“She’s a very... striking craft,” Aliana said quietly.
“She’s a trimaran,” Luke explained. “Two foam-filled outriggers mounted on either side of the central hull, hand carved from Sitka spruce, round bottomed for minimum drag. Her main mast is anodized aluminum, eighteen foot, forward mounted. She’s thirty-two feet long and nearly as wide, with a shipping weight of just under six hundred pounds. The cockpit seats four, but she’s much faster with only one or two. Multihulls slow down in a hurry if you overload ‘em.”
“Her deck isn’t spruce,” Aliana observed.
“You’re right, it’s not,” Luke acknowledged, surprised. “Because of the arch, most boatwrights use marine plywood but the Anishnabeg prefer—”
“I’m sorry, the what?”
“Native Americans, my grandfather’s people. Around here, folks call them Ojibwa or Chippewa, but Anishnabeg is their term for themselves. We were too busy grabbing their land to bother getting their names right. The lake tribes often framed their war canoes with red or white cedar. It’s resilient, its natural oils make it water resistant, and it’s soft enough to allow for intricate carving. For them, every boat was a work of art.”
“No more than this one,” Aliana said quietly. “The pictures in the catalog don’t do her justice, Mr. Falk. She’s magnificent. Is your hull design based on the Shearwater series?”
“You really do know boats,” Luke nodded in approval. “Actually, this design predates the Prouts Shearwaters by a thousand years. Ancient Polynesians built multihulled proas with rounded bottoms.”
“They never built anything like this,” Aliana said. “Can we take her out?”
“Sure, if you don’t mind shucking your high heels. I have extra deck shoes if you—”
“I’ve never worn shoes on a boat in my life,” she said, slipping off her pumps, leaving them on the pier as she stepped gracefully into the craft. “I’m not a civilian, Mr. Falk.”
And she wasn’t. After cranking up just enough sail to maintain headway, Aliana took the helm and guided the trimaran skillfully through the breakers near the shore and out into the bay. Seated in the stern, Luke coached her briefly on the boat’s behavior, but mostly he just watched. She was clearly at home at the tiller, absorbing his instructions and every quirk of the craft like a skilled rider learning the gait of a new horse. And she was a very quick study.
Before long, she relaxed, enjoying the ride. As they neared the open water of the bay, she took off her scarf, letting the lake wind riffle her dark hair, cropped short as a boy’s.
But as Luke started to winch up the mainsail, she shook her head. “No. Keep her short-sailed, please. Within sight of the shore.”
Luke glanced shoreward. The tall African was standing beside Gus’s chair, arms folded, watching them intently.
“You can’t demonstrate her properly this close to land, miss.”
“Deacon worries if I’m out of his sight. I’d prefer not to upset him.”
“You’re perfectly safe out here.”
“You create beautiful boats, Mr. Falk. Deacon’s vocation is keeping me safe. He takes his work very seriously.”
“So I gathered. Why all the bodyguards? Northern Michigan isn’t the Wild West.”
“America has the highest murder rate in the industrialized world. Michigan is its most violent state.”
“That’s in the big cities down below, miss, Flint and Detroit. Up here, you’re on the tip of the mitten. The nearest town is Valhalla and a Saturday night bar brawl is as rough as it gets.”
“Perhaps we live in different countries called America, Mr. Falk. Thank you for the demonstration, we should go back now. You’d better take the helm.”
“Whatever you say.” Luke shrugged, trying to hide his annoyance as they traded seats. But as he brought the craft about and headed back to the landing, he couldn’t help staring at the woman. She wasn’t conventionally pretty, but she was a striking figure. Drab as a sparrow and as alone as anyone he’d ever met. He wondered what her eyes looked like behind the shades... She caught his glance, and he quickly looked away.
At the dock, she stepped briskly ashore, slipped on her shoes, and retied the black scarf. Murmuring something to Deacon, she followed Luke into the boathouse, eyeing him curiously as he picked up the wood rasp and returned to his work.
“You weren’t joking when you said you weren’t much of a salesman, Mr. Falk. Fortunately, your handiwork speaks for itself. She’s a lovely craft. I’ll take her.”
“What?” Luke was so startled, he ran the rasp across his knuckles. “Damn!”
“Are you all right?”
“I’ll live,” Luke said, grimacing. “Did you say you want to buy the boat?”
“Yes, why?”
“You didn’t give her much of a test run, miss. And you haven’t even asked the price.”
“Very well, how much?”
“Sixty thousand dollars.”
“That seems little enough for such a beauty — you’re bleeding, Mr. Falk. Do you have a first-aid kit?”
“At the end of the counter, miss, but you needn’t—”
“Let me see to it. You’re bleeding all over that hull.”
Popping open the metal box, she quickly found disinfectant and gauze. “Give me your hand, please.” Reluctantly, Luke offered his wounded paw. She frowned, eyeing the new gash and a dozen more scars surrounding it.
“Sorry,” he said, “it’s been awhile since my last manicure.”
“You’ve never had a manicure in your life,” she said briskly, swabbing down the cut with disinfectant. “You needn’t apologize for using your hands to create beauty. I do business with manicured men every day. The planet would be a better place if most of them were stood against the nearest wall and shot. Hold still, please.”
Taking off her sunglasses, she expertly constructed a butterfly bandage from surgical tape and a bit of gauze and applied it to the gash. Luke scarcely noticed. Minus the glasses, her eyes were utterly magnetic, dark as deep water. And just as unreadable. Sensing his eyes on her, Aliana glanced up, meeting Luke’s gaze, and holding it. Taking his measure. Then she returned to her work. But she didn’t replace her sunglasses.
“That should do it,” she said briskly, pressing the bandage in place. “As for the boat, I’ll take her, but not at sixty. She’s worth seventy to me, so let’s make that the price.”
“A penny for the boatman?” Luke asked coldly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s a poem, miss. Every kid in the north country knows it.
Her sails may be tattered, her seams caulk’d and old,
but the river is the glacier’s daughter.
Spare a penny for the boatman, you’ve no use for gold
If ye drown in her deep green water.”
“It’s not a very... cheerful verse, is it?” She smiled.
“The point is, boating on the Great Lakes is serious business. Life and death, sometimes. Ask the crew of the Edmund Fitzgerald. But I’m not a ferryman, Miss Markovic, or a bellhop. You don’t have to tip me.”
“I wasn’t trying to insult you, Mr. Falk, I’m only saying sixty thousand for that craft isn’t nearly enough. How many hours did you work on her?”
“I’m — not exactly sure.”
“Why am I not surprised? Look at this place! You’re a marvelous artist, Mr. Falk, but no serious businessman could work here. It’s a freaking shambles.”
“I know exactly where everything is.”
“I don’t doubt that, but—”
Deacon poked his head in. “Is there a problem?”
“We’re haggling!” Aliana snapped. “Get out!”
Deacon got.
“I’m not talented, Mr. Falk, I can’t create beauty, but in my business I appraise merchandise and price it fairly every day. I won’t cheapen your work by paying you less than I know its true value to be. Trust me, I can afford it.”