His youngest son’s lack of interest in Churchill’s private equity investments and financial management consulting business had finally resulted in a huge blowup. When Joe turned eighteen, Churchill had wanted to put him on the board of his holding company, as he’d done with Gage and Jack. He’d always planned on having all three sons on the board. But Joe had flat-out refused. He hadn’t even accepted a nominal position. The mushroom cloud had been visible for miles. Ava had passed away from cancer two years earlier, and there had been no one to mediate or intervene. Joe’s relationship with his father had been ice cold for a couple of years after that and hadn’t entirely recovered until Joe had stayed with him after the boat accident.

“I had to learn patience fast,” Joe had told me. “My lungs were shot, and it was hard to argue with Dad when I was breathing like a Pekingese.”

“How did you two manage to reconcile?”

“We went out to play golf. I hated golf. Old-man sport. But Dad insisted on dragging me to the driving range. He taught me how to swing a club. We played a couple of times after that.” A grin emerged. “He was so old, and I was so busted up, neither of us could break one thirty on eighteen holes.”

“But you had a good time?”

“We did. And after that, everything was fine.”

“But… it couldn’t have been. If you didn’t talk about the issues…”

“That’s one of the great things about being a guy: Sometimes we fix things by deciding it was bullshit and ignoring the hell out of it.”

“That’s not fixing,” I had protested.

“Sure it is. Like Civil War medicine: Amputate and move on.” Joe had paused. “Usually you can’t do that with a woman.”

“Not usually,” I had agreed dryly. “We like to solve problems by actually facing them and working out compromises.”

“Golf’s easier.”

In less than a week, my team had put together a vintage-boardwalk-themed party for Haven Travis’s baby shower. Tank had enlisted a local theater set crew to help him construct and paint a dessert station that resembled a boardwalk game arcade. Steven hired a landscaper to install a temporary mini golf course on the grounds of the Travis mansion. Together Sofia and I met with caterers and agreed on an outdoor party menu featuring gourmet burgers, grilled shrimp kebabs, and lobster rolls.

The forecast for the day of the party was ninety degrees and humid. The event team arrived at the Travis mansion at ten a.m. After helping the tent company reps to set up a row of open-sided cabana tents by the pool, Steven returned to the kitchen, where the rest of us were unboxing decorations.

“Tank,” he said, “I need you and your guys to assemble the boardwalk arcade, and after that —” Steven broke off as he saw Sofia. His gaze traveled over the sleek length of her legs. “That’s what you’re wearing?” he asked, as if she were half-naked.

Sofia gave him a perplexed glance, a large bleached starfish in her hand. “What do you mean?”

“Your outfit.” Scowling, Steven turned his attention to me. “Are you actually going to let her wear that?”

I was dumbfounded. Sofia was dressed like a forties pinup girl in red-and-white polka-dotted shorts with a matching halter top. The outfit showed off her curvy figure, but there was nothing immodest about it. I couldn’t fathom why Steven would object.

“What’s wrong with it?” I asked.

“It’s too short.”

“It’s ninety degrees outside,” Sofia snapped at Steven, “and I’m going to be working all day. Do you expect me to wear an outfit like Avery’s?”

I sent her an irritated glance.

Before getting dressed that morning, I had considered wearing some of my new clothes, most of which had hung in my closet untouched. However, old habits were hard to break. Rather than choose something silky and colorful, I had reverted to one of my old standbys: a relaxed-fit white cotton tunic. It was loose and sleeveless, worn over a pair of billowy gathered-hem pants that – despite their charming name of “poet pants” – were admittedly unflattering. But the outfit was comfortable, and I felt safe wearing it.

Steven gave Sofia a caustic glance. “Of course not. But it’s still better than dressing like the featured performer at a strip club.”

“Steven, that’s enough,” I said sharply.

“I’m going to fire you for sexual harassment,” Sofia cried.

“You can’t fire me,” Steven informed her. “Only Avery can fire me.”

“She won’t have to if I kill you first!” She leapt toward him, holding the starfish like a weapon.

“Sofia,” I yelped, grabbing her from behind. “Take it easy! Put that down. Jesus, have you both lost your minds?”

“Someone around here has,” I heard Steven say. “Unless the plan is to flaunt Sofia as millionaire bait.”

That did it. No one insulted my sister that way. “Tank,” I said in a murderous tone, “get him out of here. Throw him into the pool to cool him off.”

“Literally?” Tank asked.

“Yes, literally throw him into the pool.”

“Not the pool” came Steven’s muffled voice. Tank already had him in a headlock. “I’m wearing linen!”

One of the qualities I appreciated most about Tank was his unqualified allegiance to me. He hauled Steven out of the kitchen, lumbering like a small bear. No amount of struggling and swearing would dissuade him.