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  "Tried to. A ninety-year-old woman with a broken arm could handle a five-speed better than you." He jerked his head toward Seth's rental. "That embarrassment in my driveway doesn't inspire the confidence in me that you've improved in that area."

  Smug now, Seth rocked back on his heels. "Test-drove a Maserati a couple of months ago."

  Cam's eyebrows winged up. "Get out of here."

  "Had her up to a hundred and ten. Scared the living shit out of me."

  Cam laughed, gave Seth an affectionate punch on the arm. Then he sighed. "Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch," he said again as he dragged Seth into a fierce hug. "Why the hell didn't you let us know you were coming home?"

  "It was sort of spur-of-the-moment," Seth began. "I wanted to be here. I just needed to be here."

  "Okay. Anna burning up the phone lines letting everybody know we're serving fatted calf?"

  "Probably. She said we'd have the calf on Sunday."

  "That'll work. You settled in yet?"

  "No. I got stuff in the car."

  "Don't call that butt-ugly thing a car. Let's get your gear."

  "Cam." Seth reached out, touched Cam's arm. "I want to come home. Not just for a few days or a couple weeks. I want to stay. Can I stay?"

  Cam drew off his sunglasses, and his eyes, smoke-gray, met Seth's. "What the hell's the matter with you that you think you have to ask? You trying to piss me off?"

  "I never had to try, nobody does with you. Anyway, I'll pull my weight."

  "You always pulled your weight. And we missed seeing your ugly face around here."

  And that, Seth thought as they walked to the car, was all the welcome he needed from Cameron Quinn.

  THEY'D KEPT his room. It had changed over the years, different paint for the walls, a new rug for the floor. But the bed was the same one he'd slept in, dreamed in, waked in.

  The same bed he'd sneaked Foolish into when he'd been a child.

  And the one he'd sneaked Alice Albert into when he'd thought he was a man.

  He figured Cam knew about Foolish, and had often wondered if he'd known about Alice.

  He tossed his suitcase carelessly on the bed and laid his battered paint kit—one Sybill had given him for his eleventh birthday—on the worktable Ethan had built.

  He'd need to find studio space, he thought. Eventually. As long as the weather held, he could work outdoors. He preferred that anyway. But he'd need somewhere to store his canvases, his equipment. Maybe there was room in the old barn of a boatyard, but that wouldn't suit on a permanent basis.

  And he meant to make this permanent.

  He'd had enough of traveling for now, enough of living among strangers to last him a lifetime.

  He'd needed to go, to stand on his own. He'd needed to learn. And God, he'd needed to paint.

  So he'd studied in Florence, and worked in Paris. He'd wandered the hills of Ireland and Scotland and had stood on the cliffs in Cornwall.

  He'd lived cheap and rough most of the time. When there'd been a choice between buying a meal or paint, he'd gone hungry.

  He'd been hungry before. It had done him good, he hoped, to remember what it was like not to have someone making sure you were fed and safe and warm.

  It was the Quinn in him, he supposed, that made him hellbent to beat his own path.

  He laid out his sketch pad, put away his charcoal, his pencils. He would spend time getting back to basics with his work before he picked up a brush again.

  The walls of his room held some of his early drawings. Cam had taught him how to make the frames on an old miter box at the boatyard. Seth took one from the wall to study it. It showed promise, he thought, in the rough, undisciplined lines. But more, much more, it showed the promise of a life. He'd caught them well enough, he decided. Cam, with his thumbs tucked in his pockets, stance confrontational. Then Phillip, slick, edging toward an elegance that nearly disguised the street smarts. Ethan, patient, steady as a redwood in his work clothes.

  He'd drawn himself with them. Seth at ten, he thought. Thin, narrow shoulders and big feet, with a lift to his chin to mask something more painful than fear. Something that was hope.

  A life moment, Seth thought now, captured with a graphite pencil. Drawing it, he'd begun to believe, in-the-gut believe, that he was one of them. A Quinn.

  "You mess with one Quinn," he murmured as he hung the drawing on the wall again, "you mess with them all."

  He turned, glanced at the suitcases and wondered if he could sweet-talk Anna into unpacking for him.

  Not a chance.

  "Hey."

  He looked toward the doorway and brightened when he saw Kevin. If he had to fiddle with clothes, as least he'd have company. "Hey, Kev."

  "So, you really hanging this time? For good?"

  "Looks like."

  "Cool." Kevin sauntered in, plopped on the bed and propped his feet on one of the suitcases. "Mom's really jazzed about it. Around here, if Mom's happy, everybody's happy. She could be soft enough to let me use her car this weekend."

  "Glad I can help." He shoved Kevin's feet off the suitcase, then unzipped it.

  He had the look of his mother, Seth thought. Dark, curling hair, big Italian eyes. Seth imagined the girls were already tumbling for him like bowling pins.

  "How's the play?"

  "It rocks. Totally rocks. West Side Story. I'm Tony. When you're a Jet, man."

  "You stay a Jet." Seth dumped shirts haphazardly in a drawer. "You get killed, right?"

  "Yeah." Kevin clutched his heart, shuddered with his face filled with pain and rapture. Then slumped. "It's great, and before I do the death thing, we've got this kick-ass fight scene. Show's next week. You're gonna come, right?"

  "Front row center, pal."

  "Check out Lisa Maxdon, she plays Maria. Total babe. We've got a couple of love scenes together. We've been doing a lot of practicing," he added and winked. "Anything for art."

  "Yeah." Kevin scooted up a little. "Okay, so tell me about all the Euro chicks. Pretty hot, huh?"

  "The only way to get burned. There was this girl in Rome. Anna-Theresa."

  "A two-named girl." Kevin shook his fingers as if he'd gotten them too close to a flame. "Two-named girls are way sexy."

  "Tell me. She worked in this little trattoria. And the way she served pasta al pomodoro was just amazing."

  "So? Did you score?"

  Seth sent Kevin a pitying look. "Please, who're you talking to here?" He dumped jeans in another drawer. "She had hair all the way down to her ass, and a very fine ass it was. Eyes like melted chocolate and a mouth that wouldn't quit."

  "Did you draw her naked?"

  "I did about a dozen figure studies. She was a natural. Totally relaxed, completely uninhibited."

  "Man, you're killing me."

  "And she had the most amazing…" Seth paused, his hands up to chest level to demonstrate. "Personality," he said, dropping his hands. "Hi, Anna."

  "Discussing art?" she said dryly. "It's so nice of you to share some of your cultural experiences with Kevin."

  "Um. Well." The killing smile she was aiming in his direction had always made Seth's tongue wither. Instead of trying to use it, he fell back on an innocent grin.

  "But tonight's session on art and culture is now over. Kevin, I believe you have homework."

  "Right. I'll get right to it." Seeing his history assignment as an escape hatch, Kevin bolted.

  Anna stepped into the room. "Do you think," she asked Seth pleasantly, "that the young woman in question would appreciate being whittled down to a pair of breasts?"

  "Ah… I also mentioned her eyes. They were nearly as fabulous as yours."

  Anna took a shirt out of the open drawer, folded it neatly. "Do you think that's going to work with me?"

  "No. Begging might. Please don't hurt me. I just got home."

  She took out another shirt, folded it. "Kevin's sixteen, and I'm perfectly aware his major interest at this time is naked breasts and his fervent desire to get his han
ds on as many as possible."

  Seth winced. "Jeez, Anna."

  "I am also aware," she continued without breaking stride, "that this predilection—while hopefully becoming more civilized and controlled—remains deep-seated in the male species throughout its natural life."

  "Hey, you want to see some of my landscape sketches from Tuscany?"

  "I am surrounded by you." Sighing a little, she took out yet another shirt. "Outnumbered, and have been since I walked into this house. That doesn't mean I can't knock every one of your stupid heads together when necessary. Understood?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Good. Show me your landscapes."

  LATER, when the house was quiet and the moon rode over the water, she found Cam on the back porch. She stepped out, and into him.

  He wrapped an arm around her, rubbing her shoulder against the night's chill. "Settle everyone down?"

  "That's what I do. Chilly tonight." She glanced up at the sky, at the ice points of stars. "I hope it stays clear for Sunday." Then she simply turned her face into his chest. "Oh, Cam."

  "I know." He stroked a hand over her hair, rubbed his cheek against it.

  "To see him sitting at the kitchen table. Watching him wrestling with Jake and that idiot dog. Even hearing him talking about naked women with Kevin—"

  "What naked women?"

  She laughed, shook back her hair as she looked at him. "No one you know. It's so good to have him home."

  "I told you he'd come back. Quinns always come back to the roost."

  "I guess you're right." She kissed him, one long, warm meeting of lips. "Why don't we go upstairs?" She slid her hands down, gave his butt a suggestive squeeze. "And I'll settle you down, too."

  * * *

  Chapter Two

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  RISE AND SHINE, PAL. This ain't no flophouse."

  The voice, and the gleeful sadism behind it, had Seth groaning. He flopped onto his stomach, dragged the pillow over his head. "Go away. Go far, far away."

  "If you think you're going to spend your days around here sleeping till the crack of noon, think again." With relish, Cam yanked the pillow away. "Up."

  Seth opened one eye, rolled it until he focused on the bedside clock. It wasn't yet seven. He turned his face back into the mattress and mumbled a rude suggestion in Italian.

  "If you think I've lived with Spinelli all these years and don't know that means 'kiss my ass,' you're stupid as well as lazy."

  To solve the problem, Cam ripped the sheets away, snagged Seth's ankles and dragged him to the floor.

  "Shit. Shit!" Naked, his elbow singing where it had cracked the table, Seth glared up at his persecutor. "What the hell's with you? This is my room, my bed, and I'm trying to sleep in it."

  "Put some clothes on. I've got something for you to do out back."

  "Goddamn it, you could give a guy twenty-four hours before you start on him."

  "Kid, I started on you when you were ten, and I'm not close to being finished. I've got work, so let's get moving."

  "Cam." Anna strode to the doorway, hands on hips. "I told you to wake him up, not knock him down."

  "Jesus." Mortified, Seth tore the sheet out of Cam's hands and clutched it around his waist. "Jesus, Anna, I'm naked here."

  "Then get dressed," she suggested, and walked away. "Out back," Cam told him as he strode from the room. "Five minutes."

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah."

  Some things never changed, Seth thought as he yanked on jeans. He could be sixty living in this house, and Cam would still roust him out of bed like he was twelve.

  He snagged what was left of a University of Maryland sweatshirt and dragged it over his head as he stalked from the room.

  If there wasn't coffee, hot and fresh, somebody was going to get their ass seriously kicked.

  "Mom! I can't find my shoes!"

  Seth glanced toward Jake's room as he headed for the stairs. "They're down here," Anna called back. "In the middle of my kitchen floor, where they don't belong."

  "Not those shoes. Jeez, Mom. The other shoes."

  "Try looking up your butt," came the carefully modulated suggestion from Kevin's room. "Your head's already up there."

  "No problem finding your butt," was the hissed response. "Since you wear it right on your shoulders."

  Such familiar family dynamics would have made Seth smile—if it hadn't been shy of seven A.M. If his elbow hadn't been throbbing like a bitch. If he had had a hit of caffeine.

  "Neither one of you could find your butts with your own hands," he grumbled as he sulked down the steps.

  "What the hell's up with Cam?" he demanded of Anna when he stalked into the kitchen. "Is there any coffee? Why does everybody wake up yelling around here?"

  "Cam needs to see you outside. Yes, there's a half pot left, and everyone wakes up yelling because it's how we like to greet the day." She poured coffee into a thick white mug. "You're on your own for breakfast. I have an early meeting. Don't pout, Seth. I'll bring home ice cream."

  The day began to look marginally brighter. "Rocky Road?"

  "Rocky Road. Jake! Get these shoes out of my kitchen before I feed them to the dog. Go outside, Seth, or you'll spoil Cam's sunny mood."

  "Yeah, he looked real chipper when he yanked me out of bed." Stewing over it, Seth walked out the kitchen door.

  There they were, almost as Seth had drawn them so many years before. Cam, thumbs in pockets, Phillip, slicked up in a suit, Ethan, with a faded gimme cap over his windblown hair.

  Seth swallowed coffee, and the heart that had lodged in his throat. "This is what you dragged me out of bed for?"

  "Same smart mouth." Phillip caught him in a hug. His eyes, nearly the same tawny gold as his hair, skimmed over Seth's ragged shirt and jeans. "Christ, kid, didn't I teach you anything?" With a shake of his head, he fingered the dull-gray sleeve. "Italy was obviously wasted on you."

  "They're just clothes, Phil. You put them on so you don't get cold or arrested."

  With a pained wince, Phillip stepped back. "Where did I go wrong?"

  "Looks okay to me. Still a little scrawny. What's this?" Ethan tugged on Seth's hair. "Long as a girl's."

  "He had it in a pretty little ponytail last night," Cam told him. "He looked real sweet."

  "Up yours," Seth said, laughing.

  "We'll get you a nice pink ribbon," Ethan said with a chuckle and grabbed Seth in a bear hug.

  Phillip nipped the mug out of Seth's hand, took a sip. "We figured we'd come by and get a look at you before Sunday."

  "It's good to see you. Really good to see you." Seth flicked a glance at Cam. "You could've said everyone was here instead of dumping me out of bed."

  "More fun that way. Well." Cam rocked back on his heels. "Well," Phillip agreed, and set the mug on the porch rail. "Well." Ethan gave Seth's hair another tug. Then got an iron grip on his arm. "What?"

  Cam only grinned and locked a hold on his other arm. Seth didn't need the gleam in their eyes to understand. "Come on. You're kidding, right?"

  "It's got to be done." Before Seth could begin to struggle,

  Phillip scooped his legs out from under him. "It's not like you've got to worry about getting that snazzy outfit wet."

  "Cut it out." Seth bucked, tried to kick as he was carried off the porch. "I mean it. That water's fucking cold."

  "Probably sink like a stone," Ethan said mildly as they muscled Seth toward the dock. "Looks like living in Europe turned him into a wimp."

  "Wimp, my ass." He fought against their hold, fought not to laugh. "Takes three of you to take me out. Bunch of feeble old men," he snarled. With grips, he thought, like steel.

  That had Phillip's brow quirking. "How far do you think we can throw him?"

  "Let's find out. One," Cam announced as they stood swinging him between them on the dock.

  "I'll kill you." Swearing, laughing, Seth wiggled like a fish.

  "Two," Phillip said with a grin. "Better save your breath, kid."


  "Three. Welcome home, Seth," Ethan said as the three of them hurled him in the air.

  He was right. The water was freezing. It stole the breath he hadn't bothered to save, chilled him right down to the bone. When he surfaced, spitting it out, shoving at his hair, he heard his brothers howling with delight, saw them ranged together on the dock with the early sun showering down and the old white house behind them.

  I'm Seth Quinn, he thought. And I'm home.

  THE EARLY-MORNING DIP went a long way toward purging any jet lag. Since he was up, Seth decided he might as well get things done. He drove back to Baltimore, turned in the rental, and after some wheeling and dealing at a dealership, drove toward the Shore the proud owner of a muscular Jaguar convertible in saber silver.

  He knew it shouted: Officer, may I have a speeding ticket please! But he couldn't resist.

  Selling his art was a two-edged sword. It sliced at his heart each time he parted with a painting. But he was selling very well and might as well reap some of the benefits.

  His brothers, he thought smugly, were going to be green when they got a load of his new ride.

  He cut back on his speed as he cruised into St. Chris. The little water town with its busy docks and quiet streets was another painting to him, one he'd re-created countless times, from countless angles.

  Market Street with its shops and restaurants ran parallel to the dock, where crab pickers still set up tables on weekends to perform for the tourists. Watermen like Ethan would bring the day's catch there.

  The town spread back with its old Victorian houses, its salt-boxes and clapboards shaded by leafy trees. Lawns would be tidy. Neat, quaint, historic drew in the tourists, who would browse in the shops, eat in the restaurants, cozy up in one of the B and B's for a relaxing weekend at the shore.