Page 30 of Part of Your World

His expression lightened as he leaned back and tapped the edge of the table with his thumbs. "Now Grandpa Clem. Oh, you'll like him."

He went on to tell several stories about the man he obviously adored. Grandpa Clem reminded her a bit of Laraline. A hard worker with plain-speaking ways and an appreciation for the simple pleasures in life. The more stories Zane told, the more his eyes gleamed, banishing the discomfort brought on by thoughts of his father.

The waiter arrived with their ice cream orders, interrupting their conversation. Muriel didn't mind, though. She'd never had ice cream served in such a fancy dish. Cut glass with a pedestal foot. And the ice cream itself was fancier than anything she'd ever seen. It had been molded into a scallop shape, like a delectable seashell topped with sugared strawberries. A wafer cookie jutted out from the side, begging to be devoured first.

Zane's quiet chuckle brought a blush to her cheeks. The woman of means she pretended to be surely wouldn't react in such a way. But she didn't want Zane to fall in love with a pretend woman of means. She wanted him to love her. So she did nothing to hide her excitement and was rewarded with a bright smile from the man across from her.

"Do you want to try mine?" He pushed his dish toward her, a rounded oval of chocolate ice cream looking absolutely decadent. She shook her head, but then on impulse, reached out and snatched one of the chocolate curls from the top and popped it into her mouth.

Zane laughed, the sound almost as delicious as the chocolate melting on her tongue. She offered him one of her sugared berries in exchange, and when he took one in his spoon then combined it with a bit of chocolate from his own dish, her heart did a little melting of its own.

After taking a bite—all right, several bites—of her ice cream, she recalled that she hadn't yet told him anything about her own family. She turned the page in her notebook and slid it toward him. She couldn't give many details thanks to the picture Mrs. Underhill had already painted, but she could share the things that really mattered. The way her ma had sung lullabies and rocked her in the big chair at bedtime before the Lord had called her home. How Alana had been both mother and sister to the three younger Quinn girls after Ma's passing. How two of her sisters moved away after marrying, and how thankful she was that Alana remained in Galveston. Not only because Alana was her best friend, but because her children were three of Muriel's favorite people in all the world. Her two adorable nieces were the perfect size for snuggling even if they were too young for adventuring with their Auntie Muriel just yet. Their big brother, however, loved to scamper all over the island and comb the shore for treasures. Then, of course, there was Da. The father who had always been her hero, especially when he found a way to nurture her love of the sea.

"That's how I feel about my Grandpa Clem." Zane dipped his spoon into his ice cream but made no move to lift the bite to his mouth. "He just seems to understand me. The way I like to build things, to create with my own two hands instead of paying someone else to do the crafting for me. He's such a man of abiding faith, too. There's no one I respect more."

Including his father, she imagined, though he didn't voice the words.

They returned to eating their ice cream, and the soft clinking of spoons on glass proved to be conversation enough for the moment. Still in possession of her notebook, Zane turned the page and read her next question. He winked at her then cheated and turned the page to read her answer. She nearly called him out on it, but the ice cream in her mouth stopped her from making that mistake.

She'd asked him about his hobbies and then went on to tell him about her swimming, while pleading with him to keep her secret. His mother had been right that it stretched the bounds of propriety. Her sisters had been telling her that for years. She told him of her admiration for Agnes Beckwith, the English swimmer who had set so many records and how she dreamed of swimming the length of Galveston Island someday. She also told him of how free she felt in the sea. Free from expectations, free from judgment, free to be herself.

"I feel the same when I sail . . . when I'm not getting knocked overboard, of course." He dipped his chin, a touch of color staining his cheeks as his dark hair fell across his forehead. He lifted his chin and grinned, the embarrassment banished in favor of happier memories. "The wind in my hair, the spray of the waves in my face, the boat running like a racing horse that never tires. But what you've done . . ." He lowered his voice as he leaned across the table. "That's incredible."

The admiration in his voice filled and stretched her heart. He didn't think her swimming shameful or unfeminine? If he did, he hid it well. But no. She believed him. He thought her incredible. And wasn't that the most delicious treat of all?

Their eyes held for a long moment before she darted her gaze down to her notebook and was reminded of his skipping the question. Although, sailing did count as a hobby. But surely he had more than one, and she wanted to learn about all of them.

Muriel pointed to the notebook and then pointed to him.

He held up his hands in surrender, though his crooked smile didn't seem very repentant. "I know. I know. My turn. But I'd rather show you than tell you, and this isn't the place. Will you walk down to the wharf with me? It's not far, and I promise to return you to the academy well before curfew."

He stood and held out his hand to her. Muriel didn't hesitate for a second.

Chapter 14

A tangy salt breeze blowing off the bay cooled the air as Zane and Muriel strolled past the iron works foundry toward a narrow wooden bridge that led to Lufkin's Wharf. Her da worked mainly on the Central Wharf, but at this time in the evening, he'd be home, so she needn't fear running into him. Though she'd not have minded catchin' a glimpse of him from a distance. It seemed an age since she'd seen him.

Halfway across the bridge, Zane stopped and leaned his back against the wooden railing. The breeze ruffled his hair as he reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a flute of some sort. Not a fife, like the ones played in the drum corps during parades, but one with a whistle-shaped mouthpiece and a body that pointed downward.

Zane set it to his lips and arranged his fingers over the holes. He inhaled, and then the sweetest music filled the air. Gentle, pure tones, clear and bright. It took only a measure or two of him playing for her to recognize the melody. "Jesus, Savior, Pilot Me." The hymn she'd been singing the day of his accident.

He remembered. More than that, he'd taken the time to learn the song. His fingers moved with confidence to shape the notes as he breathed through the instrument.

Her throat ached to join the song. To voice the lyrics running through her mind. To meld her voice to Zane's music. But she'd trapped herself in silence. Denied the gift the Lord had given. Yet the gift was not hers alone. Zane had it too. His music entreated and cajoled, bringing delight to her heart despite her vocal banishment. He played with a natural ease that had her closing her eyes and swaying with the gentle rhythm as the melody wrapped its sweet arms around her soul.

She sang the words in her mind until the first verse came to a close. He didn't start the second verse, just let the final note diminish into the evening air. Muriel opened her eyes and met Zane's gaze.

"It's called a recorder." He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the mouthpiece then held it out for her inspection. "Some call it an English flute. My Grandpa Clem taught me to play. He learned from his father, who learned from his. We aren't sure how far back the tradition goes, but it seems to be a rite of passage for the Erickson men. My father even learned how to play, though I haven't heard him make music in years."

He wiggled the instrument in front of her, his smile growing. "Want to try it?"

A chance to make music? Oh, yes! Muriel bounced on her toes as she searched his face to ensure he wasn't teasing. He extended it closer to her, and she accepted, soda bubbles shooting geysers through her midsection.

The wood warmed in her hands, the polished maple finish gleaming in the low light of evening. She tried to replicate how he'd held the recorder, but she must not have done it correctly for Zane came alongside and helped her position her hands, the left covering the upper holes while the right covered those below. Heat flooded her face as he gently arranged her fingers, scooting close to her side as he did so.

Heavens, but her pulse was thumpin' like she'd just raced Fletcher to the end of the pier and back.

"There's a hole on the back side . . . here . . . for your thumb." He adjusted her grip, his cheek nearly touching hers in the process.