In the wake of losing them, he'd had no frame of reference for his grief and guilt, so he shut down. He could remember exactly where he'd stood when the change had come over him.

He'd needed a suit for the funeral, because it was the respectful thing to wear. He'd gone to his father's closet and gently rifled through the clothes as if they were made of tissue paper. There had been so many things he'd never seen the man wear, so many seasons lost. He had wanted to cry, had been on the verge of it, but then Frankie had come into the room. When he'd told her what he was looking for, she'd said that the only suit their father owned was the one he was getting buried in.

As Alex had turned to leave, he'd seen a hanger on the bed. It had been one of those wooden ones with an arm you could slip the slacks through and clip into place. He'd been staring at it when Frankie picked the thing up and carried it back to the closet, inserting it between a flannel shirt and a sweater that was sagging out of shape at the shoulders.

"I suppose I'll have to...empty this all out," she'd said in a dull voice.

At that moment something had clicked off in him. Or maybe just...got up and left.

He'd worn khakis and a black sweater to the service. And he'd left a half hour after his parents had been put into the ground.

It was the pinnacle of his selfishness. The absolute zenith of his egocentric nature. To cut and run at that moment was not only cowardly, but cruel. He'd suspected it then. He knew it for a fact now.

Thereafter, Frankie had raised Joy and kept White Caps alive. She'd also lost a fiance in the process. Lost her life, in a way.

Alex had gone back to racing, but he was different at the helm. What had once been reckless passion got turned into an icy, focused control that left him utterly unflappable. In the shutting off, the cooling down, he was transformed from a good sailor into one of the greats.

So many America's Cup trophies had been brought home because of his leadership. So many laudations, so much awe, until he was worshiped as The Warrior. Meanwhile, Frankie and Joy had been here. Fending for themselves, unsupported by him. They must have assumed he'd forgotten about them, but he never had. He'd thought of them always.

Just done jack about it.

Even now, with him here at home, his sisters haunted him. They were ghosts just as Cassandra was, born out of his failings as a brother, a friend. A man.

Alex took his hand off the desk.

There was a time when he had disdained his father for wanting to live such a simple life. Now, he was fairly certain that when Ted died, he'd shaken St. Peter's hand with few regrets.

For a man to have been a good father and husband, to have taken care of his own, to have loved his community and had the quiet respect of neighbors and friends, that was a life led well, led with honor.

Far better than what Alex had to show for himself.

All those trophies and plaques he'd won were in a storage unit in Newport.

Unlike his father, the culmination of his life's accomplishments was nothing more than a ragged landing pad for dust.

Chapter Six.

The following day Cassandra met the crew she'd hired at the site and took them through the house. She'd culled the men's names from Frankie who had used each one in some capacity or another over the years. They were middle-aged, strong and grateful for the winter work because by definition construction was seasonal this far north. After November, with all the snowstorms and cold temperatures, it was difficult to do much outdoors beyond ice fishing or hurrying home.

Plus, White Caps was a cush job. With the windows and the doorways sealed with plastic, and a propane heater blaring like a jet engine, the place was warm and out of the wind. The only possible determent was having a woman for a boss, but none of them seemed to have a problem with that. At least not on their first morning together.

If any of them did develop an attitude, she'd handle the problem the way she always did. She knew houses from their concrete basement slabs to their roofing nails and all the wall studs and floorboards in between. After having discussed the project thoroughly with Frankie, studied the plans until midnight last evening and been at White Caps since six this morning, she also knew this particular building. She understood exactly what had to be done and in what order.

So there was no question that she couldn't answer. No problem that she couldn't reason out logically. No obstacle to progress that she couldn't surmount. That knowledge, coupled with how hard she was going to work, would cure any testosterone-laden God complex that might crop up.

And lunch brought in with some frequency wouldn't hurt morale, either.

She glanced down at her clothes, thinking of Alex's comment the day before. The blue jeans, fleece and parka she was wearing were from Freeport, Maine, not Madison Avenue. Dressed in all this L.L. Bean, she wondered whether he could see her with a hammer now.

Cass looked at the men and gestured around the decimated kitchen.

"We're starting here. The counters and cabinets need to be stripped out. Appliances, too. Sheetrock goes. Do not remove any of the joists in the ceiling, even though they're burned out. I need to do a structure eval on the second story before I decide whether we'll replace all of them or some of them." She pointed to the floor. "The hardwood is strong enough to support you, but it's all got to go. We'll wait until the space is clean before we take it up. Dumpster is arriving at ten."

Tim, a squat, dark-haired guy with an easy smile, nodded. "You want the electrics capped?"

She nodded. "Fuse box is shut down in the cellar. Gas and water are off, as well. At nine, a generator's coming so we can run the power tools and lights. Lunch is on me today and it's coming at eleven-thirty."

"What are we eating?" he asked.

"Subs."

"Nice."

She returned his smile and looked at the other three. Lee, Greg and Bobbie were nodding with approval.

"Any questions?"

"Do the subs come with chips?" Lee said with mock gravity.

She smirked. "Yes. Frito's or Ruffles, your choice. How about any questions on the house?"

They shook their heads.

"Let's get to work. I'll be upstairs checking the floor stability."

Alex fished around the duffel bag, holding a towel at his waist.

No boxers.

He eyed his laundry pile. He didn't mind going bareback in his jeans and he'd work out buck naked if he had to, provided Spike wore a blindfold. But socks were an issue. His feet were always cold, and there was no way he could sleep in dirty socks.

It looked as if he would have to go to Gray's.

And if he happened to run into O'Banyon and had to tread on the guy's toes a little? Well, that would just be a flaming pity, wouldn't it?

He glanced out the picture window. The Range Rover was parked in front of White Caps. Alongside it were two pickups and an old Trans Am.

He'd been asleep when Cassandra had arrived, and considering he'd woken up at six-thirty, he had to wonder when she'd come. He'd also missed seeing the men because he'd been in the shower.

So it was time to head over and check out the crew.

Alex drew on his jeans, pulled on his last pair of clean socks and re-secured the cast over his pant leg. He shrugged on a T-shirt and a fleece, popped his free foot into a boot and headed for the door with his cane.

Outside, the ground was frozen solid, the light snow like powdered sugar over the lawn. His breath came out in puffs of white, and the cold hit his cheeks like a slap.

He paused, measuring the sky. It was a dull, gunmetal gray. Snow was definitely coming tonight.

From the direction of White Caps, a wrenching sound cut through the still air and then something was tossed out what had been the kitchen alcove's window. The tangle of metal bounced on the lawn. Part of the stainless steel cabinets, he surmised.

Alex went over to the house. As he walked through the back door's plastic sheet, he took stock of the men. Four guys, all mid-to late-thirties. He was bigger than all of them, and the deference in their eyes told him they'd noticed that, too.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

"Who are you?" replied a squat guy wearing red flannel.

Alex liked the guy's suspicion. "I'm a Moorehouse."

"Oh...wow. You're Frankie's older brother. The sailor. Who was missing-"

"Yeah. Where's Cassandra?"

"She's upstairs." The man pointed with his hammer.

Alex eyed the scorched ceiling and hated the thought of her standing on any of the floorboards up there.

"Thanks."

As he used the front stairs, he could hear the men's hushed voices. Words like "storm," "dead" and "injured" made him hurry to get out of earshot.

When he got to the top landing, he went over and pushed open the fire doors that separated the staff quarters from where the guests stayed. Walking down a plain, unadorned hallway, he looked in each one of the rooms, not lingering. They reminded him of his sisters, his parents, himself, and he found the burned-out floors and blackened walls depressing.

Down at the end of the corridor he heard a squeak, as if a board were being pulled up.

Must be another of the crew, he thought.

He peered into one of the bathrooms, expecting to see Cassandra standing in the middle of the chaos wearing some kind of perfect outfit. And high heels.

Where was she?

He headed for the noise, opening the door to the last of the baths, the one that was directly over the damage in the kitchen. There was a guy on the floor dressed in a hooded fleece, navy parka and blue jeans. He had a crowbar wedged under a plank of hardwood and was tearing it up. A pile of boards was next to him.

"Do you know where Cassandra is?"

The guy looked over his shoulder. "Hi, Alex."

As he frowned, Cassandra pulled off the hood. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail. She had no makeup on. And her cheeks were blazing from exertion.

Alex blinked a couple of times.

Then ran his eyes over the baggy pants that had faded paint splotches on them. The heavy outerwear. The scuffed work boots.

If she was lovely in couture, she was crazy attractive in work clothes. He had a sudden urge to shut the door behind him and get under all that fleece.

She smiled a little. "Do you want a tour of what I plan to do?"

Actually, he'd only come to stare the men in the face so they'd know if they made trouble for her, they were going to answer to him. With that mission having been accomplished down in the kitchen, he really hadn't had a reason to go looking for her at all. Other than to see her.

But then he remembered.

"I'm going to Gray's late this afternoon," he said. "Just wanted you to know. I do my laundry there."

"Okay. Do you want to stay for dinner?"

Uh-huh, right. As if he needed to watch O'Banyon drool all over her.

Then again, ruining the guy's night by stealing a romantic dinner right out from under his nose had some appeal.

"Yeah, I think I will. I'll be over around six."

As darkness fell, Cassandra walked into Gray's kitchen, grateful for the warmth and the fact that the place didn't smell like propane.

"Libby?" she called out while peeling off layers. "I'm home."

There was a patter of dog feet, and Ernest came down the back stairs, moving slower than usual.

"Hey, big guy." She crouched down. "You look a little droopy."

The retriever circled in front of her, offering a lackluster wag before he lay down and rolled over onto his back. She stroked his belly as Libby came in from the stairs.

"Hi, there!" The woman pulled on her wool coat and wrapped a scarf around her neck. "How was your first day on the job?"

"It went just fine." Cass tried to keep her voice level. "Are you going somewhere for dinner?"

"My brother called. His wife fell down today and the two of them are in pretty rough shape. Her, for obvious reasons. Him, because he doesn't know how to heat up a can of soup without needing a fire extinguisher. I figure, if I don't get dinner made for them, you'll have another charred mess of a house to work on. But don't worry, I cooked an oven-stuffer roaster and left it in the refrigerator for you. I whipped up a salad, also."

"Thank you. That was very thoughtful."

Oh, God. Dinner. With Alex. Alone.

"Say, are you okay, Cass?"

She stood up. "I'm fine. Just need a quick shower. Has Ernest been fed?"

"In a manner of speaking. He tore into a package of cookies that had slipped out of a grocery bag. Spent most of the afternoon in the yard." Libby came over and rubbed the dog's head. "No more Fig Newtons for you, right?"

Ernest heaved a big sigh as if answering.