* * *

The SUV was full, with Charlie and three of his cousins buckled in the backseat and Darcy in the front. The cargo area was loaded with boxed pies Logan had ordered the day before from the Sky High Pie Company, his contribution to the community feast. The afternoon light of South Florida gilded the neighborhood in a dreamy sheen, but as they left Paradise Cove behind, the scenery shed its charm, like the sad aftermath of a parade.

In the backseat, Nan led everyone in a chorus of “Over the River.” There were no rivers in sight, no white and drifting snow, just a depressing series of strip centers that all looked virtually the same—nail salons, pawnshops, coin laundries, payday loan outfits.

The Ryder Center was surrounded by chain-link fencing. Although the welcome sign proclaimed it “A Place For Hope,” an air of despair hung like Spanish moss from the trees. This was where people brought children they no longer wanted or couldn’t care for. The social workers and volunteers were passionate and committed, but sometimes there just wasn’t any substitute for family.

“Is this a regular commitment for you?” asked Darcy.

“Yep. I’ve been bringing Charlie here to help out ever since he was old enough to serve a wedge of pie.”

“That’s nice,” she said.

“Is it?” He pulled in by a small fleet of vans with the Ryder logo on the side, a silhouette of a candle cupped in two hands. “I always find myself wishing I could do more.”

“There’s always more to do,” she murmured.

“I feel sorry for the kids who live here,” said Bernie. “I’m kind of bashful about meeting them.”

“Kids are kids,” said Logan, opening the back of the SUV. “There’s usually a pretty good party going on here.”

Everyone helped carry the boxed pies to the serving area. The feasting had been going on all day, with a rotating series of kids and volunteers. Some of the children were long-term residents of Ryder House, while others came for the day. People were gathered around tables decorated with flower arrangements, crepe paper turkeys, cornucopia and candles. The buffet line moved slowly along a sideboard laden with a feast with all the trimmings. At one end of the room, a bluegrass ensemble played background music.

“Ready to help out?” Logan asked, handing out aprons to Charlie, the nieces and nephews. “We’re on the pie detail.”

“Okay.” Like his cousin Bernie, Charlie seemed timid around the other kids, though eager to help out. They went to the dessert table and got to work, carefully placing small slices of pie on white china plates and setting them out for people to eat.

There were smiles and subdued thank-yous, although an air of melancholy pervaded the atmosphere. Some of the older kids seemed chastened by the understanding that they were receiving charity. Logan served a slice of berry pie to a boy who looked to be about Charlie’s age. His clothes were clean but worn, and he had a peculiar world-weariness that made him seem much older. He furtively took his dessert, mumbled a thank-you and shuffled away to a table.

I will never complain again about my life, thought Logan.

He noticed that Darcy wasn’t serving food, but had hunkered down in the play area, supervising a game of Jenga blocks. She seemed so vibrant, surrounded by kids, relaxed in their presence. It made him wonder about her comment last summer, when she’d claimed she was averse to children.

She was something of a puzzle to him. An intriguing puzzle. A puzzle he found far more attractive than he should.

Maybe it was deprivation, plain and simple. He hadn’t dated anyone this fall. In the first place, he hadn’t met anyone he wanted to date. In the second place, he’d been way too busy with Saddle Mountain. True to his word, he’d created an investor group and they’d acquired the ski area. The transfer was going smoothly, but it was a lot of work. All-consuming work. It left little time for a social life. He’d been working twelve-hour days, seven days a week, since signing the papers, and this holiday was his very first time off. The mountain was slated to open for skiing in a week. It kept him busy to the point of exhaustion. Yet the project fulfilled him in a way his insurance business never, ever had.

The ensemble played some traditional tunes while some of the younger kids ran around, pretending to dance.

“Time for the hokeypokey,” announced a guy on the microphone. “Come on, everybody, don’t be shy. Let’s bust a move!”

Logan scanned the room, and noticed Darcy bearing down on him.

“Oh, hell no,” he muttered under his breath, apprehensive about the glint of mischief in her eyes.

“You heard what the guy said,” she told him. “Don’t be a chicken.”

“Yeah, Dad,” said Charlie. “Don’t be a chicken.”

Resigned, Logan took off his apron and set it aside. “You’re coming, too, buddy.”

“No way.” Charlie stuck out his chin. “No w-a-y.”

Darcy was having none of it. She grabbed Charlie with one hand and Logan with the other. “Let’s go, boys.”

Feeling all kinds of foolish, Logan joined the raucous circle and forced himself to do the hokey-freaking-pokey.

Darcy was ridiculously into it, and in spite of himself, he couldn’t take his eyes off her when she did the “shake it all about” part. Damn.

When Charlie saw his cousins and some of the older kids joining in, he got over his bashfulness and let himself go. Within minutes, he was in the center of the action, laughing and shaking, surrounded by children who seemed to forget, if only for a moment, that they were homeless, neglected, troubled, abused.

Logan caught Darcy looking at him, and she laughed. “Now, that,” she said, indicating the mass of squirming, laughing kids, “is what it’s all about.”

Chapter Seven

Darcy got up early the day after Thanksgiving. The lovely guest room at Sea Breeze didn’t feel like the real world to her. That, at any rate, was something to be thankful for. A quick check of her phone showed that she’d missed a few calls and text messages from her parents and sisters. She shrugged them off; she’d return their calls later, maybe from the airport.

In some respects, being away from her family this Thanksgiving had been unexpectedly painful. She couldn’t help resenting Huntley for supplanting her at the Thanksgiving table. Even as she’d toasted and feasted with the O’Donnells, she’d caught herself thinking wistfully of her dad’s gentle humor, her mom’s perfectly seasoned stuffing, her sisters’ gossip and laughter. She missed their chatter and her parents’ banter, and the deep, elemental security of being part of a family. But having Huntley there would have put a damper on everything.

The best way to keep from stumbling over the past was to move forward, she reminded herself. That was her whole rationale for braving the holiday travel crowds and coming to Florida in the first place. She got up and went to the window, opening the plantation shutters and looking out over the gardens.

There was a unique sort of beauty in the tropical morning. The air was warm already, and according to the tide chart posted on the wall above the writing desk, the surf was going to be perfect. She slipped into her borrowed swimsuit, cover-up and flip-flops and headed down to the beach.

In the morning quiet of the garden, Darcy woke her mouth up with a calamondin plucked straight from the tree, wincing at the taste of the bittersweet peel and tart center. Then she plucked a couple of oranges and tucked them in her bag.

“Can’t stay away from the beach, can you?”

She turned, already blushing. “Oh, hey, Logan.”

“Hey yourself. You’re up early. It’s not even seven.”

“I wanted to get a little more beach time in before I have to go. I have to get back to New York this evening.”

“Mind if I join you?”

Mind? Mind? “That’d be great,” she said.

They walked in silence—a silence she found to be quite companionable. For no good reason, she felt very comfortable with Logan. He was easy to be with, easy to talk to. Easy on the eye, though she pretended to look around and not at him. The air was sweet with the smell of magnolias and the sea, and a light breeze brought with it eddies of warmth.

“Your folks have a great spot here,” she remarked.

“Yeah. We’re really lucky.”

“Some would say spoiled.”

“Yeah, okay. Spoiled. But in a good way.” He flashed a grin.

“True,” she said. “That was really nice last night, helping out at the children’s center.”

“Thanks for coming along. But I thought you were allergic to kids.”

“I guess I like them in small doses. Especially when they’re at a place like Ryder House. It’s nice to help.”

“Agreed. I’ve been really lucky in my life, and I never want to take that for granted. It feels like a special privilege to help out.”

“You’re right. I’ve heard it called a ‘helper’s high.’ Otherwise known as doing the hokeypokey.”

He chuckled. “You’re a good sport.”

“I like to think so.” She passed through the arch of beach roses and dune grass and stepped onto the sand, which was still slightly cool and damp from the night.

“We practically have it all to ourselves,” she said, enchanted by the shifting blue of the water, the slight pink tinge of the morning sky.

A few hundred yards away was a lone jogger, heading up the coast. In the other direction was a woman doing yoga poses. The rest of the beach belonged to the seagulls and sandpipers.

Logan stopped at the cabana and took out two boards, along with a couple of bars of wax. They applied the wax to the already-bumpy surface of each board.

“Okay,” he said when they finished. “Surf’s up.”

She nodded and peeled off her oversize tunic, knowing without looking at him that he was checking her out. His gaze felt like a waft of heat on her bare skin.

He didn’t even pretend not to stare. “Sunscreen?” he asked, offering her a tube.

“Thanks.” She spread the cream everywhere she could reach while he did the same. Then she donned her rash guard, a tight jersey shirt with three-quarter-length sleeves.

“You missed a spot,” said Logan. “Turn around.” He went down on one knee and smoothed his hands down the backs of her thighs.

She was startled by the sensation of his bare hands on her skin. It had been so long since a guy had touched her, she’d nearly forgotten what that felt like. And until this moment, she hadn’t realized that she missed it.

She was flustered by the time he finished and stood up. “Thanks,” she said, hoping her thoughts didn’t show on her face. She’d never been good at playing it cool.

“My pleasure.” He picked up his board. “Really.”

She followed him to the surf. The warm water swirled around her ankles in a rhythm that pulled at her, reminding her of why she loved the ocean—the steady movement, the timeless rhythm, the mysteries beneath, the raw curl of power. “Let’s go ride some waves.”

“You’re going to show me up again,” he accused.

She laughed. “Watch and learn.”

They waded out together and then mounted their boards to paddle out to the green water. The waves were aggressive, but beyond the first break, the ocean was calm, shifting with a cradling motion.

“Beautiful morning,” he said, sitting astraddle and watching the incoming rollers.

“It is. Let’s try this one.” She indicated a nice glassy mound coming toward them.

“You got it.”

They paddled in tandem, and when the momentum took their boards, they both stood up. She laughed aloud, loving the sensation of being propelled by the surge. The first ride of the day made her glad to be alive. She’d taken her stepchildren surfing a few years ago. She couldn’t keep herself from remembering that. This morning, though, the memory didn’t hurt.

They rode for about an hour. Beyond the break, she caught sight of something out of the corner of her eye. A series of large, dark shapes flurried just under the surface, moving fast, a raft of liquid shadows.

“Hey, Logan!” she yelled, looking around for him. Her heart pounded.

He had seen, too, and seconds later, the dark shapes broke the surface and leaped into the air in a graceful arc. Darcy was transfixed, and then she broke into laughter. “Dolphins,” she cried. “I’ve never been this close to dolphins.” The animals leaped again, and she could feel the rush of wind and spray as they passed. It was magical. There was no other word for it.