Inner Harbor
Page 15
Crawford's appeared to be a popular spot, so she strolled in and treated herself to an ice cream cone. It gave her something to do with her hands as she walked the few blocks to Boats by Quinn.
She appreciated the value of props. Everyone used them in the continuing play of living, she thought. A glass at a cocktail party, a paperback book on the subway. Jewelry, she realized when she caught herself twisting her necklace around her nervous fingers.
She dropped the chain, and concentrated on enjoying her scoop of raspberry sherbet.
It didn't take long to walk to the outskirts of town. She calculated that the waterfront area ran for barely a mile from end to end.
The neighborhoods ran west from the water. Narrow streets with tidy houses and tiny lawns. Low fences designed as much for backyard gossiping, she mused, as for boundary lines. Trees were large and leafy, still holding the deep, dark green of summer. It would be, she thought, an attractive sight when they turned with autumn.
Kids played in yards or rode bikes along the sloping sidewalks. She saw a teenage boy lovingly waxing an old Chevy compact, singing in a loud, just-out-of-tune voice to whatever played through his headphones.
A long-legged mutt with floppy ears rushed a fence as she passed, barking in deep, rusty clips. Her heart did a quick dance when he planted his huge paws on the top of the fence. And she kept walking.
She didn't know much about dogs.
She spotted Phillip's Jeep in the pothole-filled parking lot beside the boatyard. An aging pickup truck kept it company. The doors and several of the windows of the building were wide open. Through them came the buzz of saws and the Southern rock beat of John Fogerty.
Okay, Sybill, she thought and took a deep breath as she carefully swallowed the last of her cone. Now or never.
She stepped inside and found herself momentarily distracted by the look of the place. It was huge, and dusty and bright as a spotlighted stage. The Quinns were hard at work, with Ethan and Cam fitting a long, bent plank into place on what she assumed was a hull in progress. Phillip stood at a big, dangerous-looking power saw, running lumber through it.
She didn't see Seth.
For a moment she simply watched and wondered if she should slip back out again. If her nephew wasn't there, it would be more sensible to postpone the visit until she was sure he was.
He might be away for the day with friends. Did he have any friends? Or he could be home. Did he consider it his home?
Before she could decide, the saw switched off, leaving only John Fogerty crooning about a brown-eyed, handsome man. Phillip stepped back, pushed up his safety goggles, turned. And saw her.
His smile of welcome came so quickly, so sincerely, that she had to clamp down on a hard tug of guilt. "I'm interrupting." She raised her voice to compete with the music.
"Thank God." Dusting his hands on his jeans, Phillip started toward her.
"I've been stuck with looking at these guys all day. You're a big improvement."
"I decided to play tourist." She jiggled the shopping bag she carried.
"And I thought I'd take you up on the offer of a tour."
"I was hoping you would."
"So…" Deliberately, she shifted her gaze to the hull. It was safer, she decided, than looking into those tawny eyes for any length of time.
"That's a boat?"
"It's a hull. Or will be." He took her hand, drew her forward. "It's going to be a sport's fisher."
"Which is?"
"One of those fancy boats men like to go out on to act manly, fish for marlin, and drink beer."
"Hey, Sybill." Cam shot her a grin. "Want a job?"
She looked at the tools, the sharp edges, the heavy lumber. "I don't think so." It was easy to smile back, to look over at Ethan. "It looks like the three of you know what you're doing."
"We know what we're doing." Cam wiggled his thumb between himself and Ethan. "We keep Phillip around for entertainment."
"I'm not appreciated around here."
She laughed and began to circle the hull. She could understand the basic shape but not the process. "I assume this is upside down."
"Good eye." Phillip only grinned when she cocked an eyebrow. "After she's planked, we'll turn her and start on the decking."
"Are your parents boatbuilders?"
"No, my mother was a doctor, my father a college professor. But we grew up around boats."
She heard it in his voice, the affection, the not-quite-settled grief. And hated herself. She'd intended to ask him more about his parents in some detail, but couldn't. "I've never been on a boat."
"Ever?"
"I imagine there are several million people in the world who haven't."
"Want to?"
"Maybe. I've enjoyed watching the boats from my hotel window." As she studied it, the hull became a puzzle she needed to solve. "How do you know where to begin to build this? I assume you work from a design, blueprints or schematics or whatever you call it."
"Ethan's been doing the bulk of the design work. Cam fiddles with it. Seth draws it up."
"Seth." Her fingers tightened on the strap of her purse. Props, she thought again. "Didn't you say he was in middle school?"
"That's right. The kid's got a real talent for drawing. Check these out."
Now she heard pride and it flustered her. Struggling for composure, she followed him to a far wall, where drawings of boats were roughly framed in raw wood. They were good--very, very good. Clever sketches done with pencil and care and talent.
"He… A young boy drew these?"
"Yes. Pretty great, huh? This is the one we just finished." He tapped a hand on the glass. "And this one's what we're working on now."
"He's very talented," she murmured around the lump in her throat. "He has excellent perspective."
"Do you draw?"
"A little, now and then. Just a hobby." She had to turn away to settle herself. "It relaxes me, and it helps in my work." Determined to smile again, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and aimed a bright, easy one at Phillip. "So, where's the artist today?"
"Oh, he's--"
He broke off as two dogs raced into the building. Sybill took an instinctive step back as the smaller of the two made a beeline in her direction. She made some strangled sound of distress just as Phillip jabbed out a finger and issued a sharp command.
She appreciated the value of props. Everyone used them in the continuing play of living, she thought. A glass at a cocktail party, a paperback book on the subway. Jewelry, she realized when she caught herself twisting her necklace around her nervous fingers.
She dropped the chain, and concentrated on enjoying her scoop of raspberry sherbet.
It didn't take long to walk to the outskirts of town. She calculated that the waterfront area ran for barely a mile from end to end.
The neighborhoods ran west from the water. Narrow streets with tidy houses and tiny lawns. Low fences designed as much for backyard gossiping, she mused, as for boundary lines. Trees were large and leafy, still holding the deep, dark green of summer. It would be, she thought, an attractive sight when they turned with autumn.
Kids played in yards or rode bikes along the sloping sidewalks. She saw a teenage boy lovingly waxing an old Chevy compact, singing in a loud, just-out-of-tune voice to whatever played through his headphones.
A long-legged mutt with floppy ears rushed a fence as she passed, barking in deep, rusty clips. Her heart did a quick dance when he planted his huge paws on the top of the fence. And she kept walking.
She didn't know much about dogs.
She spotted Phillip's Jeep in the pothole-filled parking lot beside the boatyard. An aging pickup truck kept it company. The doors and several of the windows of the building were wide open. Through them came the buzz of saws and the Southern rock beat of John Fogerty.
Okay, Sybill, she thought and took a deep breath as she carefully swallowed the last of her cone. Now or never.
She stepped inside and found herself momentarily distracted by the look of the place. It was huge, and dusty and bright as a spotlighted stage. The Quinns were hard at work, with Ethan and Cam fitting a long, bent plank into place on what she assumed was a hull in progress. Phillip stood at a big, dangerous-looking power saw, running lumber through it.
She didn't see Seth.
For a moment she simply watched and wondered if she should slip back out again. If her nephew wasn't there, it would be more sensible to postpone the visit until she was sure he was.
He might be away for the day with friends. Did he have any friends? Or he could be home. Did he consider it his home?
Before she could decide, the saw switched off, leaving only John Fogerty crooning about a brown-eyed, handsome man. Phillip stepped back, pushed up his safety goggles, turned. And saw her.
His smile of welcome came so quickly, so sincerely, that she had to clamp down on a hard tug of guilt. "I'm interrupting." She raised her voice to compete with the music.
"Thank God." Dusting his hands on his jeans, Phillip started toward her.
"I've been stuck with looking at these guys all day. You're a big improvement."
"I decided to play tourist." She jiggled the shopping bag she carried.
"And I thought I'd take you up on the offer of a tour."
"I was hoping you would."
"So…" Deliberately, she shifted her gaze to the hull. It was safer, she decided, than looking into those tawny eyes for any length of time.
"That's a boat?"
"It's a hull. Or will be." He took her hand, drew her forward. "It's going to be a sport's fisher."
"Which is?"
"One of those fancy boats men like to go out on to act manly, fish for marlin, and drink beer."
"Hey, Sybill." Cam shot her a grin. "Want a job?"
She looked at the tools, the sharp edges, the heavy lumber. "I don't think so." It was easy to smile back, to look over at Ethan. "It looks like the three of you know what you're doing."
"We know what we're doing." Cam wiggled his thumb between himself and Ethan. "We keep Phillip around for entertainment."
"I'm not appreciated around here."
She laughed and began to circle the hull. She could understand the basic shape but not the process. "I assume this is upside down."
"Good eye." Phillip only grinned when she cocked an eyebrow. "After she's planked, we'll turn her and start on the decking."
"Are your parents boatbuilders?"
"No, my mother was a doctor, my father a college professor. But we grew up around boats."
She heard it in his voice, the affection, the not-quite-settled grief. And hated herself. She'd intended to ask him more about his parents in some detail, but couldn't. "I've never been on a boat."
"Ever?"
"I imagine there are several million people in the world who haven't."
"Want to?"
"Maybe. I've enjoyed watching the boats from my hotel window." As she studied it, the hull became a puzzle she needed to solve. "How do you know where to begin to build this? I assume you work from a design, blueprints or schematics or whatever you call it."
"Ethan's been doing the bulk of the design work. Cam fiddles with it. Seth draws it up."
"Seth." Her fingers tightened on the strap of her purse. Props, she thought again. "Didn't you say he was in middle school?"
"That's right. The kid's got a real talent for drawing. Check these out."
Now she heard pride and it flustered her. Struggling for composure, she followed him to a far wall, where drawings of boats were roughly framed in raw wood. They were good--very, very good. Clever sketches done with pencil and care and talent.
"He… A young boy drew these?"
"Yes. Pretty great, huh? This is the one we just finished." He tapped a hand on the glass. "And this one's what we're working on now."
"He's very talented," she murmured around the lump in her throat. "He has excellent perspective."
"Do you draw?"
"A little, now and then. Just a hobby." She had to turn away to settle herself. "It relaxes me, and it helps in my work." Determined to smile again, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and aimed a bright, easy one at Phillip. "So, where's the artist today?"
"Oh, he's--"
He broke off as two dogs raced into the building. Sybill took an instinctive step back as the smaller of the two made a beeline in her direction. She made some strangled sound of distress just as Phillip jabbed out a finger and issued a sharp command.
