As her star was rising, Becca Parker had damaged her knee and been unable to perform again. Another person might have sunk into depression. Not Becca. She’d turned her recovery into a triumph and invented a fitness regime she called “Becca’s Body.” She’d invested in first one studio and then another until her company was running classes across the major cities of the US.

Flora had never taken a Becca’s Body class. She had neither the budget nor the motivation. And she definitely didn’t have the right body.

Staring at those photographs, she felt like a small, ungainly elephant. She had a feeling Becca wouldn’t have been impressed by her.

Flora knew she was good at many things, but she was the first to admit they weren’t particularly impressive things. She could restore a flagging plant to health, create a stunning bouquet, dance the tango, perform a perfect cartwheel, paint in watercolor and pastels, and turn random pieces of fabric into clothes. What she couldn’t do was keep her living space neat and tidy, throw away a book, or stomach an oyster. And not in a million years would she want to run a business.

She straightened her shoulders and sucked her tummy in. “Your mommy was very beautiful.”

“She was perfect in every way.” The cool voice came from the doorway to the kitchen and Flora turned and saw a girl studying her. She wore skinny jeans, ripped at the knees, and a top that left most of her smooth, flat stomach exposed. Her eyes were green like her father’s, her skin a perfect ivory with hardly a blemish. She was older than Molly, a teenager, so presumably this had to be Izzy.

Flora had imagined some wounded, bruised, uncertain creature. She’d pictured a fractured family that she could somehow help to heal. This girl didn’t look broken. She was frighteningly cool and the fierceness in her eyes suggested that help was not only unnecessary, it was unwelcome.

She stood in a relaxed dancer’s pose, one foot resting against the other. Her hair, the same dark shade as her father’s, fell straight and shiny over one shoulder, smooth and well behaved. Instinctively Flora brushed away one of the curls that bounced happily out of whichever style she’d attempted that morning. Never, in a million years, would she look as cool as this girl.

“Izzy.” Jack reached out his hand. “Come and meet Flora. Flora, this is my Izzy.” There was no missing the pride in his voice or the love in his eyes. His daughter flashed him a brief smile, before turning back to Flora.

“Isabella.” She extended a hand, the formality reminding Flora of a job interview.

Molly chewed her finger. “You hate being called Isabella.”