Chapter 23: The Shop Opens

The launch came up Ridge Street at ten in the morning on a flatbed, at the speed of a funeral.

I stood on the walk in my father's work apron and listened to it come.

The big diesel idled, the load straps creaked, and every few yards someone shouted, "Left, left, hold it!"

Cal had been out there since dawn with the men from the harbor yard.

He walked backward in front of the truck with one palm up, guiding the driver, humming through his nose.

I could have found him in a thunderstorm by it.

"It won't fit," said the florist from across the street, cheerfully.

"It'll fit," Cal said.

"The barn door's eight feet."

"It's nine and a half, and I measured twice."

The carriage barn behind the piano shop had stood empty since my grandfather's time.

Cal had hung new doors on it that week and swept the floor.

He had set a bench along the north wall where the light came in.

The boat slid in with an inch to spare on either side.

A cheer went up from the street, loud and ragged.

I put my fingers on the pale hull, which was cool and smooth and smelled of cedar and oil.

"It's yours," I said.

"It's ours," Cal said.

His hand closed over mine on the wood.

"Open the doors," I said. "Both of them."

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