sky, but neither men nor dog worried about the rocky ride as the boat
crept up the steep fronts of the waves, then slid back down into the
troughs. Simon stood at the bow now, head lifted, his ears blowing back
in the wind, grinning his doggie grin. Ethan had built the workboat
himself, and he knew she would do. As confident as the dog, Jim moved to
the protection of the awning and, cupping his hands, lit a cigarette.
The waterfront of St. Chris was alive with tourists. The early days of
June lured them out of the city, tempted them to drive from the suburbs
of D.C. and Baltimore. He imagined they thought of the little town of
St. Christopher's as quaint, with its narrow streets and clapboard
houses and tiny shops. They liked to watch the crab pickers' fingers
fly, and eat the flaky crab cakes or tell their friends they'd had a
bowl of she-crab soup. They stayed in the bed-and-breakfasts--St. Chris
was the proud home of no less than four--and they spent their money in
the restaurants and gift shops.
Ethan didn't mind them. During the times when the Bay was stingy,
tourism kept the town alive. And he thought there would come a time when
some of those same tourists might decide that having a hand-built wooden
sailboat was their heart's desire.
The wind picked up as Ethan moored at the dock. Jim jumped nimbly out to
secure lines, his short legs and squat body giving him the look of a
leaping frog wearing white rubber boots and a grease-smeared gimme cap.
At Ethan's careless hand signal, Simon plopped his butt down and stayed
in the boat while the men worked to unload the day's catch and the wind
made the boat's sun-faded green awning dance. Ethan watched Pete Monroe
walk toward them, his iron-gray hair crushed under a battered billed
hat, his stocky body outfitted in baggy khakis and a red checked shirt.
"Good catch today, Ethan."
Ethan smiled. He liked Mr. Monroe well enough, though the man had a
bone-deep stingy streak. He ran Monroe's Crab House with a tightly
closed fist. But, as far as Ethan could tell, every man's son who ran a
picking plant complained about profits.
Ethan pushed his own cap back, scratched the nape of his neck where
sweat and damp hair tickled. "Good enough."
"You're in early today."
"Storm's coming."
Monroe nodded. Already his crab pickers who had been working under the
shade of striped awnings were preparing to move inside. Rain would drive
the tourists inside as well, he knew, to drink coffee or eat ice cream
sundaes. Since he was half owner of the Bayside Eats, he didn't mind.
"Looks like you got about seventy bushels there."
Ethan let his smile widen. Some might have said there was a hint of the
pirate in the look. Ethan wouldn't have been insulted, but he'd have
been surprised. "Closer to ninety, I'd say." He knew the market price,
to the penny, but understood they would, as always, negotiate. He took
out his negotiating cigar, lit it, and got to work.
The first fat drops of rain began to fall as he motored toward home. He
figured he'd gotten a fair price for his crabs--his eighty-seven bushels
of crabs. If the rest of the summer was as good, he was going to
consider dropping another hundred pots next year, maybe hiring on a