The Good Wife(15)

Meg squeezed Sarah’s fingers. “I love that you love him so much. It’s the way it should be.” She released Sarah’s hand, leaned back in her chair. “Maybe if Jack and I had some of your passion, we wouldn’t be in the situation we’re in now.”

Sarah drew a slow breath, counting to ten before asking, “Is Jack going to forgive you?”

Meg took an even longer time to answer. “Have you been able to forgive Boone?”

Sarah thought about it, then shrugged. “I’ve tried.”

“And Jack’s trying to forgive me, too.” Meg hesitated. “But it may not happen. And if that’s the case, then he may want something . . . someone . . . else.”

“But you and Jack . . . you’ve been together forever. Since I was in high school.”

“I know.” Meg stood up and began stacking dishes on top of platters and adding cutlery to that. “And I can’t imagine life without Jack in it.”





Three

In her small one-bedroom apartment close to Alameda’s historic downtown, Lauren pushed aside the frosted chocolate layer cake she’d just made and reached for the stainless-steel mixing bowl to start over.

Third time was a charm, she reminded herself, turning her back on the two abandoned cakes on the counter. She didn’t feel sorry for them. They’d soon find a home. Her neighbors loved it when she baked, especially the college kids on the third floor. Those boys were always hungry.

With the mixing bowl clutched to her middle, Lauren studied her recipe on the counter, a recipe she’d been editing and marking up all afternoon. This was the chocolate cake that had always sold well in Napa at the bakery and café she’d started with her sister. But when she’d baked it last week for Mama’s Café in Alameda, it’d disappointed her. It didn’t matter that the cake had sold out by early afternoon. It’d tasted a little dry to her—and that could very well be due to the ovens at the café—but it’d also tasted bland. Boring.

True, it was her great-grandmother’s chocolate cake recipe, which made it old and old-fashioned, but she’d made tweaks to the cake recipe over the years, improving it. Or so she’d thought until earlier in the week.

So here she was, spending what was left of her Sunday trying to make the perfect chocolate cake, and it’d been a good decision to bake. It occupied her hands. Kept her mind busy so she wouldn’t think about Blake and her drive to the cemetery this morning.

She’d cried driving back from Napa, the loss feeling fresh again. Fresh, and shocking, and heartbreaking.

Coming back to her cramped little apartment made her just feel worse. She missed her life in Napa. Missed her family. Missed being a mom.

Unable to handle the pain, she marched into the kitchen and reached for the bowls and pans, swiftly lining up ingredients on the counter. Cake . . . a cake . . . strawberry or chiffon, spice with salted caramel frosting, chocolate or maybe banana . . .

Chocolate won.

So she cracked eggs and stirred and whisked and baked. Don’t think, she’d tell herself when she rinsed the mixing bowl at the sink. Don’t think, she’d repeat, sliding pans in and out of the oven. Don’t think, she’d chant every time her thoughts turned inward, turned to home. Don’t think, just bake.

Baking gave her a sense of purpose. Purpose was good. Purpose got her out of bed in the morning. Purpose would get her through the day.

* * *

Sarah spent part of the afternoon helping Meg tidy the house. She was in the middle of adding water to the four floral arrangements in the living room when a small card fell from the lavish purple and lavender arrangement. She was tucking the card back into the plastic holder when the message caught her eye.

To Meg & Family,

From all of us at Dark Horse Winery

Craig, Chad, Jennifer, and Victoria

So Chad knew Meg had lost her mother. Or someone at Dark Horse Winery knew.

Sarah felt the corners of the small, heavy card stock in a silvery cream. It wasn’t your usual cheap florist enclosure, and somehow it felt weighty and thick. Sincere.

But perhaps she was reading too much into it. Perhaps Jennifer, the winery receptionist, or this new Victoria, had ordered the flowers and purchased the elegant card. Perhaps Chad had nothing to do with it.

But looking at the darkly lush arrangement in deep, passionate purples and delicate violet, Sarah felt emotion, as well as love and loss.

Someone cared for Meg. Someone cared enough to send something beautiful. Meaningful.

Someone like Chad.

Feeling ridiculously emotional as well as conflicted, Sarah grabbed a bottle of wood polish and a dustrag from the mud room and tackled the dining room furniture, dusting and polishing everything made with wood. She needed the work to occupy her hands and distract her thoughts from Meg’s affair with Chad.