Chapter 23: A Keel

The oak came on a flatbed in March, when the harbor ice was going out in gray plates.

Twelve feet of white oak, straight as a ruled line, with the bark still on one edge.

The crew carried it into the shop between them and laid it on the blocks like something sleeping.

Ben walked around it twice with his hand on the grain.

"Where'd you find this?" he said.

"A mill outside Ishpeming."

"It's too good for a keel."

"Nothing's too good for a keel."

He looked up, and the corner of his mouth moved.

"My father used to say that."

"Then he was right."

The shop had gone quiet around us.

The youngest hand was pretending to sweep one square foot of floor.

The harbormaster leaned in the doorway with her arms crossed.

I took a folded paper out of my coat and held it out.

It was the loan on the yard, with a stamp across the front that said satisfied in full.

"This is yours," I said.

Ben took it.

He read the stamp twice, and he did not say anything.

He opened the stove door and fed the paper to the fire.

Behind us, nine boatbuilders and a harbormaster let out a cheer that shook the rafters.

"Don't," he said, but he was laughing.

"Don't what?"

"Make me cry in front of the staff."

When the shop had emptied and the sun had gone, he lit one work lamp over the blocks.

The oak lay in a pool of yellow light.

He set his hand flat on the timber.

"Maggie."

"Yes."

"I'm not proposing."

I blinked.

"Good," I said. "I didn't hear one."

"I'm laying a keel."

"That's not a sentence."

"It is where I'm from." He turned to face me. "A keel is the first thing."

Keep reading free with an account. Start He Chose Her. I Chose Divorce from Chapter 1, then sign up free to read the rest of this chapter.