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.”