Page 5 of Part of Your World

"How can ye do this?" The accusation fell from her lips in a broken whisper. "The sea is my life."

"That's the problem, Muriel. Ye live in the sea and in yer dreams. Not in the place that matters most."

Choking on a sob, Muriel ran from the church, the ache in her heart so big, not even her beloved sea could fill it.

"Is it seaworthy?" Zane Erickson's father eyed the small sailboat the servants had just wheeled out of the shed with skepticism.

Zane ignored his father's dour mood and ran his hands over the weathered hull with reverence. "It will be when we get done with it. Right, Grandpa?"

"Yep." Grandpa Clem chuckled. "Happy twenty-fourth birthday, my boy."

Zane turned from the boat and embraced his grandpa. "Thank you!" He pounded the old man's back then retreated a step, his grin stretching so far his cheeks ached. "This is amazing! How long until we can launch her, do you think?"

"I bet we can have her shipshape in a week or two. Johnny down at the boatyard assured me the planks were solid. No woodworm or rot. She just needs a good sanding, a bit of caulking, and a nice coat of varnish before you take her out."

Horace Erickson shook his head. "I don't understand why you didn't just buy him a new one, Pops. For pity's sake. We can afford an entire fleet of catboats. This . . ." He waved a dismissive hand in direction of the single-mast vessel. ". . . pitiful excuse for a sailboat will make Zane a laughingstock among his peers."

Grandpa Clem raised a brow at Zane's father. "Maybe among your peers, but not among mine. Not among Zane's either. Besides, you know how much the boy loves to build things. Who am I to deny him that pleasure?"

"Who are you? You're the father of the most successful trader at the Galveston Cotton Exchange. As patriarch of this family, you have an example to set and a position to uphold."

Zane looked from his father to his grandfather, strains of an old and unresolved argument vibrating through the air between them. Grandpa Clem had grown up on a cotton farm, inherited the land, then expanded his holdings until he could afford to buy his own cotton gin. The expansions continued until he owned seven gins throughout south Texas. Zane's father sold the gins and invested in cotton shipping, tripling their profits. But like his father before him, he wasn't content to stop there. He campaigned his way into a position at the Exchange, one that earned the Ericksons a place among the wealthiest families in Galveston. He'd worked hard cultivating relationships until he possessed the political clout to run the cotton market, giving him the prestige and power to look down on those who worked with their hands instead of their heads.

Men like Grandpa Clem. Men like Zane.

Thankfully, Grandpa Clem had long ago decided not to play Father's verbal games. So, he thumped his son on the shoulder and shot Zane a wink. "You're the patriarch, son. Not me. I'm just the eccentric old man who likes to dig in the dirt and buy his grandson odd birthday presents."

Grandpa Clem retreated then, collecting a glass of lemonade from a servant before taking a seat on the iron bench near the base of the large magnolia tree at the heart of Mother's perfectly arranged garden.

Father blew out a heavy breath but didn't argue, a blessing Zane appreciated.

"I love the set of drafting tools you and Mother gave me, too, you know." Zane grinned at his father, just in case his excitement over the catboat had pricked his sire's pride. "Not even Mr. Clayton's case is as fine. The tooled leather is exquisite."

"Yes, well, it was your mother's idea. She, too, knows how much you like to build things." A note of sourness colored his voice, but Zane chose to ignore it.

"Perhaps, but if it weren't for your connections, I never would have had the chance to apprentice with Mr. Clayton. The man is one of the greatest architects of our age. You've given me an opportunity I never could have manufactured on my own."

His father stood a little taller and gave one of the haughty sniffs he'd perfected to keep others, including Zane, in their place. "I still wish you had the sense to follow me into the commodities business—so much more lucrative, you know—but if you are bound and determined to eschew my advice and follow your own path, I'm glad I could ensure that path winds through exalted territory."

Exalted territory? Good grief. How did Father manage not to choke on such oversized pomposity? Zane bit his tongue, not wanting to ruin the day by starting an argument. He'd learned long ago it was best not to challenge his sire directly. The man's mind couldn't be changed, anyhow. At least not by Zane.

"I am grateful to you, Father." Zane forced a half-smile to his lips before turning away and seeking less stuffy air.

He was grateful. His father's wealth had afforded him opportunities and privileges most people never experienced. Education. Connections. Money to indulge his passions. Had he not traveled with his family through Europe during his teen years, he might never have fallen in love with architecture. The Classical columns of Greece and Rome. The vaulted spires of Gothic cathedrals. The symmetry of Renaissance designs. The lavish opulence of the Baroque period. His heart came alive when gazing upon such wonders. He marveled at the engineering, lost his breath at the beauty, and longed to bring a design of his own to life one day.

Nicholas J. Clayton had already designed dozens of buildings and established himself as a master. One had only to look at his extravagant work with Galveston's Beach Hotel to see his genius. Wealthy men engaged him to design their homes, yet he also took on work for churches and school buildings. These were the projects that most stirred Zane's interest. Buildings intended to serve the public, not just a single family. Buildings designed to draw a person's attention toward something bigger than himself. Toward a purpose. Toward the holy God.

"Zane, darling. Are you having a good time?" His mother floated toward him, looking splendid in a gauzy white dress perfectly suited to the summer weather. She smiled as she handed him a glass of lemonade. "I wish you had allowed me to invite a few guests. I worry you'll grow bored at your own celebration with only ancient family members as company. You should have more young people about."

More young women about, she meant. She'd been on a mission to find him a bride ever since she turned fifty last fall, as if she were afraid she'd die before seeing her grandchildren.

"You and Father are far from ancient, Mother." Zane accepted the lemonade then leaned in and bussed her cheek. "Besides, I thought it would be nice to have a quiet family gathering this evening. Max is getting a group together to take me skating down at the Beach Rink tomorrow night. His father rented out the entire place for us."

"How lovely! I do hope Max is inviting several young ladies to attend as well. I'm not sure I trust you boys not to get into trouble if left to your own devices."

Zane chuckled softly. When Mother dropped hints, they landed with all the subtlety of bricks squashing his toes. "There will be plenty of young ladies there, Mother. Don't you worry. Mrs. Trimble is as anxious to find a match for Max as you are for me."

"I have a great deal of esteem for Catherine Trimble. In fact, she recommended a professional to me who has promised to assist us in our search."