The drafting light casts a clinical, tungsten glow over the vellum, cutting through the salt-fogged dimness of the office. It is six in the morning. Tova Bergstrom stands alone, her strong shoulders braced against the drafting stool as she traces the elegant, skeletal lines of a hull. The metallic hush of the yard is a familiar comfort, the only sanctuary she has known since the Atlantic took her husband and nearly claimed her son.
The heavy oak door creaks, admitting a rush of freezing coastal air and the scent of damp wool and woodsmoke. Tova does not look up until the footsteps stop—heavy, measured, the gait of a man who knows the tilt of a deck. She adjusts her silver buoy pendant, ready to greet a stranger, but her grey-blue eyes lock onto a face she hasn't seen in ten years. It is Hal Doucette, his dark hair now flecked with grey, his gaze as steady and cold as the sea that should have drowned her boy.
"I’m not here for a thank-you, Tova," he says, his voice a low, gravelled rumble that vibrates in her chest. "I'm here for a boat." He moves into the light, his presence possessive and sudden, narrowing the distance between them until she can smell the winter on his waxed jacket. Hal's calloused hand reaches into his heavy wool coat and begins to slide a thick, folded manila envelope across the drafting table.
