The journey to work required one flight of stairs.
It was one of my favorite things about living above the yard—the way our life remained close enough to hear through the floorboards. At night, metal halyards struck the masts outside in uneven notes. The building groaned when the tide changed. Diesel, cedar, and salt found their way upstairs no matter how often we shut the windows.
Reid had bought the property from his uncle twelve years earlier.
Back then, Callahan Marine Works had been little more than a collapsing shed, a few rotting slips, and a reputation for missed deadlines. Reid rebuilt it piece by piece. He added the haul-out, restored the sail loft, expanded the service bays, and earned enough trust to keep six people working through the slow season.
The apartment above the office had not received the same attention.
The floor leaned toward the harbor. One bedroom contained boxes of parts Reid intended to inventory during a mythical period called when things calm down. Layers of old paint showed around the kitchen hinges like geological strata.
I loved every crooked inch of it.
I pulled on wool socks, waterproof boots, and my work jacket. Reid clipped Marlowe’s leash to his collar, though the old dog could have navigated the stairs in his sleep.
The moment we opened the downstairs door, the storm hit us.
Cold rain blew beneath the covered walkway. Puddles flashed beneath the security lamps. The open service bay framed a slice of black water, restless beneath the wind.
The yard smelled of wet wood, fuel, brine, and steel.
Caleb Moss stood inside the main workshop with a coil of cable over one shoulder and a paper cup clutched in his hand.
“There they are,” he called. “The ruling class.”
Reid checked his watch. “It’s six twenty-eight.”
“I have been abandoned for at least four minutes.”
Caleb was short, wiry, red-haired, and pathologically curious. He had been Reid’s friend since adolescence, which meant he treated Reid’s authority as an amusing rumor.
Owen Price emerged from behind the hull of a half-restored sailboat. White paint marked one sleeve of his coveralls, and his safety glasses were tangled in his dark curls.
“Morning, Noah. Morning, boss.”
“Morning,” I said.
Reid nodded.
Caleb squinted at us. “Awful.”
“What is?” I asked.
“You both look happy.”
“I’m furious.”
“You’re glowing.”
“That’s rain.”
Reid led Marlowe toward the office heater. “The Vega’s inverter came in. Caleb, install it before lunch. Owen, I need the forward hatch sealed by noon.”
Caleb saluted with his coffee.
Owen muttered something about tyranny and disappeared behind the sailboat.
I headed for the enclosed service van beneath the awning. Rain hammered its roof with enough force to swallow conversation.
