contemplating the job at hand. Seth mimicked their stance--hands in
pockets, legs spread and braced, face sober.
It would be the first time the four of them had worked on the boat
together; He was wildly thrilled.
"I figured you could start belowdecks," Ethan began.
"Phillip estimates four hundred hours to finish the cabin."
Cam snorted. "I can do it in less."
"Doing it right," Phillip put in, "is more important than doing it
fast."
"I can do it fast and right. The client'll have this baby under sail and
the galley stocked with champagne and caviar in less than four hundred
hours."
Ethan nodded. Since Cam had come through with another client, who wanted
a sport fishing boat, he dearly hoped that was true. "Then let's get to
work."
And work kept his mind off things his mind had no business being on. The
brain had to be focused to use the lathe--if you were fond of your
hands. Ethan turned the wood slowly, carefully, forming the mast. Ear
protectors turned the hum of the motor and the hot rock blasting from
the radio into a muffled echo.
He imagined there was conversation going on behind him, too. And the
occasional ripe curse. He could smell the sweet scent of wood, the sting
of epoxy, the stench of tar used to coat bolts.
Years ago, the three of them had built his workboat. She wasn't fancy,
and he couldn't claim she had a pretty face, but she was sound and she
was game. They'd built his skipjack as well because he'd been determined
to dredge oysters in the traditional craft. Now the oysters were nearly
gone, and his boat joined the other handful in the Bay, pulling in extra
money during the summer by giving tours.
He rented it to Jim's brother during tourist season, because it helped
them both and was the practical thing to do. But it bothered him some to
see the fine old vessel used that way. Just as it bothered him some to
know other people lived and slept in the house that was his.
But when push came to shove, money mattered. Seth's laugh snuck through
his ear protectors and reminded him why it mattered now more than ever.
When his hands cramped from the work, he turned off the lathe to give
them a rest. Noise filled his ears when he took off the protectors.
He could hear the pounding of Cam's hammer echoing from belowdecks. Seth
was coating the centerboard with Rust-Oleum so the steel plate gleamed
with wet. Phillip had the nastier job of soaking the inside of the
centerboard case with creosote. It was good old-growth red cedar, which
should discourage any marine borers, but they'd decided not to take
chances.
A boat by Quinn was built to last.
He felt a stir of pride watching them and could almost imagine his
father standing beside him, big hands fisted on his hips, a wide grin on
his face.
"It makes a picture," Ray said. "The kind your mother and I loved to
study. We had plenty of them put aside, to take out and look over again
once you all grew up and went off your own ways. We never really had the