Cooper, the oldest of the cousins at thirty-six, was the optimist of the group. Though saddened by Uncle Johnny’s death, Cooper’s mind had filled with possibilities the moment he’d learned that he and his two cousins had inherited the Dragonfly.

He loved the ocean, loved boats and sailing. And he was sick to death of corporate law, the field he’d gone into because his family had expected it. Cooper and his cousins, equally disillusioned with their second-son, second-class jobs in the family corporation, could make a lot of money running a fishing charter and have fun doing it.

That was the theory, anyway.

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to go aboard,” Reece said, his face a bit green. Reece didn’t much care for boats. Didn’t like cars, trains or planes, either. He never traveled anywhere without his Dramamine.

Max wasn’t paying attention to the Dragonfly, but to the sleek pleasure yacht in the next slip, where a woman in a bikini was sweeping the deck.

“Max.” Cooper nudged his cousin. “We’re boarding.” They didn’t yet have keys, so they couldn’t inspect the inside. But they could check out whatever was in plain sight.

As he unfastened the chain that blocked the gangway and stepped on board, the years melted away and he was once again a boy looking forward to weeks of fishing and swimming and helping Uncle Johnny and Aunt Pat run their fishing trips.

That was before Aunt Pat died, before Uncle Johnny had started drinking, before the family had decided Johnny wasn’t fit company for impressionable youngsters.

Before Uncle Johnny, smarting from the snub, had cut off all contact with his family.

The close-up look didn’t improve the Dragonfly’s condition. Max and Reece were right-the boat was in bad shape. But some good, hard physical labor was just what Cooper needed, what all of them needed, to cleanse the corporate rat race out of their systems.