Free Inner Harbor by Nora Roberts Page B

own sandwich.
    â€œAh . . .” Talk to him, she ordered herself. Say something. Anything. “Phillip was just showing me your drawings. They’re wonderful.”
    â€œThey’re okay.” He jerked a shoulder, but she thought she saw a faint flush of pleasure on his cheeks. “I could do better, but they’re always rushing me.”
    Casually—she hoped it was casually—she crossed to him. She could see him clearly now. His eyes were blue, but a deeper, darker blue than hers or her sister’s. His hair was a darker blond than the little boy’s in the picture she carried. He’d been nearly a towhead at four, and now his hair was a richer blond and very straight.
    The mouth, she thought. Wasn’t there some resemblance around the mouth and chin?
    â€œIs that what you want to be?” She needed to keep him talking. “An artist?”
    â€œMaybe, but that’s mostly for kicks.” He took a huge bite of his sandwich, then talked through it. “We’re boatbuilders.”
    His hands were far from clean, she noted, and his face wasn’t much better. She imagined such niceties as washing up before meals went by the wayside in a household of males. “Maybe you’ll go into design work.”
    â€œSeth, this is Dr. Sybill Griffin.” Phillip offered Sybill a plastic cup of bubbling water over ice. “She writes books.”
    â€œLike stories?”
    â€œNot exactly,” she told him. “Like observations. Right now I’m spending some time in the area, observing.”
    He wiped his mouth with a swipe from the back of his hand. The hand Foolish had enthusiastically licked, before and after, Sybill noted with an inward wince.
    â€œYou going to do a book about boats?” he asked her.
    â€œNo, about people. People who live in small towns, and right now people who live in small towns by the water. How do you like it—living here, I mean?”
    â€œI like it okay. Living in the city sucks.” He picked up the soft drink bottle, glugged again. “People who live there are nuts.” He grinned. “Like Phil.”
    â€œYou’re a peasant, Seth. I worry about you.”
    With a snort, Seth bit into his sandwich again. “I’m going out on the dock. We got some ducks hanging out.”
    He bounced out, dogs trailing behind him.
    â€œSeth’s got very definite opinions,” Phillip said dryly. “I guess the world’s pretty black and white when you’re ten.”
    â€œHe doesn’t care for the urban experience.” Nerves, she noted, had been drowned out by sheer curiosity. “Has he spent time with you in Baltimore?”
    â€œNo. He lived there for a while with his mother.” His tone had darkened, making Sybill raise an eyebrow. “Part of that long story I mentioned.”
    â€œI believe I mentioned I’d enjoy hearing it.”
    â€œThen have dinner with me tonight, and we’ll exchange those life stories.”
    She looked toward the cargo doors. Seth had gone out through them, very much at home. She needed to spend more time with him. Observing. And, she decided, she needed to hear what the Quinns had to say about the situation. Why not start with Phillip?
    â€œAll right. I’d like that.”
    â€œI’ll pick you up at seven.”
    She shook her head. He seemed perfectly safe, perfectly fine, but she knew better than to take chances. “No, I’ll meet you there. Where’s the restaurant?”
    â€œI’ll write it down for you. We can start the tour in my office.”
    I T WAS EASY enough, and she had to admit it was interesting. The tour itself didn’t take long. Other than the huge work area, there was little to the boatyard—just Phillip’s closet-size office, a small bathroom, and a dark, dingy storeroom.
    It was obvious even to the untrained eye that the work center of the operation was its heart and