Do

The lawyer's office smelled of old paper and diesel, and I still had my suitcase in one hand when the will finished reading.

Half the Marlowe Ferry Line was mine. The other half belonged to the man standing at the window with his back to me.

He turned slowly. Tall, rain-dark hair tangled by the wind, a jaw roughened with salt, grey eyes that landed on me and did not soften. His jacket sleeves were frayed at the cuffs, and there was engine grease ground into his knuckles.

The lawyer shuffled his papers and found something fascinating in them. Through the glass behind Elias, the harbor sat gray and low, one white ferry rocking against its ropes.

He crossed the room and stopped close enough that I caught the smell of rope and sea air. He set a heavy brass ring of keys on the desk between us, the metal clinking.