The Island House by Posie Graeme-evans Page A

the lumber completed its journey past the blade, one of the men signaled to the other and the power was switched off. As the howl died, the saw disk slowed and grew impressive teeth.
    “I can see you, Dad.”
    Daniel Boyne was taller than his father. He took the ear protectors off and shoved safety glasses back on his head. Unshaven and dark-skinned with bright, cold eyes, he flicked a glance at Freya before he leaned down to speak to Walter. “What do you want? We’ve got a lot to get through.”
    Freya felt the impatience from forty feet. Walter said something in a low voice, and Freya looked away as Daniel Boyne glowered in her direction; the structure of the ship suddenly became fascinating. She wandered down the flank closest to the wall, running her fingers along the smooth wood. Someone loved this work.
    “It’s a long way from finished.” Uttered like a warning.
    Freya stood back, suddenly guilty, but she recognized the voice this time. Workshop Man. Of course. She forced a smile. Intense eyes, grayer than a cold sea, stared at her with no expression.
    “Hello, I’m Freya. I think we might have spoken earlier? When I was trying to find Mr. Boyne. Walter, that is.”
    “Yes.” Not even the ghost of an apology or a smile.
    Freya’s face stiffened.
    This was news to Walter. “You should have let me know, Dan; it was Freya’s first time on the island last night, I told you that. I was worried for her.” He coughed and waved toward his son, the gesture some kind of apology. “He’s not always like this.”
    Daniel Boyne cast Freya an unfriendly glance, then stared at his father. With an edge he said, “We’re behind.”
    Freya blushed like a child. The hostility was hurtful and strange, and she felt her eyes well up. What was it with men in Portsolly?
    Walter spoke sharply. “Freya’s come a long way, a very long way. She deserves to know more about her father.”
    Daniel Boyne opened his mouth—and closed it with a snap. He moved rapidly away down the length of the workshop toward his assistant. “Denny, time for lunch.”
    It took Freya a shocked moment to register that Daniel was leaving, and then she saw he walked with a cane, compensation for an awkward, rolling limp.
    Walter touched her arm. “Come to the office, child.” He sighed. “You being here, I’d hoped that Dan . . .” Walter’s face worked.
    Freya linked an arm through his. “So it’s not me, then, it’s him.” She found a smile. “I was starting to worry.”
    The office at the far end of the workshop was tiny, and Walter shoved the door hard. It opened protestingly. “A bit of a trick to it. In you come,” he said and gestured to a wooden stool that stood between two elderly desks. One depressed office chair and a couple of dated computers completed the furnishings, though paper was strewn across every surface.
    Perhaps Walter saw the room through Freya’s eyes. He said defensively, “Put things on the floor when you can’t find room on the desk—that’s my system. Dan won’t file, says it’s not his job, and I keep forgetting.” He looked away. “Sally used to do the books; place was tidy then. But I can still put my hand on what I need when I need it.”
    Freya smiled cautiously. “I shared a house with a girl once who dropped stuff out of the window—that was her filing system. True story. Drove the neighbors mad.”
    Walter filled a kettle from a sink in one corner. “Tea?” He splashed water everywhere. “Hold on, I’ll just . . .” He mopped the puddle ineffectually. Freya resisted the urge to fix it for him.
    “Tea would be nice.”
    There was a moment’s awkward pause as mugs were rattled from a cupboard and the kettle burbled its way to a scream.
    “Milk?”
    Freya nodded, and Walter pulled a bar fridge open. He stared inside, perplexed. “I could have sworn . . .” He raised his voice above the kettle. “Sorry. No milk. There’s sugar, though.” He flipped the switch, and the howl