Chapter 9: Not My Job

The whole shed had gone still.

The two old shipwrights had stopped planing.

Bess was frozen on her ladder with a brush dripping varnish down her wrist.

Seth was at the bench, and he didn't turn around, but he set his chisel down very quietly.

"No," I said.

Hugo didn't hear it.

Hugo never heard that word from me, in either life.

"I've got a car outside. You can shower at the office. Arabella will walk you through what she's done so far."

"I'm not coming, Hugo."

He looked at me then, properly, for the first time.

At my cut-off sweatshirt and the sawdust in my hair and the cedar splinter in my thumb.

"Is this about Archer?"

"No."

"Is it the house? Because Arabella's already moved in, and it would be cruel to make her move out now."

"It's not the house."

"Then what is it? What do you want?"

"I want to finish this plank before it sets."

I turned back to the steam box.

He came across the shed and slapped the stack of weight sheets down on the bench next to my gloves.

It made the quiet old shipwright jump.

"Do you understand what's at stake here? Sixty-one million dollars. The biggest contract in the history of the company."

"The buyer's flying in. There's going to be press."

"I know. I set up the press."

"Then act like it! Arabella's been crying since the yacht."

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