the Atlantic. “It’s beautiful. Really nice of your family to have me.” She looked around the kitchen again. “Where is everyone?”
“The beach,” he said. “We’re having a beach day.”
“Sounds nice. I’ve never been to the beach on Thanksgiving.”
“I just came back to get the turkey in the oven and get a jump on some of the side dishes.”
“Oh, he cooks, too? I’m impressed.”
“Just wait until you taste my cooking. I’m awesome in the kitchen.”
She thought he’d be awesome in any room of the house. “Wait a minute. I need to alert the media.”
“How’s that?”
“I need to tell them that hell has frozen over. It’s Thanksgiving, and a man is preparing the feast all by himself.”
“Not anymore, he’s not.” He tossed her an apron. “You’re going to help me.”
“Fair enough. I guess.”
“Tell you what,” he said. “Get your beach things on and you can give me a hand in the kitchen. Then we’ll head down to the beach and join the others.”
“Sounds good.”
He helped her with her bag and showed her to a guest room, which was airy and bright with white painted plantation shutters and bedding in tropical prints, a stack of fluffy towels in the adjoining bathroom.
“You should find everything you need here,” he said. “My mom loves having company.”
“This is an amazing room. Better than a five-star hotel.”
“If you forgot anything, you’ll find stuff in the closet—extra swimsuits, robes, flip-flops, you name it. Just help yourself.” As he set her suitcase on the bamboo luggage rack and stepped out, she felt herself, for the first time in forever, feeling happy about the holiday.
She opened her suitcase and studied the contents, feeling a scowl gathering on her forehead. She’d done a lousy job packing, having rushed home from work late the night before. Her swimsuit was old—and admittedly homely, the suit she used for masters swims at the West Village Y.
Of the five Fitzgerald sisters, Darcy was the least stylish, a deficit she freely admitted, and one that usually didn’t bother her. The fashion sense chromosome had missed her completely. She should’ve made her sister Kitty take her shopping for this trip. Kitty was the stylish one; she would have helped Darcy pick out cute sundresses and sandals, maybe a swimsuit that didn’t look like a high school swim team practice suit.
“Oh, that’s right,” she said with a sigh, holding up the sea-foam-colored tank suit, “this probably
As she held the suit up to the light, she was appalled to see the fabric had worn through in a couple of key places, including the butt. “Great,” she muttered. “Just great.” She opened the closet and found a plain black tank suit there. It was several sizes too large, but the only other one she could find was a scandalous wisp of fabric. Some would call it a bikini. Darcy called it ridiculous. In the borrowed bikini, yellow with bows on it, she felt conspicuous, but the thing fit like a glove. An extremely skimpy glove.
She hid beneath her cover-up—a hand-me-down from one of the sisters, several years old, frumpy but serviceable—and a pair of sandals that had seen better days. Then she ran a comb through her hair and put on a big, floppy hat, grabbed her tube of sunscreen and her sunglasses.
“Ready for the beach,” she said, joining Logan in the kitchen. “What can I do to help?”
He was putting fresh sprigs of rosemary and sage and pats of butter under the turkey skin while intermittently consulting a video cooking lesson on an iPad.
“Jamie Oliver?” she asked.
“Taught me everything I know,” he said without looking away from the screen. “Love this guy.”
“Have you always been interested in cooking?”
“It’s a relatively new project. I took it up when I became a single dad. I knew I needed to learn how to make something besides quesadillas and microwave burritos. I never wanted to be the dad who raises his kid on takeout and junk food.”
“That’s nice. I need a job.”
“Peel the potatoes?”
“I think I can handle that.”
Working alongside him in the kitchen felt strangely...domestic. And freakishly pleasant. In general, she didn’t enjoy cooking, and lately she didn’t enjoy men, so the pleasantness of the moment startled her.
“You didn’t tell me you were divorced,” he said.
She thought he might have sounded slightly accusing, as if this was something she had a duty to share with him. But that was ridiculous. She’d only met him the one time, at the end of summer. It wasn’t as if she needed to share her life story with him.
But now here she was, in his house—his family’s house—and he’d asked her a direct question. He was just being friendly, she told herself. He had no idea that it was her least favorite question. It was like being asked, “So, how’d you get that giant hideous scar?”
“Yes,” she said simply, knowing she was now expected to elaborate. “I was married for five years.”
He cut an onion into quarters using swift, confident strokes with a sharp knife; then he added the pieces to the roasting pan. “Just asking,” he said. “Didn’t mean to pry.”
“Oh, you weren’t prying,” she told him hastily. It was comforting in a perverse way, knowing the two of them were both divorced. It was like meeting another shipwreck survivor who understood just what the other had endured.
She remembered seeing Logan’s ex at the end of summer, and wondered where he was in the recovery process. She could still picture the look of longing in Logan’s eyes when he’d handed his son over to the ex. And why not? The mother of his child was blonde and beautiful, with a glowing smile. Yikes, Logan might even still be in love with her.
“I wanted to make sure the coast was clear,” he said to Darcy.
“The coast?”
“For when I start hitting on you.”
She swallowed hard. Maybe she was wrong about his ex. “You’re going to start hitting on me?”
He plucked a pinch of salt from a small bowl. “Yeah,” he said. “I might.”
Her chest tightened. She remembered the never-again vow she’d made after her marriage. “How will I know if you’re hitting on me?” she asked, her light teasing tone masking apprehension.
He grinned. “You’ll be the first to know. Anyway, I’m glad you didn’t think I was prying. Prying comes later.”
“I can hardly wait,” she said.
He hoisted the turkey into the pan. “This,” he said, “is going to make you glad I’m single. It’s going to be the most delicious turkey you’ve ever tasted.”
“How did you end up with kitchen duty?” she asked.
“I volunteered. Later, everybody will pitch in.”
“And all hell will break loose?”
He grinned. “Pretty much.”
“So, tell me about the O’Donnell family traditions. Anything unusual?”
“Not unless you consider sibling squabbles, cranky kids and overeating unusual.”
“Oh boy. That sounds extremely familiar. Are you sure we’re not related?” She and Logan had plenty in common. On the one hand, it was kind of cool, feeling so comfortable with him, so quickly. On the other hand, this likely meant a relationship between them would never work. She and Huntley had had everything in common, yet ultimately they’d fallen apart. “What do you squabble about?”
“It’s mainly the kids who squabble these days. Although my old man’s not too pleased with me at the moment.”
“Why not?”
“I made a kind of impulsive career move. Sold my stable, lucrative, predictable, boring business for a crazy,
