Despite its size and location, Phillip had it meticulously organized. The metal desk might have been a flea market special, but it was scrubbed clean. On its surface was a Month-at-a-Glance calendar, his old laptop computer, a wire in/out box, a two-line phone/answering machine and a Lucite holder for pens and pencils.

Crowded in with the desk were two file cabinets, a personal copier, and a plain-paper fax.

He settled in his chair and booted up the computer. The blinking light on the phone caught his eye. When he punched it for messages, he found two hang-ups and dismissed them.

Within moments, he’d brought up the program he’d customized for the business, and found himself grinning at the logo for Boats by Quinn.

They might be flying by the seat of their pants, he mused as he plugged in the data for the sale, but it didn’t have to look that way. He’d justified the high-grade paper as an advertising expense. Desktop publishing was second nature to him. Creating stationery, receipts, bills was simple enough—he simply insisted that they have class.

He shot the job to the printer just as the phone rang.

“Boats by Quinn.”

There was a hesitation, then the sound of throat clearing. “Sorry, wrong number.” The voice was muffled and female and quickly gone.

“No problem, sweetheart,” Phillip said to the dial tone as he plucked the printed bill of sale from the machine.

“THERE GOES A happy man,” Cam commented an hour later when the three of them watched their client drive off with the trailered sloop.

“We’re happier.” Phillip took the check out of his pocket and held it out. “Factoring in equipment, labor, overhead, supplies. . .” He folded the check in half again. “Well, we cleared enough to get by.”

“Try to control your enthusiasm,” Cam muttered. “You got a check for five figures in your hot little hand. Let’s crack open those beers.”

“The bulk of the profits have to go right back into the business,” Phillip warned as they started inside. “Once the cold weather hits, our utility bill’s going to go through the roof.” He glanced up at the soaring ceiling. “Literally. And we’ve got quarterly taxes due next week.”

Cam twisted the top off a bottle and pushed it at his brother. “Shut up, Phil.”

“However,” Phillip continued, ignoring him, “this is a fine moment in Quinn history.” He lifted his beer, tapped the bottle to both Cam’s and Ethan’s. “To our foot doctor, the first of many happy clients. May he sail clean and heal many bunions.”

“May he tell all his friends to call Boats by Quinn,” Cam added.

“May he sail in Annapolis and keep out of my part of the Bay,” Ethan finished with a shake of his head.

“Who’s springing for lunch?” Cam wanted to know. “I’m starving.”

“Grace made sandwiches,” Ethan told him. “They’re out in my cooler.”

“God bless her.”

“Might want to put off lunch just a bit.” Phillip heard the sound of tires on gravel. “I think what I’ve been waiting for just got here.” He strolled out, pleased to see the delivery truck.