Eamon's launch
The yard smelled different after two days away. Resin had hardened on the bench; someone had opened the wide doors when the wind changed, letting salt dry on the tools. Dev had kept work moving. He had also left Iris's skiff exactly where she asked, its unfinished edge facing the light.
Eamon waited by his launch with a folded map. He did not unfold it when she came in. “Iris,” he said. “Dev told me you would be back.”
“I said I'd talk to you.”
“I know. Your father would have told me to stop haunting the gate.” He smiled briefly. Then he looked at the boat. “My daughter has ten days off. She has a houseful of children and a job that takes every weekend. We meant to take this out together, just us, before she goes back.”
Iris could see the map's worn folds. Eamon and her father had planned the trip for months. A delay would not ruin a life. It would take away a particular set of days that would not come back at the same time.
“I won't promise a launch date today,” she said.
He looked hurt but did not ask her to pretend. “Did he tell you what he told me?”
“He told you I'd finish the bow and take her out for the trial.”
Eamon's eyes went to Dev. “I thought you had agreed.”
“He thought I'd agree.”
Dev ran a thumb along the launch's unfinished trim. “The engine work will be done,” he said. “I can finish the straight wood. The shaped pieces and a trial on the water need another pair of hands who know this boat. If Iris takes the berth, I can do it after my next job, but not by the date on the map.”
Eamon tucked the map under his arm. “I'll speak to my daughter. Don't tell me it will happen next week just because that sounds kinder.” He left by the gate without looking back at her father's old workbench. Iris was grateful for the plainness and sorry she had needed it from him.
For the next two hours she worked on a piece she had already begun. It curved along the bow, where the boat would first push water aside. Dev held it while she marked and took away a little wood, then held it again. A narrow gap kept appearing at the far end. Iris checked her marks twice. Dev said the hull was not as even as the drawing her father had made; boats rarely were once they stood in weather. She moved the strip a fraction and felt it settle against the wood. Work returned a measure she trusted: too much and the piece would have to be remade; too little and she could come back.
“If I hold this while you mark, you can make the next one tomorrow,” Dev said.
“And the one after that?”
“We find out when we reach it.” He was not trying to trap her. That was how they had always worked, problem by problem. It was also how a week disappeared in a yard. She marked the piece she had chosen to finish and made Dev let go before he could talk her into another.
Near noon, she stopped and counted what remained. If she worked every day and evening, she might finish enough for Eamon's trip. She would be packing her own tools on the morning she was due to start at the new yard, if she went at all.
Mara arrived with sandwiches and a letter from her sister, who wanted her to visit after the funeral rush. She set both on the bench. Iris showed her the piece against the hull.
“Your father said you could finish it,” Mara said. “He kept saying it after that dinner.”
“He told Eamon before he asked me. He put my name on the calendar.”
Mara looked at the marked wood. “I heard you tell him you hadn't agreed. I let myself think you would work it out between you.”
“I said I could help.” Iris took the sandwich but did not eat. “He made that into yes to the whole boat.”
“He was worried for Eamon.”
“I know.”
“He was worried you'd go to the other port and find a yard that needed you less.”
Iris put the piece back on the bench. Her father had once said the same thing while she was seventeen and eager to see any road out. He had made her laugh then by pretending to place an advertisement: Daughter wanted, must know where we keep the screws. Now his fear had a date on a customer's map.
“Are you asking me to stay?” Iris said.
“I'm telling you what I think he felt.” Mara opened her sister's letter and folded it again without reading. “I'm not sure what I'm asking of myself yet.”
Iris took her sandwich down to the water. A small boat came in with two men arguing cheerfully over where one had left a bucket. Dev had moved on to another task. Eamon was speaking to his daughter. Her berth letter sat in her bag with its start date unchanged. She ate, washed her fingers in a bucket and went back to fit the piece she had chosen to begin.