Susan Wiggs - Candlelight Christmas

She grinned back at him. She couldn’t help herself. “It’s use, not abuse. Alcohol is useful to me. Helps me get over my rotten marriage and even rottener divorce.”

“So, you were married. To...Huntley Collins? No wonder it didn’t work out. No one could stay married to someone named Huntley Collins.”

“Good point.” Maybe she was being too flippant and dismissive, but it was hard to think clearly around him. At the moment, he was wearing board shorts and flip-flops, and a dusting of sand on his bare chest. She couldn’t keep herself from noticing he was a true redhead, with ginger-colored chest hair that came together in an arrow shape, pointing south. She found herself wishing she’d worn more attractive clothes for her flight instead of the usual yoga pants and shapeless top.

He helped her move the bottles from the case to a sideboard bar—vodka, tequila, rum, bourbon. “You’re bringing coal to Newcastle,” he said. “This is the O’Donnell place. Booze is as plentiful as water.”

“It’s my contribution to the feast. Along with this amazing centerpiece.” It was a crazy arrangement of birds-of-paradise in the shape of a turkey.

“Nice,” he said. “Mom will love it.”

They finished unloading everything and he stuck out his hand. “Welcome to Sea Breeze. Yes, my parents named their house. I had nothing to do with it.”

She looked around the kitchen—granite countertops, stainless-steel appliances, a view of the flat forever of 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 was my high school practice suit.” What Darcy lacked in style she’d always made up for in athletics. Since she was old enough to walk, she had played sports—swimming, snow sports, water polo, volleyball...if it involved athletics, she was happy to jump right into it.

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, risky, unstable one.”

“Are you talking about that ski resort in your town?”

“Yeah. Cool you remember it.”

“I think it sounds incredible. Congratulations.”

“My family thinks I’ve gone off the deep end.”

“I know the feeling. The first time I disappointed my parents was the moment I was born.”

“What, did you have a tail or something?”

“Ha-ha.”

“I’ve heard those can be removed.”

“It’s what I didn’t have that disappointed them.”

“What’s that?”

“A penis. After four girls, they were desperate for a boy.”

“You have four older sisters. And I thought I had it bad, with India and China.”

“And how is it your sisters were named after exotic foreign countries while you were named after an airport?”

“Quirky folks. I just feel lucky they didn’t call me Madagascar or Sri Lanka.”

“Yet another thing we have in common—quirky parents. Mine are English professors. My sisters and I are named after literary figures. I guess that makes them quirky but predictable.”

“Darcy. I can’t recall a Darcy from college English.”

“Hint—it’s a surname.”

He gave a short laugh. “As in Fitzwilliam Darcy? You’re named after Mr. Darcy?”

“It gets worse. My sisters are Mary, Kitty, Lydia and Lizzie. My full name is Darcy Jane.” She punctuated the list by plopping chunks of potato into a pot of cold water.

“Don’t tell me Lydia is married to a reverend...”

“Worse. A motivational speaker, who happens to be the brother of my ex.”

“And suddenly it all comes clear. You came to Florida to escape the dubious pleasures of the family Thanksgiving.”

“Exactly. It’s so much easier to get along with other people’s families.”

“Agreed. And can I just say, this dinner is going to be epic.” He slid the turkey into the oven. Then he looked around the kitchen and wiped his hands on a tea towel. “We’re finished for now. There’s nothing more to be done for about three hours. Let’s hit the beach.”

He flashed that killer smile again. Oh, why did he have to have a killer smile?

Working alongside Darcy Fitzgerald in the kitchen didn’t suck. Logan freely acknowledged that. He kind of liked talking to her. He kind of liked her, as much as or maybe more than he had last summer. This was surprising, because he rarely—make that never—felt even a spark of interest in a girl who came preapproved by his family.

Yeah, he liked her, but she wasn’t his type. Life was simpler without the complication of a divorce survivor. And she didn’t even look like his type, particularly at the moment, in the floppy hat and shapeless robe. That layered-on style made her look like a human coat tree. Still, she had a fun personality and a cute smile. She was the type of girl to have as a friend, nothing more.

“Time for the beach,” he said. “You’re going to love it.”

“Lead on, Kemosabe.”

He walked through the breezeway and held the back door for her. His folks’ place had all the perks—an infinity pool and lush gardens, a small grove of orange and calamondin trees, a tennis court, a golf course bordering one side of the yard and on the other side, a scenic path through a bird marsh leading to the beach.