They were already open wide and the soul-stirring sound of Ray Charles
flowed out through them. Ethan set the cooler down just inside the doors
and put his hands on his hips.
The hull was finished. Cam had put in dog's hours to get that much done
before he left for his honeymoon. They'd planked it, rabbeting the edges
so that they would lap, yet remain smooth at the seams.
The two of them had completed the steam-bent framing, using pencil lines
as guides and "walking" each frame carefully into place with slow,
steady pressure. The hull was solid. There would be no splits in a Quinn
boat's planking.
The design was primarily Ethan's with a few adjustments here and there
of Cam's. The hull was an arc-bottom, expensive to construct but with
the virtues of stability and speed. Ethan knew his client.
He'd designed the shape of the bow with this in mind and had decided on
a cruiser bow, attractive and, again, good for speed, buoyant. The stern
was a counterdesign of moderate length, providing an overhang that would
make the boat's length greater than her waterline length.
It was a sleek, appealing look. Ethan understood that his client was
every bit as concerned with appearance as he was with basic
seaworthiness.
He'd used Seth for grunt labor when it was time to coat the interior
with the fifty-fifty mix of hot linseed oil and turpentine. It was
sweaty work, guaranteed to cause a few burns despite caution and gloves.
Still, the boy had held up fine.
From where he stood, Ethan could study the sheerline, the outline at the
top edge of the hull. He'd gone with a flattened sheerline to ensure a
roomier, drier craft with good headroom below. His client liked to take
friends and family out for a sail.
The man had insisted on teak, though Ethan had told him pine or cedar
would have done the job well enough for hull planking. The man had money
to spend on his hobby, Ethan thought now--and money to spend on status.
But he had to admit, the teak looked wonderful.
His brother Phillip was working on the decking. Stripped to the waist in
defense against the heat and humidity, his dark bronze hair protected by
a black cap without team name or emblem and worn bill to the back, he
was screwing the deck planks into place. Every few seconds, the hard,
high-pitched buzz of the electric driver competed with Ray Charles's
creamy tenor.
"How's it going?" Ethan called over the din.
Phillip's head came up. His martyred-angel's face was damp with sweat,
his golden-brown eyes annoyed. He'd just been reminding himself that he
was an advertising executive, for God's sake, not a carpenter.
"It's hotter than a summer in hell in here and it's only June. We've got
to get some fans in here. You got anything cold, or at least wet, in
that cooler? I ran out of liquids an hour ago."
"Turn on the tap in the john and you get water," Ethan said mildly as he
bent to take a cold soft drink from the cooler. "It's a new technology."
"Christ knows what's in that tap water." Phillip caught the can Ethan
tossed him and grimaced at the label. "At least they tell you what
chemicals they load in here."