that man was his daughter. “Let me get cleaned up. I won’t be but a minute,” Silas told her, and headed toward the boat shop. Quickly he put on a clean shirt. Whistling, he came back down the stairs.
The day was indeed beautiful. Although spring didn’t come down east until May, once it came, it arrived in full force. Silas rowed them out to his own boat, a twenty-seven-foot yawl he’d built himself from stem post to stern. The name Sea Princess was painted along its bow.
He loved this boat, its sleek wooden lines, its full white sails, the way it handled under his guidance.
“We’ve got a strong northwest wind. We’ll be able to run her pretty clear,” he told her as he sheeted the mainsail close. It filled with the wind, making great clapping noises as he tugged on the sheets.
Once clear of the harbor, he worked the tiller and line, Cherish seated beside him.
She smiled. “May I?”
He gave a brief nod, relinquishing the tiller to her. She knew these waters as well as he.
“How do you like her?”
“She’s wonderful.”
Silas glanced at Cherish. The wind whipped at her ponytail. She brought a hand up to her forehead to keep the strands of hair out of her face. A smile played along her mouth. She looked as if she were enjoying herself to the full.
“I remember you were still working on her the last time I was here.”
“Mmm-hmm,” he answered.
“Why haven’t you named her after someone? Sea Princess, that could be anybody.”
He shrugged. “There’s no one to name her after.”
She gazed at him under her brows. “How unromantic of you.”
He looked away, not having given it much thought until then. “I guess my romance is with the sea,” he said after a moment.
They didn’t have far to sail, the site suggested by Cherish being only the next bay over. They passed Ferguson Point, with its pebbly cove and beautiful house far above it overlooking the ocean, before heading into the bay. As they reached the spot Cherish indicated, he began reefing in the sail. After dropping the anchor, they rowed the short distance to shore in the skiff.
He jumped out into the shallow water to pull the boat up onto the beach. Cherish stood to get out.
“Hey, don’t get your feet wet,” he cautioned. He hesitated an instant, wondering at the same moment why he did so. But one glance at her delicate-looking white kid boots settled it. He leaned forward to pick her up. He’d done the same thing a hundred times when she’d been younger—why did he vacillate now? She was the same girl—only bigger.
She immediately put her arms around his neck and laughed, a sound of sheer delight. His arms held her under her arms and knees, his fingers feeling the soft fabric of her gown, his nostrils catching the same soft fragrance of perfume. He strode the few steps to dry ground and let her down as quickly as possible, wondering at the change in him. Assisting her should not have had such an effect on him.
She slid her hands down from his neck to his chest before letting go completely. “Thank you, Silas,” she said, her voice breathless, her blue eyes alight with amusement, as if she were conscious of the queer sensations running through him.
The awareness passed as soon as she stepped away from him, and he shoved the incident from his mind. He concentrated on securing the line, then going back to get the hamper.
Cherish had already walked on ahead, heading up the disused path that led from the beach to a meadow above on higher ground.
The grass of the field was just beginning to turn green, and it was covered in a carpet of white.
“Oh, the bluets!” Cherish stooped to examine the tiny flowers, which up close weren’t white, but pale blue four-pointed stars.
Silas found a spot sheltered from the breeze but still in sight of the bay. Cherish came back with a tiny bouquet, which she tucked into her neckline. Silas turned away, willing himself not to notice the narrow wedge of pale skin where her gown came together. Unfortunately, the sprig of flowers only served to call attention to it.
She knelt by the basket and opened the lid. “We can spread this out,” she said, taking out a red-checked cloth. He grabbed two corners, glad to have something constructive to do. The bright cloth billowed in the air as they held it.
Silas went to retrieve some stones with which to anchor it. When he returned, Cherish had placed the food in an inviting display on the cloth, and he realized how hungry he was.
“Here.” She handed him a thick sandwich. “Bread baked this morning. My first culinary endeavor since I’ve been back, I shall have you know.”
The sandwich looked inviting, spread thick with butter and stuffed with slices of ham and cheese. She took out a mason jar and removed the lid. “Sweet tea. I didn’t bring any glasses, so we shall have to share this between us.” She set it down against the basket.
“Everything