She slipped the shoe back into the bag and wondered how long she should wait before asking Cam to customize their closet. She knew just what she had in mind, and he was good with his hands. Considering, she studied him. Very, very good with his hands.

‘‘I suppose I could finish unpacking tomorrow.’’

He smiled slowly. ‘‘I suppose you could.’’

‘‘I feel guilty about it. Grace has this place so spotless.’’

‘‘Why don’t you come over here. We’ll work on that guilt.’’

‘‘Why don’t I?’’ She tossed the shoe over her shoulder and, with a laugh, jumped him.

‘‘ SHE’S COMING ALONG.’’

Cam studied the boat. It was barely seven in the morning, but his internal clock was still set to Rome. Since he’d awakened early, he hadn’t seen the point in letting his brothers sleep the day away.

So the Quinns stood, under the hard, bright lights of the boatyard, contemplating the job at hand. Seth mimicked their stance—hands in pockets, legs spread and braced, face sober.

It would be the first time the four of them had worked on the boat together. He was wildly thrilled.

‘‘I figured you could start belowdecks,’’ Ethan began. ‘‘Phillip estimates four hundred hours to finish the cabin.’’

Cam snorted. ‘‘I can do it in less.’’

‘‘Doing it right,’’ Phillip put in, ‘‘is more important than doing it fast.’’

‘‘I can do it fast and right. The client’ll have this baby under sail and the galley stocked with champagne and caviar in less than four hundred hours.’’

Ethan nodded. Since Cam had come through with another client, who wanted a sport fishing boat, he dearly hoped that was true. ‘‘Then let’s get to work.’’

And work kept his mind off things his mind had no business being on. The brain had to be focused to use the lathe—if you were fond of your hands. Ethan turned the wood slowly, carefully, forming the mast. Ear protectors turned the hum of the motor and the hot rock blasting from the radio into a muffled echo.

He imagined there was conversation going on behind him, too. And the occasional ripe curse. He could smell the sweet scent of wood, the sting of epoxy, the stench of tar used to coat bolts.

Years ago, the three of them had built his workboat. She wasn’t fancy, and he couldn’t claim she had a pretty face, but she was sound and she was game. They’d built his skipjack as well because he’d been determined to dredge oysters in the traditional craft. Now the oysters were nearly gone, and his boat joined the other handful in the Bay, pulling in extra money during the summer by giving tours.