Цзинвэй засыпает море. Цзяньнань Фэн

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      “Now, you spend some time with Phoebe, doing as she tells you, paint me some nice sailing pictures and play hostess for me the way I asked.”

      He turned to the shelf behind him. “If you do all I tell you, you can have this.” He handed her a wooden half-hull model of a boat, about a foot and a half in length.

      She took the smooth wooden boat, which was attached to a plank of wood. Above it was labeled in neat print “13’ Whitehall.”

      “It’s a model for Ernest Mitchell. Let’s see how much you do know. You loft it, and I’ll judge what you’re capable of.”

      Her eyes widened in delight. She’d gotten what she’d come for! “Really, Papa?”

      He smiled at his daughter’s delight. “Get along with you. Go make yourself useful somehow so I can get back to my work.”

      Deciding she’d better table her arguments in Silas’s favor for the present, she gave her father a quick hug, “Oh, yes, Papa! I’ll be the best hostess! I’ll become the best cook and housekeeper Haven’s End has ever seen! Thank you, Papa!”

      She bent and gave him a kiss on his whiskered cheek, then fairly flew out of the office, headed for the workshop.

      She was halfway out the office door, her mind spinning with ideas, when her father’s voice stopped her. “Remember, we’ll go to Hatsfield tomorrow. I want you to be especially nice to young Townsend and his sister.”

      “Of course, Papa. I’ll put on my best company manners and play the lady to the hilt.”

      Silas came into the boat shop after working the morning down in the yard, hewing timbers with an ax for the frames and planks for the schooner keel that sat on the stocks down on the beach. Although the spring day was still fresh, he felt hot and thirsty from his labors.

      He stopped short at the sight of Cherish at the worktable.

      He glanced down at his sweat- and tar-stained work shirt. “Hello, Cherish. What are you doing here?” He felt suddenly awkward before her dainty femininity. He wasn’t used to the new, grown-up Cherish. At least she looked more like her old self in a cotton frock and apron, her hair tied back with a bow.

      She gave him a frown. “Not you, too! Didn’t you think I’d be here?”

      He wiped his shirtsleeve against his forehead as he approached her. “Not quite so soon. You’ve only just arrived home.” He raised a brow skeptically. “Did you miss this place so much?”

      Her eyes chided him. “This place and its people.”

      He could feel himself flushing under her intent slate-blue gaze. For a second it seemed she was referring to him alone. Shaking aside the foolish notion, he observed, “At least I have less trouble recognizing you today.”

      She glanced down at herself. “Yes, my gowns are all put away for the moment, though I suppose I’ll be diverting you tomorrow with a latest Parisian creation.”

      “Don’t tell me—another party?”

      She shook her head, but didn’t say anything more. Her tone turned brisk. “Papa has given me this half-hull for a thirteen-foot Whitehall. He doesn’t think I’ll be able to loft it.” She grinned, suddenly transformed into the little girl he remembered, always out to prove she was as capable as the men around her.

      He neared the table and reached for the model. As he did so, an elusive fragrance reached his nostrils. It reminded him of dew-sprinkled lilacs in June. He didn’t remember ever smelling perfume on Cherish before.

      He cleared his throat and turned his mind back to the boat in front of him.

      “Well, you certainly tagged after Henry enough to know everything he knew. But it’s been two years since you’ve stepped into a boat shop. Aren’t you afraid you’ve forgotten a few things?”

      She touched the model with a fingertip. “I think it’s one of those things that isn’t easily forgotten. Just looking at this hull brings back all sorts of recollections.”

      She gave him a sidelong glance, mischief lighting the blue depths of her eyes. “Anyway, we are going to loft this together.”

      “We?” He quirked an eyebrow up. “Since when am I a draftsman?”

      “Since Henry left…and Papa has no immediate plans to replace him.”

      Silas was surprised. “He doesn’t?”

      She shook her head, sending the little dangling earrings with their minute turquoise stones shaking. Then she frowned. “He says at present he doesn’t need anyone else. He told me it has been slow around here. Has it?”

      Silas looked out the square-paned window that overlooked the shipyard below. The tide was out, leaving smooth mudflats visible, with rivulets of water running between them in crooked lines down toward the sea.

      “Yes, I suppose it has, this past year especially. We used to average three good-sized vessels a year, up to seven-hundred-ton ships, in addition to the smaller craft.” He nodded down at the stocks. “That’s a fifty-ton schooner—small for us—and it’s the only sizable order this spring. Everything else is like this.” He motioned toward the model on the table.

      “Do you think things will pick up?” she asked.

      “Hard to say. There’s still a lot of building going on farther down the coast.”

      “Do you think Henry was right to head south?”

      He shrugged. “Some say the days of sail are numbered. The opening of the Suez Canal in ’69 spelled the beginning of the end for the clipper trade.”

      “But what about us here down east? Apart from the passenger steamer service from Boston and Portland, we don’t see much use for steam. All the fishermen sail, even out to the Grand Banks.”

      “Yes, I think there’s still a demand for the smaller fishing schooners and those used in the coastal trade. But eventually I see even those supplementing their vessels with steam.” He shrugged. “And more and more of the larger schooners are being built with steel hulls. I don’t know if they’ll prove more successful than wood, but the fact is, shipping companies look at cost. The steel hull will probably last longer than the wood. Most of the larger ships’ hulls are now steel reinforced.”

      Cherish turned back to the model. “Oh, well, let’s hope these changes don’t come too quickly. Right now we have a loft to lay out and a mold to build.”

      He looked down at her indulgently, encouraged as always by her optimism. “There’s that word ‘we’ again. Do you propose to help me build the mold?”

      “If you’re agreeable.”

      He didn’t say anything, not wanting to dash her hopes. He realized as he watched her that it was good to have her back—even an adult version of the girl who’d seek him out every chance she got and “discuss” things with him, from every aspect of boats to the latest storybook character she had read about.

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