QUINN SLUMPED against the toolbox wedged in one side of his pickup bed, legs hanging over the edge of the open tailgate, and scanned three acres of weed-covered ground studded with refuse. From the cracked curb on the Front Street boundary to the gap-toothed riprap edging the foot of a disintegrating dock, the ground rose and fell in random, jagged waves.

Tomorrow he’d haul in an office trailer and set up shop. In one week, he’d have this place scraped clean and the footings ready to dig. By the end of the month he’d have gravel spread and neat piles of form boards and rebar placed and ready for the foundation work. And before the end of the year he’d be putting the finishing details on the finest building Carnelian Cove had seen erected in over fifty years.

He inhaled deeply, enjoying the cool blend of trampled Scotch broom, sea-salted air and the rich tang of tobacco smoke from the cigarette dangling between his fingers. And then he braced while a sharp-taloned need clawed its way through him. His personal battle with his alcohol addiction was a day-by-day siege, but nothing was proving as difficult as trying to deny his craving for tobacco.

Denial-a daily exercise and a constant companion of late. The tamped-down disappointments and regrets, the low-grade itching and yearning for something-for anything-better than what he had, colored his existence and kept him moving in the right direction. That and the daughter waiting for him at home.

Rosie wanted him to quit smoking, and he’d do it for her. He’d do anything for her-anything within reason. She needed that from him right now, needed his reassurance as much as his steadiness. She’d lost so much lately-hell, she’d lost just about everything she had to lose during her short life. He had so much to make up to her.