Inner Harbor (8 page)

Seth glanced from Phillip to Sybill, studied her with mild interest. “You buying a boat?”

“No.” He didn't recognize her, she thought. Of course he wouldn't. He'd been hardly more than a baby the only time they'd seen each other. There was no stunned familial awareness in his eyes, any more than there would have been in hers. But she knew. “I'm just looking around.”

“That's cool.” He went back to the bag and pulled out his own sandwich.

“Ah . . .” Talk to him, she ordered herself. Say something. Anything. “Phillip was just showing me your drawings. They're wonderful.”

“They'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?

“Is that what you want to be?” She needed to keep him talking. “An artist?”

“Maybe, 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.”

“Seth, this is Dr. Sybill Griffin.” Phillip offered Sybill a plastic cup of bubbling water over ice. “She writes books.”

“Like stories?”

“Not 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.

“You going to do a book about boats?” he asked her.

“No, 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?”

“I 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.”

“You'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.

“Seth's got very definite opinions,” Phillip said dryly. “I guess the world's pretty black and white when you're ten.”

“He 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?”

“No. 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.”

“I believe I mentioned I'd enjoy hearing it.”

“Then 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?

“All right. I'd like that.”

“I'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?”

“I'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 soul.

It was Ethan who patiently instructed her on smooth-lap planking, about waterlines and bow shapes. She thought he would have made an excellent teacher, with his clear, simple phrasing and willingness to answer what must have been very basic questions.

She watched, genuinely fascinated, as the men held timber in a box and pumped out steam until the plank bowed into the
shape they desired. Cam demonstrated how the ends were rabbeted together to form the smooth joints.

Watching Cam with Seth, she was forced to admit there was a definite bond between them. If she had come across them knowing nothing, she would have assumed they were brothers, or perhaps father and son. It was all in the attitude, she decided.

Then again, they had an audience, she mused, and were likely on their best behavior.

She would see how they acted once they became used to her.

C
AM LET OUT
a long, low whistle when Sybill left the building. He wiggled his eyebrows meaningfully at Phillip. “Very nice, bro. Very nice, indeed.”

Phillip flashed a grin, then lifted his bottle of water to his lips. “Can't complain.”

“She going to be around long enough to, ah . . .”

“If there's a God.”

Seth laid a plank down by the saw, let out a huff. “Shit, you mean you're going to start poking at her? Is that all you guys think about?”

“Other than pounding on you?” Phillip whipped off Seth's hat and bopped the boy over the head with it. “Sure, what else?”

“You guys are always getting married,” Seth said in disgust and tried to grab his hat.

“I don't want to marry her, I just want to have a nice, civilized dinner with her.”

“Then bounce on her,” Seth finished.

“Christ. He gets that from you,” Phillip accused Cam.

“He came that way.” Cam wrapped an arm around Seth's neck. “Didn't you, brat?”

The panic didn't come now, as it used to whenever Seth was touched or held. Instead he wriggled and grinned. “At least I think of something besides girls all the time. You guys are really lame.”

“Lame?” Phillip put Seth's hat on his own head to free his hands, then rubbed them together. “Let's toss this runt fish off the dock.”

“Can you do that later?” Ethan asked while Seth shouted in wild and delighted objection. “Or do I have to build this damn boat by myself?”

“Later, then.” Phillip leaned down until he and Seth were nose to nose. “And you won't know when, you won't know where, you won't know why.”

“Man, I'm shaking now.”

I
SAW SETH TODAY.

At her laptop, Sybill gnawed her bottom lip, then deleted the first sentence she'd typed.

I made contact with the subject this afternoon.

Better, she decided. More objective. To approach this situation properly, it would be best if she thought of Seth as the subject.

Sybill sat back, tapping her fingers on the desk as she skimmed over her notes. It was so little, really, she thought. And her own fault. She'd thought she was prepared for that first meeting, but she wasn't.

Seeing him had left her dry-mouthed and sad. The boy was her nephew, her family. Yet they were strangers. And wasn't that nearly as much her fault as it was Gloria's? Had she ever really tried to make a connection, to bring him into her life?

True, she had rarely known where he was, but had she ever gone out of her way to find him, or her sister?

The few times Gloria had contacted her over the years for money, always for money, she had asked about Seth. But hadn't she simply taken Gloria's word that the child was fine? Had she ever demanded to speak with him, to see him?

Hadn't it simply been easier for her to send money over the wire and forget about them again?

Easier, she admitted. Because the one time she had let him in, the one time she had let herself open her home and her heart, he'd been taken away. And she had suffered.

This time she would do something. She would do whatever was right, whatever was best. She wouldn't allow herself to become too emotionally involved, however. After all, he wasn't her child. If Gloria retained custody, he would still move out of her life again.

But she would make the effort, take the time, see that he
was situated well. Then she would get on with her life and her work.

Satisfied, she saved the document and shifted to another to continue her notes for her book. Before she could begin, the phone on her desk rang.

“Yes. Dr. Griffin.”

“Sybill. It took me a great deal of time and trouble to track you down.”

“Mother.” On a long sigh Sybill closed her eyes. “Hello.”

“Would you mind telling me what you're doing?”

“Not at all. I'm researching a new book. How are you? How's Father?”

“Please, don't insult my intelligence. I thought we'd agreed you would stay out of this sordid little affair.”

“No.” As it always did when faced with a family confrontation, Sybill's stomach pitched. “We agreed that you would prefer I stay out of it. I decided I prefer not to. I've seen Seth.”

“I'm not interested in Gloria, or her son.”

“I am. I'm sorry that upsets you.”

“Can you expect it to do otherwise? Your sister has chosen her own life and is no longer a part of mine. I will not be dragged into this.”

“I have no intention of dragging you into this.” Resigned, Sybill reached into her purse and found the small cloisonné box she used to store aspirin. “No one knows who I am. And even if I'm connected to Dr. and Mrs. Walter Griffin, that hardly follows to Gloria and Seth DeLauter.”

“It can be followed, if anyone becomes interested enough to pursue it. You can't accomplish anything by staying there and interfering in this situation, Sybill. I want you to leave. Go back to New York, or come here to Paris. Perhaps you'll listen to your father if not to me.”

Sybill washed down the aspirin with water, then dug out antacids. “I'm going to see this through. I'm sorry.”