The driver leaned out the window, worked a wad of gum into his cheek. “Quinn?”

“That’s right.”

“What’d you buy now?” Cam frowned at the truck, wondering how much of that brand-new check was flying away.

“Something we need. He’s going to need a hand with it.”

“You got that right.” The driver huffed as he climbed out of the cab. “Took three of us to load her up. Son of a bitch weighs two hundred pounds if it weighs an ounce.”

He hauled open the back doors. It lay on the bed on top of a padded cloth. It was easily ten feet long, six high, and three inches thick. Carved in simple block letters into treated oak were the words BOATS BY QUINN. A detailed image of a wooden skiff in full sail rode the top corner.

Lining the bottom corner were the names Cameron, Ethan, Phillip, and Seth Quinn.

“That’s a damn fine sign,” Ethan managed when he could find the words.

“I took one of Seth’s sketches for the skiff. The same one we use for the logo on the letterhead. Put the design together on the computer at work.” Phillip reached in to run a thumb along the side of the oak. “The sign company did a pretty good job of reproducing it.”

“It’s great.” Cam rested his hand on Phillip’s shoulder. “One of the details we’ve been missing. Christ, the kid’s going to flip when he sees it.”

“I put us down the way we came along. Works out alphabetical and chronological. I wanted to keep it clean and simple.” He stepped back, his hands sliding into his pockets in an unconscious mirroring of his brothers’ stances. “I thought this fit the building and what we’re doing in it.”

“It’s good.” Ethan nodded. “It’s right.”

The driver shoved at his gum again. “Well, you guys gonna admire it all day, or you want to get this heavy bastard out of the truck?”

THEY MADE A picture, she thought. Three exceptional specimens of the male species engaged in manual labor on a warm afternoon in early September. The building certainly suited them. It was rough, the old brick faded and pitted, the grounds around it scrabbly—more weeds than grass.

Three different looks as well. One of the men was dark, with his hair long enough to pull back in a short ponytail. His jeans were black, fading to gray. There was something vaguely European about his style. She decided he would be Cameron Quinn, the one who’d made a name for himself on the racing circuit.

The second wore scuffed work boots that looked ancient. His sun-streaked hair tumbled out of a blue-billed ball cap. He moved fluidly and lifted his end of the sign with no visible effort. He would be Ethan Quinn, the waterman.

Which meant the third man was Phillip Quinn, the advertising executive, who worked at the top firm in Baltimore. He looked gilded, she thought. Wayfarers and Levi’s, she mused. Bronzed hair that must be a joy to his stylist. A long, trim body that must see regular workouts at the health club.