“No,” Kit interrupted. “And I get that you don’t like Jude. But I do. He’s a good person. Someone I love. Someone I trust. And that’s all that matters.”
“You’re right.”
“Yes, I am.” Kit tossed the dish towel onto the counter and walked out, back stiff, lips pressed into a thin, hard line.
Sarah sagged weakly against the edge of the sink.
Kit was pissed.
Meg was a widow.
Mom was dead.
Awesome. Things were going really well.
* * *
With Jack’s funeral service set for Friday and the formal obituary sent off to the paper, Meg spent Tuesday morning tackling the reception that would follow the service. She’d been going back and forth about having it at the house. She really didn’t want to hold it at the house, in part because they were a good ten-minute drive from the church and parking would be a hassle. And then there was the real issue of having people filling the house Friday afternoon, eating, drinking, and then leaving . . .
Sarah helped her call the various hotels and event spaces in Santa Rosa, but either nothing was available or the space was too small, or the room was too plain, and finally Meg had had enough. “Forget the reception,” she said, pushing away from the kitchen table to take care of the laundry in the mud room. “I don’t care anymore. It’s stupid. And I don’t even want to talk to people. I don’t want to hear how they’re sorry, and how wonderful and inspirational Jack was . . .”
Her voice faded and Sarah followed her into the mud room, where her sister began shoving wet towels into the dryer.
“. . . but he wasn’t all that wonderful,” Meg continued breathlessly, furiously. “He was selfish and self-absorbed and couldn’t lift a hand to do a lick of housework. I don’t think he unloaded the dishwasher more than a half-dozen times during our marriage, and if he ever did the laundry, it was because he was out of socks! It wouldn’t have crossed his mind to do any of the kids’ laundry, or my laundry. My God, he’d rather die than do my laundry. No, that was woman’s work. My work. Even though I had a full-time job and three kids and meals to prepare!”
Sarah heard a door open and shut and could see Dad outside through the mud room window, dragging all five kids with him onto the driveway, a basketball under his arm.
Good old Dad. He was going to make the kids exercise.
Sarah began folding the clean, dry load of colors piled on the marble counter. Small purple T-shirts and pink-and-white-striped shirts and boys’ boxers and men’s dark T-shirts.
Meg made a soft choking sound as Sarah reached for a brown knit collared shirt. “Jack’s,” she said, taking it from Sarah. She balled it against her chest. “He just wore it Saturday.”
Sarah hated feeling so helpless. “I’m sorry, Meg.”
Meg nodded and walked out of the mud room, still clutching the shirt. Sarah continued to fold clothes, her hands moving even though the rest of her was numb. It was time to go home. She wanted to go home. She wanted to hug Boone and never let him go.
Sarah folded until the pile was gone and then stayed in the mud room, watching Dad and his five grandkids shooting hoops. Ella was too small to get any shots in, but Brennan was surprisingly good. Really good. He was nailing the baskets, one after the other, and Sarah could tell from JJ’s expression that he was impressed, too.
Good for Brennan. He was far more often criticized or corrected than praised, and so it was really wonderful to see him getting pats on the back and enthusiastic high fives from JJ and his grandpa.
Sarah couldn’t wait to compliment him. But she didn’t get the chance. Just minutes later she heard loud voices, angry voices, and the kids were in a knot, fighting.
By the time Sarah got outside, Gabi had Brennan on his back, on the driveway, in a headlock.
“Shut up!” she was shouting at him, her knees on his chest. “Shut up about my dad. He’s my dad, not yours. Don’t talk about him. Not one more word!”
Everyone was still yelling. JJ, Dad, Tessa, Ella. It was an absolute zoo.
“Let him go, Gabi,” her dad said.
“Get off my brother, Gabi!” Ella shrieked, bordering on hysterical.
“What are you doing, Gabi?” Sarah demanded, pushing through the kids and trying to lift Gabi off her son, but the girl refused to let go of his neck.
“Shutting his mouth,” Gabi said. “He keeps talking about Dad. Saying he got smashed like a pancake—”
“Well, he did!” Brennan cried, wiggling fiercely beneath his cousin. “The car was flat, so he had to be flat—”
“Brennan!” Her dad’s roar silenced everyone.