She had already written three things. Tiny leak. Decorative rust. Possibly important rope. Evan took the pencil from her.
This is not decorative rust. It's orange. It's corrosion. That sounds more expensive. It usually is.
He pointed at the third item. And this is not a rope. Clare leaned closer. It looks very ropelike. It's a howiard.
So important rope. He handed the pencil back. I regret helping you. No, you regret my terminology. I can regret two things.
The leak came from a cracked seal around the port. Evan removed the old material while Clare held a flashlight and asked questions he suspected she already knew would annoy him. By the time the seal was replaced, the cabin door had jammed again. He fixed the latch. Then the billagege pump made a sound like a spoon trapped in a garbage disposal.
Clare wrote another line. Angry little pump. Evan looked at her. What would you call it? Failing.
That's less charming. Two hours after arriving for 20 minutes, Evan was on his back beneath the cockpit with half his arm inside an access panel. Clare sat above him editing photographs on a laptop. "You do this for work?" He asked.
"Take pictures, sit comfortably while other people suffer. That's freelance." She told him she shot travel features for regional magazines and tourism campaigns, hotels, small towns, restaurants, boats when they behaved. Do you travel much enough to own three chargers and never know where any of them are? He laughed from under the panel.
Clare closed the laptop. What about you? Renovation. I gathered that from the toolbox. Coastal houses mostly kitchens, porches, old places.
People buy because they have character and then pay you to remove the character. Usually they pay me to keep the character from collapsing. He emerged holding a corroded connector. Clare added something to the list. Evan reached for the paper.
She pulled it away. What did you write? Heroic electrical discovery. Cross it out. No. He sat on the cockpit bench and wiped his hands.
Clare studied him for a moment. You really wanted this boat. I have excellent taste. You tried to outbid me with the expression of a man defending family property. I was emotionally invested for almost 11 minutes.
That's not an answer. Evan looked across the marina. Masts shifted gently against the pale afternoon sky. Clare waited. Finally, he said, "I wanted somewhere people couldn't arrange dinner for me.
You could stop answering your phone." They know where I live. That serious? You haven't met my friends. Maybe they think you're lonely.
Evan picked up a screwdriver. Maybe they're bored. Clare watched him return to the pump. A gull landed on the piling beside them and screamed. Clare glanced at it.
Your friends are checking on you. He has better boundaries. She laughed and wrote something else on the list. Evan pointed at the page. If that says angry bird, I'm leaving.
It says emotionally available bird. That's worse. She didn't ask about his friends again. That was the first question she let him avoid. And for some reason, he noticed.
By Saturday, the 20inut repair had become a restoration schedule. Clare taped the yellow list inside the cabin. Evan added proper names beside six of her descriptions. She crossed out three of his corrections. The first Saturday, they sanded the handrails.
Clare wore safety glasses and somehow got sawdust in her coffee. Anyway, Evan looked into the cup. Don't I haven't said anything. Your face has My face is concerned about workplace standards. She drank it.