Inner Harbor
Page 8
Crowded in with the desk were two file cabinets, a personal copier, and a plain-paper fax.
He settled in his chair and booted up the computer. The blinking light on the phone caught his eye. When he punched it for messages, he found two hang-ups and dismissed them.
Within moments, he'd brought up the program he'd customized for the business, and found himself grinning at the logo for Boats by Quinn.
They might be flying by the seat of their pants, he mused as he plugged in the data for the sale, but it didn't have to look that way. He'd justified the high-grade paper as an advertising expense. Desktop publishing was second nature to him. Creating stationery, receipts, bills was simple enough--he simply insisted that they have class.
He shot the job to the printer just as the phone rang.
"Boats by Quinn."
There was a hesitation, then the sound of throat clearing. "Sorry, wrong number." The voice was muffled and female and quickly gone.
"No problem, sweetheart," Phillip said to the dial tone as he plucked the printed bill of sale from the machine.
"there goes a happy man." Cam commented an hour later when the three of them watched their client drive off with the trailered sloop.
"We're happier." Phillip took the check out of his pocket and held it out. "Factoring in equipment, labor, overhead, supplies…" He folded the check in half again. "Well, we cleared enough to get by."
"Try to control your enthusiasm," Cam muttered. "You got a check for five figures in your hot little hand. Let's crack open those beers."
"The bulk of the profits have to go right back into the business," Phillip warned as they started inside. "Once the cold weather hits, our utility bill's going to go through the roof." He glanced up at the soaring ceiling. "Literally. And we've got quarterly taxes due next week."
Cam twisted the top off a bottle and pushed it at his brother. "Shut up, Phil."
"However," Phillip continued, ignoring him, "this is a fine moment in Quinn history." He lifted his beer, tapped the bottle to both Cam's and Ethan's. "To our foot doctor, the first of many happy clients. May he sail clean and heal many bunions."
"May he tell all his friends to call Boats by Quinn," Cam added.
"May he sail in Annapolis and keep out of my part of the Bay," Ethan finished with a shake of his head.
"Who's springing for lunch?" Cam wanted to know. "I'm starving."
"Grace made sandwiches," Ethan told him. "They're out in my cooler."
"God bless her."
"Might want to put off lunch just a bit." Phillip heard the sound of tires on gravel. "I think what I've been waiting for just got here." He strolled out, pleased to see the delivery truck.
The driver leaned out the window, worked a wad of gum into his cheek.
"Quinn?"
"That's right."
"What'd you buy now?" Cam frowned at the truck, wondering how much of that brand-new check was flying away.
"Something we need. He's going to need a hand with it."
"You got that right." The driver huffed as he climbed out of the cab.
"Took three of us to load her up. Son of a bitch weighs two hundred pounds if it weighs an ounce."
He hauled open the back doors. It lay on the bed on top of a padded cloth. It was easily ten feet long, six high, and three inches thick. Carved in simple block letters into treated oak were the words BOATS BY
QUINN. A detailed image of a wooden skiff in full sail rode the top corner.
Lining the bottom corner were the names Cameron, Ethan, Phillip, and Seth Quinn.
"That's a damn fine sign," Ethan managed when he could find the words.
"I took one of Seth's sketches for the skiff. The same one we use for the logo on the letterhead. Put the design together on the computer at work." Phillip reached in to run a thumb along the side of the oak. "The sign company did a pretty good job of reproducing it."
"It's great." Cam rested his hand on Phillip's shoulder. "One of the details we've been missing. Christ, the kid's going to flip when he sees it."
"I put us down the way we came along. Works out alphabetical and chronological. I wanted to keep it clean and simple." He stepped back, his hands sliding into his pockets in an unconscious mirroring of his brothers' stances. "I thought this fit the building and what we're doing in it."
"It's good." Ethan nodded. "It's right."
The driver shoved at his gum again. "Well, you guys gonna admire it all day, or you want to get this heavy bastard out of the truck?"
they made a picture, she thought. Three exceptional specimens of the male species engaged in manual labor on a warm afternoon in early September. The building certainly suited them. It was rough, the old brick faded and pitted, the grounds around it scrabbly--more weeds than grass.
Three different looks as well. One of the men was dark, with his hair long enough to pull back in a short ponytail. His jeans were black, fading to gray. There was something vaguely European about his style. She decided he would be Cameron Quinn, the one who'd made a name for himself on the racing circuit.
The second wore scuffed work boots that looked ancient. His sun-streaked hair tumbled out of a blue-billed ball cap. He moved fluidly and lifted his end of the sign with no visible effort. He would be Ethan Quinn, the waterman.
Which meant the third man was Phillip Quinn, the advertising executive, who worked at the top firm in Baltimore. He looked gilded, she thought. Wayfarers and Levi's, she mused. Bronzed hair that must be a joy to his stylist. A long, trim body that must see regular workouts at the health club.
Interesting. Physically they bore no resemblance to each other and through her research she knew they shared a name but not blood. Yet there was something in the body language, in the way they moved as a team, that indicated they were brothers.
She intended simply to pass by, to give the building where they based their business a quick look and evaluation. Though she'd known that at least one of them would be there, since he'd answered the phone, she hadn't expected to see them outside, as a group, to have this opportunity to study them.
She was a woman who appreciated the unexpected.
Nerves shimmered in her stomach. Out of habit, she took three slow breaths and rolled her shoulders to relax them. Casual, she reminded herself. There was nothing to be uneasy about. After all, she had the advantage here. She knew them; and they didn't know her.
He settled in his chair and booted up the computer. The blinking light on the phone caught his eye. When he punched it for messages, he found two hang-ups and dismissed them.
Within moments, he'd brought up the program he'd customized for the business, and found himself grinning at the logo for Boats by Quinn.
They might be flying by the seat of their pants, he mused as he plugged in the data for the sale, but it didn't have to look that way. He'd justified the high-grade paper as an advertising expense. Desktop publishing was second nature to him. Creating stationery, receipts, bills was simple enough--he simply insisted that they have class.
He shot the job to the printer just as the phone rang.
"Boats by Quinn."
There was a hesitation, then the sound of throat clearing. "Sorry, wrong number." The voice was muffled and female and quickly gone.
"No problem, sweetheart," Phillip said to the dial tone as he plucked the printed bill of sale from the machine.
"there goes a happy man." Cam commented an hour later when the three of them watched their client drive off with the trailered sloop.
"We're happier." Phillip took the check out of his pocket and held it out. "Factoring in equipment, labor, overhead, supplies…" He folded the check in half again. "Well, we cleared enough to get by."
"Try to control your enthusiasm," Cam muttered. "You got a check for five figures in your hot little hand. Let's crack open those beers."
"The bulk of the profits have to go right back into the business," Phillip warned as they started inside. "Once the cold weather hits, our utility bill's going to go through the roof." He glanced up at the soaring ceiling. "Literally. And we've got quarterly taxes due next week."
Cam twisted the top off a bottle and pushed it at his brother. "Shut up, Phil."
"However," Phillip continued, ignoring him, "this is a fine moment in Quinn history." He lifted his beer, tapped the bottle to both Cam's and Ethan's. "To our foot doctor, the first of many happy clients. May he sail clean and heal many bunions."
"May he tell all his friends to call Boats by Quinn," Cam added.
"May he sail in Annapolis and keep out of my part of the Bay," Ethan finished with a shake of his head.
"Who's springing for lunch?" Cam wanted to know. "I'm starving."
"Grace made sandwiches," Ethan told him. "They're out in my cooler."
"God bless her."
"Might want to put off lunch just a bit." Phillip heard the sound of tires on gravel. "I think what I've been waiting for just got here." He strolled out, pleased to see the delivery truck.
The driver leaned out the window, worked a wad of gum into his cheek.
"Quinn?"
"That's right."
"What'd you buy now?" Cam frowned at the truck, wondering how much of that brand-new check was flying away.
"Something we need. He's going to need a hand with it."
"You got that right." The driver huffed as he climbed out of the cab.
"Took three of us to load her up. Son of a bitch weighs two hundred pounds if it weighs an ounce."
He hauled open the back doors. It lay on the bed on top of a padded cloth. It was easily ten feet long, six high, and three inches thick. Carved in simple block letters into treated oak were the words BOATS BY
QUINN. A detailed image of a wooden skiff in full sail rode the top corner.
Lining the bottom corner were the names Cameron, Ethan, Phillip, and Seth Quinn.
"That's a damn fine sign," Ethan managed when he could find the words.
"I took one of Seth's sketches for the skiff. The same one we use for the logo on the letterhead. Put the design together on the computer at work." Phillip reached in to run a thumb along the side of the oak. "The sign company did a pretty good job of reproducing it."
"It's great." Cam rested his hand on Phillip's shoulder. "One of the details we've been missing. Christ, the kid's going to flip when he sees it."
"I put us down the way we came along. Works out alphabetical and chronological. I wanted to keep it clean and simple." He stepped back, his hands sliding into his pockets in an unconscious mirroring of his brothers' stances. "I thought this fit the building and what we're doing in it."
"It's good." Ethan nodded. "It's right."
The driver shoved at his gum again. "Well, you guys gonna admire it all day, or you want to get this heavy bastard out of the truck?"
they made a picture, she thought. Three exceptional specimens of the male species engaged in manual labor on a warm afternoon in early September. The building certainly suited them. It was rough, the old brick faded and pitted, the grounds around it scrabbly--more weeds than grass.
Three different looks as well. One of the men was dark, with his hair long enough to pull back in a short ponytail. His jeans were black, fading to gray. There was something vaguely European about his style. She decided he would be Cameron Quinn, the one who'd made a name for himself on the racing circuit.
The second wore scuffed work boots that looked ancient. His sun-streaked hair tumbled out of a blue-billed ball cap. He moved fluidly and lifted his end of the sign with no visible effort. He would be Ethan Quinn, the waterman.
Which meant the third man was Phillip Quinn, the advertising executive, who worked at the top firm in Baltimore. He looked gilded, she thought. Wayfarers and Levi's, she mused. Bronzed hair that must be a joy to his stylist. A long, trim body that must see regular workouts at the health club.
Interesting. Physically they bore no resemblance to each other and through her research she knew they shared a name but not blood. Yet there was something in the body language, in the way they moved as a team, that indicated they were brothers.
She intended simply to pass by, to give the building where they based their business a quick look and evaluation. Though she'd known that at least one of them would be there, since he'd answered the phone, she hadn't expected to see them outside, as a group, to have this opportunity to study them.
She was a woman who appreciated the unexpected.
Nerves shimmered in her stomach. Out of habit, she took three slow breaths and rolled her shoulders to relax them. Casual, she reminded herself. There was nothing to be uneasy about. After all, she had the advantage here. She knew them; and they didn't know her.
