Doughty grunted. He was nearly eighty, with a big, wrinkled face that was weatherbeaten to a dull red color. He wore the same navy-blue reefer jacket that he had worn the first time Neil’s father had brought him down to the jetty twenty years ago and hefty fisherman’s rubbers. There was a time when he had operated a fishing fleet of his own, but that was long before most people could remember.

“I don’t know why you bother fancying that boat up so nice,” Doughty said. “You know that he’s going to knock her about just as bad next summer.”

“I do it because he pays me,” replied Neil.

Doughty sighed. “You’re not like your father. Nor your grandfather, for that matter.”

“I never said I was. And from what I’ve been told about my grandfather, he drank a bottle of rum a day, and smoked five cigars before breakfast.”

“What’s wrong in that?” Doughty wanted to know.

Neil laughed. He slicked varnish across the bottom of the cabin door and set down his brush.

“They always used to tell stories about the Fenner family on the wharf here,” said Doughty. “I remember when I was round about ten years old, my pa pointed out your great-grandfather Jack Fenner to me, and told me not to displease him, on account of he’d thrown three fishermen into the bay for offering him undersize lobsters.”

“I’ve heard all the stories,” said Neil, tidying up his paint cans. “I freely admit that I’m the most colorless Fenner that ever lived.”

“You’re not the worst, though,” said Doughty, tapping out the dottle of his pipe against a wooden upright. “So I suppose you’ve got something to be thankful for.”

“Oh, yes? And who do you reckon was the worst?”

Doughty fumbled in his pocket and brought out two pieces of saltwater taffy. He tossed one to Neil, and unwrapped the other one himself. He said, “I have to suck these slow, you know, otherwise they get themselves snarled up in my dentures.”

Neil came forward and clambered up onto the jetty. “You still haven’t told me who was the worst Fenner of all. I bet he wasn’t as bad as the worst Doughty of all.”

“Oh, he sure was,” said Doughty, shaking his head. “The Doughtys was clergy originally, from Plymouth, England. Highly peaceable folk. But the Fenners were tough farmers, tough settlers, and vigilantes. The Fenners did more to settle Napa Valley than George Yount, and most folks say that George Yount was the father of Napa Valley.”

Neil and Doughty walked side by side to the parking lot, where Neil let down the back of his pickup and heaved out three coils of fresh rope.

“The worst Fenner of all was called Bloody Fenner, and I’m surprised your pa never told you about him,” said Doughty.