of his fingers, nursed burns from hot creosote, soaked muscles that wept after hours of lifting planks. And had not suffered in silence.
But with this tangible result of long months of labor swaying gracefully under his feet, he had to admit it was all worth it.
Now they were about to start all over again.
"You and Cam made some headway this week on the next project."
"We want to have the hull ready to turn the end of October." Ethan took out a bandanna and methodically polished Phillip's fingerprints off the gunwale. "If we're going to keep to that killer schedule you worked up. Got a little bit more to do on this one, though."
"This one?" Eyes narrowed, Phillip tipped down his Wayfarers. "Damn it, Ethan, you said she was ready to go. The owner's coming in to take her. I was about to go in and work up the last of the papers on her."
"Just one little detail. Have to wait for Cam."
"What little detail?" Impatient, Phillip checked his watch. "The client's due here any minute."
"Won't take long." Ethan nodded toward the cargo doors of the building. "Here's Cam now."
"She's too good for this yahoo," Cam called out as he came down the narrow dock with a battery-operated drill. "I'm telling you we should get the wives and kids and sail her off to Bimini ourselves."
"She's good enough for the final draw he's going to give us today. Once he gives me that certified check, he's the captain." Phillip waited until Cam stepped nimbly aboard. "When I get to Bimini I don't want to see either of you."
"He's just jealous because we've got women," Cam told Ethan. "Here." He shoved the drill into Phillip's hand.
"What the hell am I supposed to do with this?"
"Finish her." Grinning, Cam pulled a brass cleat out of his back pocket. "We saved the last piece for you."
"Yeah?" Absurdly touched, Phillip took the cleat, watched it wink in the sun.
"We started her together," Ethan pointed out. "Seemed only right. It goes on the starboard."
Phillip took the screws Cam handed him and bent over the markings on the rail. "I figured we should celebrate after." The drill whirled in his hands. "I thought about a bottle of Dom," he said, raising his voice over the noise, "but figured it'd be wasted on the two of you. So I've got three Harps chilling down in the cooler."
They would go well, he thought, with the little surprise he was having delivered later that afternoon.
it was nearly noon before the client had finished fussing over every inch of his new boat. Ethan had been elected to take the man out for a shakedown sail before they loaded the sloop onto its new trailer. From the dock, Phillip watched the butter-yellow sails—the client's choice—fill with the wind.
Ethan was right, he thought. She moved.
The sloop skimmed toward the waterfront, heeled in like a dream. He imagined the late-summer tourists would stop to watch, point out the pretty boat to each other. There was, he thought, no better advertising than a quality product.
"He'll run her aground the first time he sails her on his own," Cam said from behind him.
"Sure. But he'll have fun." He gave Cam a slap on the shoulder. "I'll just go write up that bill of sale."
The old brick building they rented and had modified for the boatyard didn't boast many amenities. The lion's share was a vast open space with fluorescent lights hanging from the rafters. The windows were small and always seemed to be coated with dust.
Power tools, lumber, equipment, gallons of epoxy and varnish and bottom paint were set up where they could be easily reached. The lofting platform was currently occupied by the bare skeleton of the hull for the custom-designed sport's fisher that was their second job.
The walls were pitted brick and unfinished Sheetrock. Up a steep flight of iron stairs was a cramped, windowless room that served as the office.
Despite its size and location, Phillip had it meticulously organized. The metal desk might have been a flea market special, but it was scrubbed clean. On its surface was a Month-at-a-Glance calendar, his old laptop computer, a wire in/out box, a two-line phone/answering machine and a Lucite holder for pens and pencils.
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.