Chapter 8: The Inspection

Wednesday dinner at the Ashgroves' was a tradition older than I was, and Finbar was invited to it as a courtesy.

Nobody told him it was also an inspection.

My brothers lined up on the far side of the table, shoulder to shoulder, and the youngest actually cracked his knuckles.

"So, Hulme," said the older twin. "What are your intentions toward the shipyard?"

"I don't have any toward the shipyard."

"You hold the loan."

"I hold the loan," Finbar agreed, cutting his chicken. "I have no designs on the boats."

"Good answer," said the younger twin. "Do you eat shellfish? I'm testing a menu."

"I do."

"Raw?"

"On occasion."

"He's lying," said the pilot, who had said nothing until then. "He just checked the door."

Finbar paused with the fork halfway up.

"There's an allergy in the family," he admitted. "I'm not in it."

"Then why check the door?"

"Habit. My father went into shock at a wedding once."

Nobody had a joke ready for that.

It was Barrett who broke it, in his quiet voice.

"What's your resting heart rate?"

"I haven't the faintest idea."

"Give me your wrist."

Finbar held out his wrist across the table, and my eldest brother took it, looked at his watch for a count, and let it go.

"Fifty-eight," Barrett said to the table. "Too calm. Suspicious."

"Thank you," said Finbar. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't one."

Lydia put down her fork, her eyes shining.

"Boys. Behave."

"We're behaving," the baby said. "I'm saving my arm wrestle for after pie."

I watched Finbar take every question, the dry ones and the silly ones, with the same unhurried face.

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